Fable - Ask Darkest Night

[Kristen Pirian]

CORTOS​

"Who is in command here?" asked Kristen.

One of the surviving Guardsmen, known aptly by his fellows as "Cold Blood", took a perfunctory glance around. And then he said, "You are, ma'am."

Kristen tried to get a reckoning of their number, the Guardsmen, and she found the task shockingly easy. "Is this all that's left?"

Cold Blood held her gaze, and he gave his dour estimation: "Can't be much more."

* * * * *​

They had been tasked to hold a forward position, blocking off a route by which the Cortosi forces might flank the Anirian advance upon the city of Maguilla. They had been assured of reinforcements by higher Anirian Command.

The reinforcements never came.

Yet, for days after which they were overdue, still it was believed by the detachment that the reinforcements would come. No one had trust in this more than Major Pilesdat himself, commanding officer of the detachment, and indeed, his steadfastness steeled his men. The detachment fended off probing attacks from the Cortosi, and still they waited. The detachment fended off the first assault upon their position, and still they waited. But when came the second assault—in overwhelming numbers as compared to the first—the Anirians broke. Not only had the Cortosi come from the front, but had through means unknown managed to nearly envelop the Guardsmen from the sides, from terrain thought to be impassable. All became chaos, and desperation reigned. Only the coming of night saved what Anirians still lived, and allowed for them the chance to run and regroup.

This regrouping happened upon a Hilltop. And there, under the light of the moon, would their fate be decided.

* * * * *​

Can't be much more, Cold Blood had said.

Kristen felt the knot in her stomach tighten. First and with greater pain she thought of the woeful Guardsmen, they who had been her brothers and sisters-in-arms, either fallen at the forward position or run down by Cortosi outriders in the scattered retreat. Second, however, came the dread, the uncertainty...for, had this disaster been orchestrated by the cunning of Garron Banick, or was this all precisely as he said of Vel Anir itself, and Kristen, these Guardsmen, all of them, were viewed callously as disposable, expendable?

With an officer now on the Hilltop, the Guardsmen gathered round her. One of them asked: "What are your orders, ma'am?"

"We could make a run for it," interjected Miller, a strong lad, young like many of them, on his mandatory service. "All of us. Together."

"Maguilla is miles away," said Cold Blood. "And there's nothing but open plain between us and there. We'd be cut down to a man by outriders."

"But we can't stay here!" Miller protested with an innocent, though naive, earnest.

"We can, and we must," said Kristen. "Cold Blood is right. We would not survive a mad dash for Maguilla, and it would be folly to give up this defensible position."

"It's okay. The reinforcements will come," said Flower Girl, who, much like Miller, was young and recently enlisted, and who prior worked as her nickname suggested.

Silence followed this hopeful sentiment. Flower Girl began to glance around nervously, seeing in the moonlit faces of her comrades that none seemed to share her bright outlook. Kristen pitied the girl...and saw a bit of herself in her, from yesteryears which now felt a lifetime ago.

"They will come...right?" said Flower Girl.

Silence again.

And Kristen answered, "No." She drew in a breath. "We are on our own. Pray, if any gods dwell in your heart, that we live through the night."

Miller, now pale and wide-eyed, spoke up again, saying, "Lieutenant, what...is this to be our last stand?"

Kristen merely looked at him, and she need not say a word. In her visage she told no lie, and all knew now how dire their plight. Flower Girl clapped a hand over her mouth, dropping to her knees, as vomit leaked out from between her fingers.

Only a trickle more Anirians were coming up the rocky, singular path to the Hilltop. Barely a company were they, all told, against a potential legion of Cortosi, who could attack at their leisure.

The chill of night felt like the cold hand of death, reaching ever closer.

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Spoiler: Music

Death, once again, stared him in the eye.

It leered at him from the distant and darkening banners of the Cortosi. It mocked him with the fevered faces of the Anirian Guard, clattering up the slope in their armour like unwilling mules. And it smiled an ugly smile in Hilltop, with the broken stones of the path for teeth.

Mortivore's face, already a permanent frown, sunk even deeper into shadow. He pulled his hood over his head, trudging with his fellow Anirians up the rocky path and past their meagre defences to find the commanding officer.

