The Forsaken

THE STORM

The rain of stones smashes against Union’s walls; they endure. Those that fly above the walls into the city destroy buildings and the flesh of the unfortunate with unrelenting force. The response? A symphony of screams. Their purpose is devastation and fear. They meet their purpose.

“Take cover!” a city guard on the wall yells taking cover.

“Run!” the citizens down below yell as they run.

The unfortunates citizens in the boulder’s path yell nothing as red paints the streets in a canvas of horror. The savage Northmen take their time; there is no reason to rush. None at all. On the front line, the giant chieftain watches sitting upon his Fenrir as vetting the mayhem; it proceeds as planned. There is no emotion on his face, only a cold, emotionless expression.

“Chieftain Bjorn Dreadblade,” a young, beautiful man with pale skin and long white hair says, appearing from nowhere.

“What is it, mystic?” Bjorn asks with vivid contempt.

“The wolves wear the sheep’s clothing,” the mystic says as he smiles.

“Good. Maybe we can finish this in haste,” Bjorn says as he takes another look at the great city under siege.

“You know your orders. The city and...” the mystic speaks as he gets cut off.

“I do not need the likes of you to remind me. Do you believe I fear you? I shall do what I must do,” Bjorn says with a hostile expression.

“It is not me you need to fear,” the mystic says as he bows with a faint smile and turns away. The chieftain watches him walk away as he spits on the ground.

In front of the castle courtyard, servants come running out as they carry a plethora of different weapons from city armories; they throw them in piles of sharpened steel offering them to everyone. The citizens like vultures descend taking what they fancy. Free is free after all. When poverty is an all too familiar lifestyle, the term beggars cannot be choosers applies.

“Gather around! We shall form squads,” a high-ranking official yells.

The rough city folk leisurely form in impressively unorganized lines.

Clad in chain-mail, an older man with black hair and stripes of white approaches.

“My name is Captain Timus. You lot come with me,” Captain Timus says as he makes his way.

The 50 or so men and women follow; Tyr and Shaphas follow.

From the sides, in the shadow, Harry, Little Pete, Big Pete, Melione, and Ulric stand.

“Are we nat joining da fight?” Little Pete asks.

“Of course, nat. Why shouldda we die for em?” Harry answers as finding even the thought of it hilarious.

“We have to fight! The Moon has chosen us,” Ulric says.

“Shaddup bout your Moon talk, ya moonman. If ya wanna die for ’em, feel free to do so withoutta us,” Harry says as he waves the ridiculous notion away.

“That girl up there,” Melione says as she gazes in the distance.

“Da girl? Ya mean, Noname?” Little Pete asks.

“She will die,” Melione says as a single tear falls from her eye.

“Die? Whatchatalkin bout?” Harry says as he approaches her.

“She will die if you run away,” Melione says as more tears form.

The voices in her head whisper.

“I’m sad!” One says as almost crying.

“I’m sad!” Two adds as it whimpers.

“Why are we sad?” One asks.

“I don’t know, but we are!” Two adds.

“What is sad?” One asks as it thinks.

“I don’t know!” Two yells as they laugh in unison.

“Whattcha ya blabbering bout?” Little Pete angrily asks.

Melione, teary-eyed, quickly turns to him.

“We must protect her,” Melione says as she walks away.

“Whattcha will we do?” Little Pete asks as he watches in confusion.

“Leave ’em. They be mad,” Harry adds.

“You best listen to her. She knew before! She knows now!” Ulric says as he smiles and follows Melione. The three thieves look at each other as they sigh. They follow.

The guards set up behind the high walls with bows in hand and arrows in ready. They hide leaned on them as closely as they can, feeling the cold stone on their skin; above them, the rain of stones continues to fall. In the distance, they can see the army of Northmen standing in wait. Bloodlust in the eyes. Throughout the city, small groups set up chokepoints fortified with quickly constructed wooden barricades. The onslaught of the barrage continues for hours as the city grows silent; it endures.

There is little else to do. Time passes slowly, as it always does under harsh times. A second lasts for an hour, and an hour feels like an eternity. So is the harsh reality of war. The stress manifests on the faces of the inexperienced while the experienced patiently wait. They know that this is the beginning, and they remember that the beginning is easier than the end. Cold sweat drips from their faces.

