War is both witness to atrocity, and avenue to accolade, depending on which side survives its passage.
Vanguards, veterans, vultures and worse, the infamy which whispered in the wake of the word
Blackguard was
legendary, a title teased in tales of yore, when insurmountable threats neared their noble nation; but behind every great deed lay a grain of truth, beneath every bard's ballad, something solid, and substantial, for the men of this unit were not gods, simply
specialised.
A single soul was sent ahead of
Olem's expedition, an envoy whose avenue of approach would arrive from the Postern gate, rather than the city's main toothy maw; a distraction designed to draw the enemy toward the rear, whilst the bulk of loyalist forces forged a bloody path through the surrounding countryside. The messenger's masters had been resourceful to this end, for their spies plied information from lips loosened by the promise of coin, or the caress of a knife, until they discovered a delectable ruse with which to breach this bastion, an armoured carriage ferrying food from nearby farmsteads.
Naturally, the rebels had anticipated the prospect of a siege, when first they forsook the crown, because whilst their fealty might have been fickle, they had been raised amongst Anirian society, and knew well the tactics the nation utilised to take territory; knowledge that the courier had counted on, when they hatched their scheme.
Heralded by the clatter of hooves, the shipment of sustenance came late that day to Vel Teniel, a procession absent the escort it commonly enjoyed, as it hurtled toward the city with a haste born of necessity; though none chased it now, and its drivers at least had survived whatever fate had befallen the brown flecked behemoth. As the vehicle drew nearer, however, the soldiers guarding the route grew suspicious when it continued to careen forwards, fanning out in a semi-circular formation and reinforcing the barricade along the path; prepared no doubt to prevent its progress, until they could inspect it for themselves.
This manoeuvre appeared to have the desired effect initially, for the horses certainly slowed when faced with a veritable forest of spears; but as the carriage lurched to a hasty halt, and two soldiers flanked its doors in anticipation of investigating, the drivers suddenly slumped from their seats, and an explosion erupted from its interior.
Curling forth on tongues of flame, this conflagration was no mere blaze born of ale or produced by power though, but instead an arcane energy which clung to armour and apparel alike, a calamity that cowed its victims, whilst another emerged unseen. Those furthest from the firestorm thought themselves fortunate at first, as screams echoed in their ears, and their companions melted to molten ruin, but these deaths were far quicker than those that followed, when a figure burst from the wreckage and swept their sword clean through a survivor.
Cleaving through steel, as readily as any axe might oak, the bitter blade known as
Anathema gleamed a ghastly shade of purple, as its meteoric edge cut the nearest man in half, splaying viscera across the mud-marred ground below, while its master surged into their comrades' midst; wielding
weapon and shield with such skill, that they were little more than wheat before the scythe of each and every swing.
Melchior was this phenomenon's name, a Dreadlord whose unique talents turned spells against their summoner, a cadet whose career had led them from the hallowed halls of the academy, into the very ranks of the Blackguard itself; an ability which had allowed them to endure the initial blast and attack invigorated, instead of become maimed by the merciless maelstrom.
Seconds stretched for what felt like eternity in those brief and brutal moments, as corpses clawed at life and slowly slipped beyond, while the warrior reaped a ripe red harvest from the rebels, until each and every one of the defenders had been dismembered; a missive moulded from meat and mourning.
It was only when the fields lay sown, and the soil slaked with their blood, that the haze began to lift from the swordsman's sight, only then that they realized these were no seasoned soldiers, but mere militia mustered from pups and peasants, boys now bereft of their future, thanks to the relentlessness of his wrath.
Despite rumours to the contrary, Melchior was no
monster, and a very real pang of guilt gripped his heart in that moment; for the sorcerous storm had driven him into a frenzy, and only now did he notice that the battlements lay bare, the Postern primed for entry, as an eerie emptiness engulfed the city, and stunned the blackguard into silence.
Did they know what awaited me, he wondered, as neither archer nor executioner impeded his entry,
i've always been a dog to unleash, he grimaced, while slow and measured footsteps led him deeper into Vel Teniel's depths;
perhaps Olem's force will know more, he concluded; leaving with a wake of butchered boys, and more questions than answers.