He was usually not involved in open warfare such as this. Many of his efforts were clandestine, in deep cover or well beyond the border of Cortos, gathering information and intelligence. But the Anirian Guard had deemed his presence crucial for this operation, sabotaging the advance of Cortosi forces that might relieve Maguilla. His main asset? His ability to interrogate captured enemies, mining them for critical information of army movements.

Perhaps he would die here, his hard-earned talents wasted. A lifetime of study and practice, and for what? To perish as a common soldier upon a hilltop.

No. This would not do. There was yet unfinished work for him to complete. He had been in other, seemingly hopeless situations before. There had to be a way.

They needed a plan.

He came upon Lieutenant Dreadlord Kristen Pirian, the prized daughter of an ancient House, surrounded by Guardsmen. One was vomiting her fear. The rest looked as like to follow suit, faces pale and ashen, looking like damned ghosts already. A pitiful display of Anirian valor.

Mortivore's armoured robes and braided beard whipped in the wind - the beard seeming a grey beast with a life of its own. But his flinty eyes and wrinkled, leathery features remained still as stone, and indeed, in the moonlit darkness, he could well have passed for a statue draped in the armour of a Dreadlord, were it not for his accompanying speech:

"Lieutenant," Mortivore intoned, voice flat and gravelly as the surrounding plains. "Might I have a word?"

He extended an arm away from the wavering recruits, indicating a desire to speak in private.

Kristen Pirian

 

[Kristen Pirian]

When Mortivore spoke, there came but a small comfort to the Guardsmen: at least two of the Dreadlords had survived. The Red Guard of Cortos hadn't slain them all.

"Come on," said Cold Blood to his fellows. "Let's give the Dreadlords some space."

Miller helped Flower Girl back to her feet, and then the gathered Guardsmen meandered away. Mortivore and Kristen needed not go so far themselves to effect privacy.

Kristen let out a sigh of relief. "Mortivore," she said, "It gladdens my heart to see that you yet live."

Major Pilesdat, their commander, Kristen knew for a grim fact was not so fortunate. A Cortosi blade skewered him, and Kristen had not been so far away in the battle to miss seeing the life fade from his eyes. It had not been long after that when the Anirians broke, and the wild flight began.

Mortivore Urn

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Kristen let out a sigh of relief. "Mortivore," she said, "It gladdens my heart to see that you yet live."

Mortivore dipped his head slightly in respectful acknowledgment.

"Likewise," he said quietly, then glanced at the milling Guardsmen yonder. "Our arcane talents may well be the last hope these soldiers have."

His tightly clenched hands were the only indicator of his seething frustration and desperation, which he studiously laced behind his back. Pneria's rusty pallour enshrined his hooded head behind him like a sickened halo, throwing most of his face into gloom. Still, he kept it rigidly blank.

The young, in his experience, were often prone to sways of emotion. Quick to despair, quick to regain hope, their minds swinging like pendulums from external forces. And Kristen was quite youthful. A deadly Dreadlord and experienced officer to be sure, with an impressive list of credentials already, but undeniably sparse in years. If she crumbled, the others would be sure to follow suit. It would be an unmitigated disaster.

This could not be allowed to happen. He sized her up, looking for any sign of weakness - not to exploit, but to repair.

"I have seen their forces up close. We will not win this day by steel." A ripple of wind through his beard and robes punctuated the pause. Standing at almost the exact same height, he could look her in the eye without lowering or raising his chin. "We must bend fate through magic. Through subterfuge." His head betrayed a downward glance at her artificial hand, clad in starlit porcelain and steel. "I understand you to be quite a capable conjurer. Perhaps . . . through our combined efforts, we may deceive our enemy. But, as you well know, the most powerful of spells will claim . . . a high price."

Mortivore embraced silence then, but the tilt of his head back to the recruits hinted at his intent. She enjoyed loyalty amongst the Guard, and rightfully so. Her talents and prudent soul had earned it. That loyalty might well prove an important asset. But her soul also carried scars - a child witness to unspeakable evil that either strenghtened or broke a mind.

He wondered how she might handle the pressure of being cornered and trapped, once again. And he wondered if she would be willing to pay the price he had in mind.