“You are no stranger to this,” Captain Timus says as he approaches Tyr who lies leaned and relaxed on a house with one hand on his white blade and the other on a bottle of wine. He takes small sips as if this was a picnic on a beautiful grassy field.

Tyr nods in affirmation.

“Tell me, where did you serve?” Captain Timus asks.

“Is this the time for an idle chat?” Tyr responds as pretending to ignore the question.

“I’m afraid you will have to excuse my friend here, he is not the sociable type,” Shaphas says as he approaches with a smile and an extended hand; Timus accepts his hand as they shake.

“Your robes look familiar. Are you a priest of Aion? How can that be? The order was destroyed long ago in an accident and disbanded soon after that,” Captain Timus says, pondering.

“Perhaps my friend was right. It is not a time for idle chatter,” Shaphas says.

“I see,” Captain Timus says as he walks away.

Tyr laughs.

“Is something amusing?” Shaphas asks as he watches the relaxing warrior.

“Not the most sociable type? Isn’t that right?” Tyr says as he laughs.

Shaphas looks at him for a moment.

“It seems, sadly, your habits are rubbing off on me,” Shaphas says.

“Sadly,” Tyr adds as they both loudly laugh.

The small, fast assembled group looks at them with confusion. Only the bravest or the most deranged would laugh in this situation; or both?

The sleepless day passes as the next one arrives; the storm is over, but thunder has not yet struck. Not yet.

“The walls are sturdy, chief Dreadblade. They can take a lot of punishment. But only so much,” the one-armed savage says as he smiles.

“Bring out at the Dragon Spear. Prepare to move out,” Bjorn says as he raises his greatsword. A horn sounds off in the distance as it loudly echoes throughout the battlefield and even inside the walls of Union. The war-cry rallies the troops as they move out in formation. They hit their chest two times as they release a loud warcry.

In the middle of the field, a large battering ram covered with shields moves out as a couple of dozen men pull it toward the giant gate.

The Spear, a giant battering ram with a head of a dragon, is approaching.

“Focus fire!” the one-armed man yells as another horn is sound.

The catapults switch their positions as they focus their attention on two sections of the wall that were previously bombarded; the cracks on them give away their weakness.

“Archers get in position,” the one-armed man continues with orders.

Three squads of armies move.

On the left and right side at the vanguard stand melee troops as behind them are archers spread evenly on both sides; in the middle, a squad of melee troops stands behind the Dragon Spear.

“They are coming! Fire at will,” a high-ranking soldier of Union yells as archers fire a volley shooting the men below.

“Shields!” a savage yells as the two squads in front raise their shield above their heads; the archers behind them fire upon the enemy archers on the wall. The Dragon Spear approaches as it wails on the gate. Each hit makes it quake and the vibrations of the powerful strike echo on the battlefield like a drum.Slaves run with arrow quivers to resupply the archers in the battle. The ongoing back and forth continues.

Arrows miss as they pass near the flesh while others hit drawing blood. The two sections of the wall slowly break as the siege continues they fall almost simultaneously; they hear a horn in the distance. With the signal, slaves run carrying large ladders.

“Attack!” a savage yells as the right and left squadrons invade through the cracks. Raising ladders to the walls and climbing. The catapults cease their fire.

Union horsemen ride across the city as they spread new orders.

“You lead these men?” a horseman asks Captain Timus.

“I do,” Captain Timus answers.

“There has been a wall breach in the Rose District. Move there are reinforce it,” the horseman commands as he continues on his run.

“You heard the man,” Captain Timus yells.

“Wake up,” Shaphas yells as Tyr opens his eyes.

He stands and chugs down the remaining wine.

“It is time,” Shaphas adds.

“So it is,” Tyr says as the squad moves.

The savages pour through the cracks as soldiers form in a u position; allowing a portion of the invaders to enter to flank them from all sides. Outside, others climb the walls as some ladders are cut and broken, leaving the climbing men to plummet to their demise. They scream on their way down to the hard earth- bones crack as blood spills. Others make it up as the fight on the wall starts.

“Kill them,” the savages yell.

“Kill them,” the non-savages yell.

Swords hit shields and flesh, shields hit sword and flesh, and flesh breaks no matter the course in a Bloodbath. The battle rages even in the sky as arrows fly, casting a shade.

Everywhere around a trail of blood and bodies; dissipating into the air it leaves a rotten metallic taste in the air. They can feel it in the air as the atmosphere grows thick. The Dragon Spear swings one more time as the gate crumbles. Through the gate a horde of Fenrir riders comes swiftly pouring in as the beasts devour all in their way, alive; the riders chop the meal with long spears.

