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