Her vibrant auburn hair and clear, rain-coloured eyes stood in stark contrast to his drained and dour visage. Perhaps he ought to feel envy for someone so young to be his superior. But their worlds were leagues apart - and the battles he fought were of an entirely different nature to her clashes with Cortos military. In this moment, he could only be grateful to share the burden of leadership with a distinguished Dreadlord.

Kristen Pirian

 

[Zephyrine]

It was the rhythm of a horse moving at a relentless pace to cut through the quiet of the weakened state that had fallen over the Anirian troops. A prelude to what was to come; a lone rider when a reinforcement had been promised.

Mount and rider neared, unharmed in their travel to reach what was left of the Guard. Magic encompassed them, a manifestation made to act as shield and ward from any attack. Once the rider dismounted, legs weak from the many hours spent on horseback to reach them, Zephyrine Caddel fell to one knee and gathered her breath.

"I have a message!" Adorned in armour, battered and smeared in mud and blood, the Dreadlord lifted her head to reveal a fresh slice from her forehead, down her left eye, and curving to the corner of her mouth. The Cortosi were known to wield weapons of magic, and the blade that struck her had been spelled to never let a wound heal with magic. It would scar, leave a reminder that Zephyrine had failed to check the soldier for any other hidden blades after taking his sword away. She had ridden from a skirmish, where the rest of the reinforcement had been on their way before being waylaid. They had come out victorious, but their number so small, it was deemed not feasible to travel ahead.

"A message meant for the ears of Major Pilesdat..."

Tawny eyes lifted to those that remained. She could feel strength returning to her legs, her body feeling weightless after she relaxed herself after holding herself in a tense state as she had rode here. Vacant eyes stared back at her, and the newly promoted Dreadlord recognised it as defeat. It mirrored the same look in the eyes of those she had just left, leaving them behind a day's ride.

Kristen Pirian Mortivore Urn

 

[Kristen Pirian]

Mortivore was a man in a profession where men typically do not grow old. And though Kristen had not yet heard of this adage, its wisdom shined on her nonetheless. She looked to him as perhaps the Guardsmen looked to her. The night was dark not for a lack of moonlight, no, and everywhere the Anirians looked for the faintest glimmer, Kristen included.

She grimaced, however, at his suggestion, aware very much of her own limitations. She said, "For my part, I used a great deal of magic in the battle, and even in the escape. Nearly am I spent, save perhaps a couple spells more—the weight of fatigue bears heavily upon me. I speak without boast, and merely to give no false impression, for we must assess with dispassionate minds what we can and cannot do. But say anyway what it is that you propose; your expertise in subterfuge could—"

Kristen had not the chance to finish before a final Anirian made it up the treacherous path to the Hilltop, much to the surprise of everyone present. And she was on horseback. That fact alone raised hearts.

But what murmurs began cut off suddenly as Zephyrine called out for Major Pilesdat. Grim reckoning swept over the Guardsmen.

And it was up to Kristen (who didn't yet see clearly who it was) to turn, regard the rider, and call back, "Major Pilesdat is dead. I, Lieutenant Kristen Pirian, am in command, and this is all that remains of his detachment."

Kristen clenched her eyes shut for a moment. Many of the Guardsmen either knew outright or suspected that their erstwhile commander was dead. But to say it outright, to give that cold truth voice, was a firm blow to morale...and yet it had to be done.

Mortivore Urn Zephyrine

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Upon Zephyrine's arrival and the bold declaration of Kristen, the old mage closed his eyes. His mouth moved with words, less than a whisper. One might assume this to be the disgruntled mutterings of a cranky veteran, rolling his eyes skyward behind closed lids.

In truth, it was an incantation. The beginnings of a focused trance.

Spoiler: Music

When he cracked his eyes open, the Hilltop had changed into a dark land, an artificial shadowscape where the light of Pneria and the stars didn't exist. Sound died.

Then, light and sound rebirthed gradually. The lights came from orbs of ghostly blue wisps, with vague contours of their human forms, and warped mutters emerged, all whispering and chattering to themselves. This maelstrom of psychic planets sucked him in, drawing him in their midst, and he grazed each and every one, ensuring not to be drawn too close by their pull.