“Hold them off,” an officer yells.

Barely hanging on as the defensive lines slowly break amongst the chaotic aggression. It is about to fall.

“Charge,” a voice commands in the distance.

Suddenly, the sound of horse hooves echoes on the street. The royal heavy-mounted unit appears charging into the Fenrir riders.

Steel hits steel as they clash.

“Break in!” a Fenrir rider yells as the warriors charge through the cracks in the defense.

“Do not let them break in,” a royal horseman yells.

“Sir?” another horseman yells as he gazes at the broken gate.

Northmen riders charge in with great speed.

“Hold the line,” a captain of the royal horsemen yells as the thought of pursuing the Fenrir riders quickly escapes their mind.

Another clash! The Fenrir riders break off in all directions as they enter Union.

Elsewhere.

A small squad is intercepted by a dozen Fenrir riders out in the street.

“Defensive positions,” Captain Timus yells to his squad. His inexperienced squad looks around in confusion.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Tyr adds as gripping his sword.

“Praise be to Aion!” Shaphas yells, mace at the ready.

They clash! The untrained militia is easily plucked one by one as they suffer almost no losses.

A Fenrir rider charges as Tyr evades and cuts him down; the leaderless beast goes in for his throat as Shaphas appears from the side, hitting it in the head and knocking out the giant wolf.

Timus blocks a charging Fenrir with his shield as the impact of it knocks him away to the ground. The members of the militia attack as they impale a rider and the beast from all sides. Something stirs deep in Tyr. He feels better than he has felt in a long while, and yet he feels disgusted. You shall covet it! You shall not be able to live without it! The old words come to mind as he tries to ignore them. This is no time to think; this is a time for action.

Their numbers quickly dwindle as for each rider they kill they lose a dozen of their own. Shaphas mixes liquids as he throws two bottles at the riders, upon impact they burst in blue flames burning the unfortunate savages.

Only Shaphas, Tyr, Captain Timus, and a young woman holding a spear remain encircled by the remaining three riders who slowly circle them.

“Into the house,” Captain Timus yells as the survivors run inside, closing the door. A rider tries to catch them but ends up smashing the door.

They hold the door to buy as much time as possible.

“You have any more of that fire?” Captain Timus asks.

“Sadly I do not,” Shaphas answers as holding his bloodied mace.

“You got loads of those liquids at the tavern!” Tyr says.

“I don’t have everything I need. You need to combine them to make Aion’s flame,” Shaphas says as the four of them hold the besieged door.

“This door will not last,” the woman yells as Tyr backs away.

“What are you doing?” Captain Timus yells.

“I am death,” Tyr says.

“Have you gone mad?” the woman yells.

“Hold the door. Trust me,” Shaphas adds.

They hold it as the Fenrir continues destroying it.

“I am death incarnate. Those who look at the eyes of death shall know eternal darkness,” Tyr says as he opens his eyes.

“Everybody move!” Shaphas yells as they jump to the side; the door breaks as the Fenrir rider jumps inside.

Tyr appears at the enemy’s side; the savage tries to react as his spear goes toward Tyr’s throat.

In a flash the man dies as a trail of blood pours from his throat with the next one the Fenrir dies as the white blade deeply pierces its neck.

The defensive line on the crack of the wall breaks as Northmen pour in under the front-line leadership of chief Bjorn. The giant-of-a-man slashes through the troops with his sword as a knife through butter.

“I am death!” Tyr yells as he moves outside facing the two remaining riders.

He moves swiftly as the white blade strikes true; it cannot miss. They cannot escape death.

The two Fenrir riders and their beast die.

In the distance, Chief Bjorn sees the battle between Tyr and two of his riders; Tyr gazes back at the goliath with a cold expressionless face. The two look at each other amid the ensuing chaos.

“We need to fall back,” Captain Timus says as they make their retreat.

On the streets, a lone rider rides slaughtering civilians in cold blood; a little girl cries as she helplessly watches. He makes his way toward her as a bolt flies, killing him on the spot. The beast continues on its own toward the little girl. Melione appears in front of it.

“So cute!” she yells as she approaches; the beast bites unto her flesh.