The commander is dead? I shouldn't be here, Flower's voice whispered, I was to join the Guard for a few years and then return to my betrothed. We would tell stories of our daring adventures to our children. It can't end like this. I feel sick - I'll choke on my own bile. Darian . . .

Another had him see a vision of Hilltop, decked in broken bodies and shattered armour. Cold Blood stood amongst them, hands clenched, pierced by several spears, with cariacature Cortosi setting pyres, burning their bodies, laughing and dancing on their bones with raucous cheer. Cold Blood shifted from speared to shackled in chains, hauled along as a prisoner. A consideration?

Mortivore grimaced, tearing himself free from this orbit of doom, to find another. A slim hope. The feeling of stones pounding against soles, rock scratching palms, a fevered climb down the hillside. Then running, running, running . . . until no strength remained in his legs, no air in his lungs, but his enemies were a distant memory. Miller had run long miles before. He could do so again . . .

Like an invisible spectre, Mortivore's mind reached and probed far beyond the confines of its skull, peeling and throbbing for the ideal choices. Finally, he sought the anchor of his own mind, grasping its figurative chain, hauling himself back from thoughts of despair, dread and desertion, lest they consume him.

Tempting as it was to peer into the minds of his fellow Dreadlords, he knew better than to risk their trained detection.

He used a childhood memory for his anchor. A sharp slap, stinging his cheek - a useful phantom pain to wake up from the dreams of others. To recall the feel of his own, weathered flesh, lined by scars. The matron of the orphanage, glaring down at him. Did you devour the other children, you little cannnibal? Where are they? Where are they, Mortivore?

Mortivore opened his eyes, once again gazing upon the nearly broken Guard. His magic had confirmed what he suspected. It had spotted the weakest members of their regiment. The chain of their discipline was about to snap. And all it took would be for the weakest link to break . . .

He walked closer and leaned in with a whisper to Kristen Pirian:

"Kristen," he said, shifting from the formality of her rank to the intensity of her name. "Our forces will break. It is only a matter of time. Many are sinking into terror, plotting retreat or surrender. Someone will betray their duty, and the rest may well follow suit." His narrow eyes darted with conspiracy, and he attempted to exchange a look with Zephyrine, beckoning her over with his eyes. The only reliable factor now was Dreadlords discipline. "I appreciate the reserves of your magic is nearly spent. This accounts for my own resources, too."

His eyes ignited like a basilisk's glare, catching some of the weak illumination. He retracted to a more formal distance, speaking his next words with forced calm.

"But I know a means to replenish our powers."

Kristen Pirian
Zephyrine

 

[Zephyrine]

It did not take more than Kristen's presence to draw her near. They had fought side by side earlier, was it a week ago? A fortnight? War waged at all hours of the day, it was hard to pinpoint how much time had passed. Zephyrine had saved them then, had bought them time to retreat and take care of the wounded.

Could she do so again?

She knew she would be scraping the bottom of her wells soon, no matter how deeply she could reach into it and draw on her magic, there was always an exhaustion. She had come from a skirmish, had found a way to fortify a retreat and come forth on orders.

It was relief that flooded through her to see her fellow classmate, that the young Pirian was now known to her that Caddel could allow herself a moment to breathe. To Kristen, Zephyrine offered her arm to brace in greeting. "Captain Grimmere sent me ahead." The name should be familiar to Kristen, as Rhory Grimmere had been in the unit Zeph was in, and had told Zephyrine she hoped her friend was still amongst the living. They had hell to pay, to show their demons they could not be quieted for long. "To tell you that our unit were ambushed and a battle was fought, our numbers culled significantly. The Cortosi have in their possession artifacts that are spelled to damage beyond that of steel against flesh." A finger went to lightly tap an inch from her wound, looking as if she had been slashed merely an hour ago and not near two days. "Slow healing." She explained.

Her attention turned to the older Dreadlord, and she bowed her head. "I still have some power left in me to wield my Recreation magic, but if I could avoid overextending my capabilities..." Exhaustion began to weigh on her. She had not rested for days on end, had kept vigilant.

Kristen Pirian Mortivore Urn

 

[Kristen Pirian]

Kristen listened to the whispers of Mortivore, and a stern expression flashed in her features, though she did not glance at him but rather kept her gaze on the approaching rider. At present she said nothing to his declaration that plots of retreat, surrender, or betrayal brooded among their fellow Anirians. But this she knew: she would not condemn anyone for a crime not even yet realized. Hearts that wavered could be roused to steadfastness, and courage, she herself knew well, did not exist without fear.

She would speak to this when the time came. But first...

"Zephyrine!" Kristen said, all but exclaiming her name. "It is good to see you."

Captain Grimmere sent me ahead.

Indeed, Kristen thought of Rhory, and wished the best for her. Kristen's own experience of the war, ongoing for long enough to see her reach her twentieth birthday, could well be summarized as a series of disasters, close calls, and mismanagement by higher command—if Garron had not a hand in it all, then she felt a victim of prolonged ill luck.

Zephyrine gave the rest of her report.

"Then it is as we have thought," she said. No reinforcements would come in their dark hour, and all the Anirians upon the Hilltop would have to endure by their own power, purchasing life by anointing their blades in the blood of their enemy.

And with the last of Zephyrine's words, it was clear that all three of the Dreadlords were not so far removed from the common Guardsman, such was the toll of their magic already spent.

But I know a means to replenish our powers.

Kristen turned then to face him, reserved, yes, recalling his earlier mention of "a high price", but hopeful. And in their position, no idea could be cast down before it was even spoken aloud and considered. "Please, tell us."

Mortivore Urn Zephyrine

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Mortivore greeted Zephyrine with a silent and measured nod. His hands folded behind his back, listening to her report.

"Captain Grimmere sent me ahead." The name should be familiar to Kristen, as Rhory Grimmere had been in the unit Zeph was in, and had told Zephyrine she hoped her friend was still amongst the living. They had hell to pay, to show their demons they could not be quieted for long. "To tell you that our unit were ambushed and a battle was fought, our numbers culled significantly. The Cortosi have in their possession artifacts that are spelled to damage beyond that of steel against flesh." A finger went to lightly tap an inch from her wound, looking as if she had been slashed merely an hour ago and not near two days. "Slow healing." She explained.

Another wrinkle added to the tally in his brow. The Cortosi were nothing if not creative in their malice. Even he had to acknowledge that.

Her attention turned to the older Dreadlord, and she bowed her head. "I still have some power left in me to wield my Recreation magic, but if I could avoid overextending my capabilities..." Exhaustion began to weigh on her. She had not rested for days on end, had kept vigilant.

Though his face remained stoic, his eyes glittered with dangerous opportunity.

"Good," the word escaped him, barely audible. Some power was better than none. "Very good . . ."

Kristen turned then to face him, reserved, yes, recalling his earlier mention of "a high price", but hopeful. And in their position, no idea could be cast down before it was even spoken aloud and considered. "Please, tell us."

Mortivore's gaze snapped to Kristen. He paused, and for a moment, it looked as if his face might sink into his beard, his chin dipping nearly to his collar-bone. How was he to convince this young noble of a deed that bards would scorn? A measure more worthy of a tyrant than a hero?

A hand went from his back to stroke his long beard, choosing his words with care. That hand trembled for a brief spell, before it found solace in his braid. Whether from old age or nerves, it was difficult to parse, his face exposing little.

"I learned this secret from the circle mages of Cerak At'thul, where life is cheap and magic is rife. It is of a different nature to the spells we are taught. They call it . . . Siphon Aether." He took in the two, younger Dreadlords, glancing from Zephyrine and back to Kristen. "You may know it as Mana Drain."

Distate bared itself in the working of his jaw and the crinkling of his potato nose. It ran like an undercurrent to the steady, rumbling river of his voice, churning ever downward towards its inevitable end.

"I take no pleasure in employing its formula. But it is . . . effective. Especially when the requisite aether is taken from other, idle minds." At this, his gaze flicked in the direction of some of the recruits whose weakness he had smelled. "It consumes the kindling of spirit and mind, to fuel the flames of its caster." His eyes locked into Kristen's, as a crocodile might peer from the water's surface, still and cautious. Voice dropped to a reluctant whisper. "Three souls should suffice."

Silence. As he awaited their response, his attention turned to Zephyrine. Younger. Possibly brasher. There had been unmistakable warmth in their greeting. She might be the key to persuade the lieutenant . . .

Kristen Pirian
Zephyrine