Ulric fires two bolts as they hit the beast who turns its attention toward him with bloodied fangs; he draws his sword. Before the beast can make its way, Melione stands behind it.

She places her hands around the creature hugging the giant wolf-like beast. Before it can do anything, it shakes in pain as it falls paralyzed in pain; the wounded animal whimpers. Ulric approaches and thrusts his sword into the Fenrir’s head.

“Dead like bunnies in the fields! Dead like bunnies in the fields!” Melione sings as she comforts the beast in death.

“The Moon gives no quarter!” Ulric adds.

The little girl watches in confusion at the bloodied lady who was most surely killed petting the dead Fenrir and a man with three scars talking praising the Moon?

The defensive lines are breaking one by one as the Northmen make their way further inside.

“Fall back to the castle!” an officer yells as the army slowly retreats while fending off the invaders. The gradual retreat continues as Union’s defenders hold off the savages at chokepoints under the protection of makeshift barricades. Retreating slowly further back. The more the armies move more dead bodies are left in their wake. Some of them lie injured as they quickly receive the help of an axe to the head- there is no mercy. There rarely is in war.

A servant erratically runs through the castle, clothes covered in blood as he fumbles and falls; cold sweat flowing from his brow and fear etched deep in the knees.

He bursts into Lord Belmon’s quarters, struggling for each breath.

“My Lord, murder!” the servant yells loudly.

“Calm down and tell me what happened,” Lord Belmon says placing his hand on the exhausted servant’s shoulders. The man takes a few deep breaths to compose himself.

“My lord, the Kushien has betrayed us. He has killed the nobles! Duke Embro, Dutchess Emna, Lord Obul and Mayro even the lesser nobles, all but the Prince,” the man says with eyes of worry.

“The man has served me for years. How do you know it was he who did this?” Lord Belmon asks.

“I saw him. I’ve walked in to deliver tea and I saw it, my Lord. I saw a room painted in red with the blood of the nobles. You must run, Lord Belmon,” the man says.

“I see,” Lord Belmon says as Rash-An appears at the entrance to his quarters holding a bloodied sword.

“No! I will not let you hurt the lord, traitor,” the man says as he quickly takes a sword from the small ornamental weapon rack in the room. He awkwardly holds the sword with shaking hands.

Suddenly, the man gasps as if something took all the air away from his lungs; the sword drops as he grabs his chest, falling on his knees.

“I am sorry, but you have seen something you shouldn’t have,” Lord Belmon says as he appears in front of the servant holding a bloodied dagger.

“It is done?” Lord Belmon asks as he approaches Rash-An.

“It is. Are you sure about the Prince?” Rash-An asks as the dying servant watches the two men converse with blood dripping from their weapons.

“I am. He is a dimwit. There should be enough things to occupy his mind,” Lord Belmon says as he smiles.

“We won’t be able to hold on much longer,” Rash-An adds.

“It should be enough for the reinforcements to come here. I did not want to lose Lord Mayro but he would have been the first to realize the timing of the reinforcements and the attack were...questionable,” Lord Belmon says as he sighs.

“Almost as if people were sent ahead time to get reinforcements. Almost as if the feast was planned to fit in with the invasion. Almost,” Rash-An says as he smiles.

“It is their fault, to be honest. If we told them about this, they would flee the city and leave us to fend for ourselves. They have become too complacent. The city would have been destroyed by the Northmen, and we would have lost everything or be dead. But now!” Lord Belmon says as he smiles.

The servant desperately struggles trying to hold on to his life.

“But now the Kingdom of Ferro will want revenge. What better place to focus their resources than the city closest to the Withering Lands,” Rash-An adds with a smile.

“Exactly. It is their fault for abandoning Union after everything. In its time of need and a time of peace, they discarded it like an unwanted child. But this child has survived and it will grow stronger than ever,” Lord Belmon.

yells.

“What about him?” Rash-An asks gazing over to the dying man.

“Kill him,” Lord Belmon says as he walks away.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Rash-An adds as Belmon turns to him.

“What?” Lord Belmon asks.

“He is already dead,” Rash-An says.

“A shame,” Belmon adds.

“Should I go and protect the Princess?” Rash-An asks.

“No need. We have things to do. We are still at death’s door,” Lord Belmon says as the two men walk leaving one corpse in a circle of red.

Two cloaked figures walk through the castle with strands of white hair sticking out from their hoods.

“Excuse me,” the white-haired man asks a strolling servant girl.

“Um... yes?” she responds, baffled by his beauty. He leans towards the girl as going for a kiss; the girl remains motionless as watching herself from the distance. She shakes as blood pours out of her mouth. The man takes a step back. He laughs.

“This is no time for games,” the white-haired woman says as she passes, hitting him with her shoulder.

“It was merely a jest, dear sister,” the white-haired man says as he smiles.

“Who are you?” a guard yells as he stumbles upon the situation with three of his companions. They notice the dead servant girl.

“Leave if you value your life,” the white-haired woman says.

“Intruders!” the guard yells as they charge.

The white-haired man smiles as he steps forward; dodging the flurry of spears as if dancing through them. Standing at the back of the four guards, he smiles as he slaps one of them; knocking the guard to the wall with dominant force and killing him on the spot.

“Devils!” a guard yells at the sight of such an unreal display.

Two guards come charging in as the white-haired man appears in front of them, grabbing them by the throat and lifting them in the air; their weapons fall as they try to wrestle his grip.

“You are mine!” the fourth guard says as he goes to impel the white-haired man. He stops!

“Quickly, stab him. Stab him now,” one of the strangled guards yells as loud as he can. The fourth guard remains motionless.

“Stab him. Help,” another of the strangled guard whimpers.

Suddenly, blood pours from the fourth guard’s mouth as he falls to the floor. The white-haired man shatters the necks of the two guards and drops them. They smile overlooking the bloody mess.

Outside, at one of the castle entrances.

“Hello. My name is Melione,” a woman says as she smiles.

“What in the...?” the guard blurts out as he notices a young woman with a bloodied white dress.

Before the guard can act he gets hit on the head with a sword hilt; it dazes him but he remains standing. Big Pete appears behind him as he puts him in a choke hold. The guard struggles before finally falling asleep.

“Sturdy dat one,” Harry says as Big Pete nods.

“I thought I would knock him out with a single blow,” Ulric adds as he inspects his weapon.

“People dun easily fall ancus like dat,” Little Pete adds with a self-righteous smile.

“Unconcious,” Harry says correcting him.

“Wat?” Little Pete says as he scratches his head in confusion.

“Ya say it properly, ya uncultured swine. It is un-con-cious,” Harry slowly spells it out.

“Dat wat, I say. Ancus,” Little Pete says as he shrugs.

The battle outside continues as the Northmen seize more and more territory. Slowly retreating and holding off every point of advantageous ground they can the remains of the city guard and the noble’s soldier fight on. The citizens of Union help by throwing rocks and everything they can find, backstabbing, shooting arrows from afar as they struggle; they must, for kill or be killed is the only fate available to them. The blood slowly spills from those that failed as the death wave continues reaping.

Noname walks through the castle hallways as her two maids, Sara and Layla, follow her; her right eye twitches at the annoyance of always being chaperoned, but she learned to deal with it.

“This is tedious!” Noname yells in frustration. She almost learned to deal with it... it is a process.

Two figures appear in front of her, some distance away. The two white-haired mystics from the lands of the North. Blood drips from the man’s hands.

“It is her!” the white-haired woman says.

“Yes! I can... smell her,” the white-haired man adds as he takes a deep smell.

“Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!” Noname blurts out as her ticks intensify.

“Who are you?” one guard yells as he notices the bloodied figures.

“Stay back, Princess,” another guard yells as they move to defend the Princess.

“You cannot save her. She must die,” the white-haired woman adds as she maliciously smiles.

“There is no reason to throw away your lives. Leave and you can keep them,” the white-haired man says as he laughs.

Noname knows these looks; she experienced them on the faces of cutthroats in Union, whether personally or as a bystander. It is a look of a murderer. Noname draws out her dagger.

The guard draws his sword and attacks. The white-haired man moves towards him as he grabs the striking sword in his hand, leaving the guard with a shocked expression. With a single punch, he shatters the guard’s skull with stalwart brute force. The horrific sight weighs heavily on the onlooker’s courage.

The remaining guard plunges towards the white-haired man in a desperate attack as he quickly moves behind him; entangling the unfortunate guard in his grip. He strangles him like a snake its prey.

The white-haired woman moves closer as she extends her hand.

“Die,” the white-haired woman gently says with a faint smile.

Layla runs in front of Noname, desperately trying to protect the Princess; she shakes as blood spurts out of her mouth.

“Layla!” Noname and Sara yell as they grab the falling maid.

“Ya bastard!” Noname yells as she grips her dagger tightly.

“What a waste,” the white-haired man adds. The mystics approach.

Suddenly, a bolt flies. The white-haired man’s instincts take over as he quickly moves. Almost evading the bolt, but not quite. The bolt strikes his left arm.

Ulric appears in the company of Harry, Little Pete, and Big Pete. He shoots two more bolts, but the mystic evades them.

“Can ya even aim?” Harry asks, combat-ready.

“He can aim, dat bastard is nat human. Me thinks,” Little Harry adds with his dagger out.

“Dat was a joke, Little Pete,” Harry says as he sighs.

“A joke?” Little Pete says as he looks at Big Pete, who nods. Big Pete never did say much with words, but he did with his fists; he tightens them.

“Harry, Pete?” Noname yells.

“We’ve come to see you,” Little Pete says as he smiles.

“Ya look weird,” Harry adds.

“Shaddup baldy!” Noname gives the joyful insult back.

“Yep. Dat is her,” Little Pete adds as the three thieves smile.

“Those that seek death shall find it,” the white-haired man says as he turns his attention towards them.

“Kill them! I shall deal with this one,” the white-haired woman says as she turns towards Noname, Sara, and the dying Layla.

“Hello! My name is Melione,” Melione says as she appears in front of the white-haired woman.

The voices whisper.

“They are the ones?” One asks.

“They are, but they are not. The extensions they are,” Two adds.

“What do we do?” One asks.

“What we always do,” Two says.

“KILL!” One and Two say in unison.

“KILL!” Melione repeats.

“Begone!” the white-haired woman says as she extends her hand. Melione slowly walks toward the mystic as blood pours from her eyes, mouth, nose, and ears; she does not stop. She will never stop. This is her way.

The three thieves and Ulric attack the white-haired man with a relentless flurry of blows. He dodges Ulric’s sword as Big Pete punches him in the face; the white-haired man looks at him, amused. Harry and Little Pete stab him in the back; the daggers don’t go in far. He hits them away with the back of his arms as they fly away some distance. Ulric continues his fight with the white-haired man as he struggles for his life, slowly being pushed back. Little Pete grabs the enemy as he holds him in a clinch.

“You should realize your limits,” the white-haired man angrily says as he grabs Little Pete’s arms, almost breaking them with pure strength.

Ulric appears as he slashes him with all his might and stabbing him in the stomach as the last attack. The wounds are superficial. The mystic punches Little Pete, breaking his right arm and knocking him to the ground. Noname appears near him as she backstabs the unaware mystic. He slaps her away; she tries to avoid but the impractical dress constricts her movement. With a bloodied face she punches the ground in frustration.

“To hell with dis!” Noname yells as she cuts her dress quickly; she removes all the unnecessary elements. Making the long dress look more like a short skirt. Ulric continues attacking as the attacks make the mystic bleed, but he does not last long; the white-haired man knocks his sword as he lies on top of the lying man. Suddenly, Noname jumps him from behind as she mercilessly starts stabbing him in the neck. The dagger pierces more and more.

“I WILL KILL YOU ALL!” the mystic yells.

Big Pete grabs the mystic by the legs as he knocks him and Noname down. Little Pete and Harry join in as they jump him with their daggers.

The mystic screams. In the chaos of this unseemly battle, Ulric joins in with his cold steel. The attacks continue as the white-haired man covered in blood stands and throws them all away; he looks at them with fury as he closes his eyes and falls to the ground.

Melione covered in even more blood continues her way towards the white-haired woman.

“Why? Why won’t you die,” the white-haired woman yells.

“Dead like bunnies in the fields! Dead like bunnies in the fields!” Melione sings as blood pours from her every orifice.

“No! Stay back! STAY BACK!” the white-haired woman yells as she retreats, trying to hold off the unyielding nature. Melione’s bones crack, but she moves on as she stands in front of the white-haired mystic; she puts her hand on her shoulders as she hugs her. The mystic shivers and after the shivers come the screams of pain. The crackling of the bones, the screams of anguish all combine in one symphony of horror.

“I know what you are! I know!” the white-haired woman says as she dies; the two fall upon each other as their bloodied and broken bodies intertwine in a grotesque spectacle.

Prince Takon arrives to witness a horrific scene like no other; blood covers every one of them and Noname is no exception. She walks to him placing the bloody dagger in his hands. The Prince looks with utter shock. “Can ya get me something to drink?” Noname asks.

The last defenders stand fortified in front of the castle courtyard encircled by Northmen from all sides. Summoning what strength remains to simply stand amidst heavy breaths and wounded flesh.

“Chief Bjorn Dreadblade,” the mystic says as he approaches.

“What is it now? Victory is but a step away,” Bjorn says, domineering.

“They are dead,” the mystic adds.

“So, you mystics can die,” Bjorn says as he laughs.

“You do not understand. They could have defeated one of them, but not the other. There can be only one explanation. They used magic,” the mystic explains.

“So what? How does this change things?” Bjorn asks.

“It means this is a trap,” the mystic says.

“An amazing trap to make them all die to us,” the chieftain says as he laughs.

“There is another problem,” the mystic says.

“Speak quickly, my patience grows thin,” Bjorn says standing over the smaller man. There are not many who can rival the stature of Northmen chieftain.

“Soon reinforcements will arrive. We can seize the city but cannot hold it,” the white-haired mystic explains.

“What? You said no one fled from the city. How could they have called for aid and how could it arrive in such a short time? Did you lie to me?” Bjorn Dreadblade says as he grips his sword, ready to strike.

“No. No one left this city. The only way this is possible is if they called for help before we attacked. And the death of my brother and sister... this is a trap. We have been fooled. It was a work of an ancient. No one else could have orchestrated this,” the mystic says.

Through countless battles, the mighty Bjorn Dreadblade never fleed from a single one. In fact, it was always his foes that fleed as the giant massacred all in his way leaving nothing but death and dread thus the name Dreadblade. Is this the first battle I will leave, Bjorn thinks? He smirks at the notion.

“Calder!” Bjorn yells as the one-armed savage by his side approaches him.

“Should I die you take the army and flee,” Bjorn commands.

“Yes, my chieftain,” Calder says as he nods.

“Die? What are you talking about? If we move now, we can...” the mystic speaks as he gets cut off.

“Silence, mystic. This is the way of the Northmen,” Calder says.

The giant of a man approaches the defenders alone as he dismounts.

“My name is Chieftain Bjorn. They call me the Dreadblade. There is one of you here. The one of death. He knows. I challenge you to combat. I shall send you to the afterlife so you may join your brothers and sisters,” Bjorn yells as the defenders look in confusion.

“Is he talking about you?” Shaphas asks Tyr.

“Bearer of the white blade, are you a coward, or are you death incarnate?” Bjorn yells.

“He is. Isn’t he?” Shaphas says, ” Are you planning on accepting?” he asks.

“Why should I? My entire life has been war. I’m fed up with it all,” Tyr says.

“I know about the black knights. I know what happened to them. And I know who is responsible. Fight me and I shall tell you this before I send you to the afterlife,” Bjorn says searching for his foe. There is no response. Chief Bjorn shakes his head as he turns back to mount his Fenrir.

Suddenly, a man appears through the crowd.

Chief Bjorn Dreadblade turns around with a grin on his face.

“Tell me!” Tyr yells.

“Your fate came as your folly. You and your kind lived by the sword and died by the sword, but there is one you could say struck the last blow to the black knights,” Bjorn explains.

“Who?” Tyr asks, impatiently.

“The one that made you is called Hekate. She used you and many others as simple pawns for her fight for power. Ultimately, one of her enemies was the one you failed against. His name is Boreas. He is something akin to a god in the north. Now we fight!” Bjorn says as he raises his sword. The Northmen in the back unleash war-cries.

“Wait! How do you...” Tyr asks as Bjorn’s blade flies in his direction; he quickly dodges to the left. The mighty blade breaks the stone pavement.

“No more talk. We fight!” Bjorn yells as he raises his sword.

The giant Northmen towers over Tyr. His speed, compared to the tiny man, does not falter; the strength of his blows, overshadows. Another strike! Tyr deflects it to the side and before he can stabilize another and another.

Having experienced many battles, he realizes the price for directly blocking such a powerful attack would be immense. It is better to deflect its trajectory and dodge with his body. In battle, one must use whatever advantage he has, for there are no second chances. The winner gets to keep his or her life while to loser forfeits it. It is as simple as that.

“We need to move,” the onlooking mystic says.

“We do not move until the battle is over,” Calder the one armed-man says as he watches his chieftains battle.

“You are fools!” the mystic says as he walks and disappears into the crowd.

One strike of the blade, after another the two warriors speak to each other through the cold relentless steel. A sweeping slash from Bjorn, a crouch from Tyr as he evades losing his head both figuratively and literally. Tyr goes in for the thrust as Bjorn takes the impaling attack only to grab the sword and try to cleave his foe in half; Tyr jumps away as he rolls to safety. Bjorn looks at the drawn blood from his chest as he laughs.

“Good!” Bjorn Dreadblade says as he loudly screams. The sheer power of his voice commands the onlookers to silence.

Tyr’s breath is heavy, his body hurts even though he didn’t take a direct hit, it still hurts. He feels dread! That is the price for fighting chieftain Bjorn Dreadblade. His name, well deserved.

“I am death. I am death incarnate. Those who look at the eyes of death shall know eternal darkness,” Tyr chants.

He lunges forward at Bjorn as the two exchange a flurry of blows with inhuman speed; the onlookers look with fear and respect.

Are they human? Who can say? The sight of their prowess commands admiration. If not for the steel clashing against steel there would be absolute silence across the battlefield.

Every time Tyr blocks the might of Bjorns attacks pushes him back; every time Tyr is pushed back he counters, drawing blood. The giant stands with multiple cuts, all superficial, but they take their toll. There is some distance between the two, there is a slight pause. Bjorn takes out a black plant as he eats it.

“A berserker,” Tyr exclaims.

“It is time to finish this,” Bjorn says as he screams even louder than before; his eyes turn red as he becomes bloodlust incarnate. He attacks! Each attack is stronger and faster than the previous. The onslaught of the giant is hard to stand. Exhaustion covers Tyr as he lies on the receiving end of the countless attacks.

“Is this all you have, black knight?” Bjorn yells.

“I am death,” Tyr says as he moves for closes a distance and swiftly attacks once.

“I am death incarnate,” Tyr says as he continues with two more attacks.

“Those who look at the eyes of death shall know eternal darkness,” Tyr chants again as though he submerges his entire conscience in his chant, losing his sense of self.

Their swords splinter, their bones quake, their blood boils. Tyr evades his foe’s attacks by a hair’s length. With others he is not so lucky, blood spills as flesh rends. Bjorn attacks once more as Tyr blocks it, he falls to the ground. One attack in a straight line to split the men in two and finish the fight; Tyr dodges to the side as he instantly stands. Another attack to cleave the man in two; Tyr quickly crouches, to evade it, and as the sword passes in the next instance, he lunges himself with the transcendent speed forward, cutting the throat of the giant. He turns his sword upside down as he, from the back, thrusts it into the chieftain’s throat. The giant drops his sword as he turns towards his men, smiling. Bjorn Dreadblade hits his chest two times as his men do the same. The proud Northmen unleash one last war cry.

“I die today but my deeds shall live forever,” Bjorn says as he falls on the ground and dies smiling even in death.

“Attention men! We retreat!” Calder yells as the Northmen begin their retreat.

Tyr falls on the ground from exhaustion; the world is turning dark.

The last thing he sees is a shadow looming over him.

“Aion watches over his chosen,” the man says as he drags him back into the defense lines.

The Northmen ride and run away from the city of Union as in the close distance a large army rides in haste toward it. In the streets, a cloaked man with white strands of hair is moving alone; he stops! In front of him stands another cloaked man.

“Excuse me,” the white-haired mystic says as he passes.

The other cloaked man draws his blade.

“You do not understand who you are up against,” the Northmen mystic says as he gently blows on his hand. Sparkling pale blue mist covers the air.

The other cloaked man falls on his knees.

“Fool,” the white-haired mystic says as he approaches the kneeling man; he draws a dagger as he goes in for the kill. Suddenly, the man stands and thrusts his blade into the mystic’s chest.

“What? You should be paralyzed!” the mystic blurts out.

The other cloaked figure rises as he removes his hood. It is Rash-An.

“Hekate sends her regards,” Rash-An says as he smiles

“Hekate? So it was her,” the mystic says on his knees.

“You’ve been defeated,” Rash-An says raising his sword.

“We have, but our Master shall never be. He shall see your lands destroyed as he...” the mystic says as he gets cut off, both literally and figuratively.

The battle is over. Union stands.