Smoke rose from within the Walls of Vel Anir.
The tide of the undead had been turned, thousands of corpses lay within the streets and strewn across the plains around the Great Fortress City. A strange sort of serene quiet had laid itself out over Vel Anir, the silence that came with victory.
Men and women searched for lost sons and daughters. Soldiers heaved fallen stones and cleared rubble, Dreadlord sat against half broken walls as they tried to wipe away their exhaustion. It was a scene of victory, but a somber one. Many had died. Countless Anirian Guardsmen, house regiments, even Dreadlords had met their final end.
The horses of Kyslith had taken their toll.
Such a loss of life had not been seen in Vel Anir since war with the elves. There was a weariness which consumed the people, the soldiers. That silent somberness hanging within the air as some began to attempt to pick up the pieces.
They could not have known it was too early for that.
Outer Walls
Talus head snapped to the side. He was leaning against the side of the wall, exhaustion rippling over his features as he took in a deep breath. The half broken sword he had been gifted by the dwarves lay on the ground besides him, his armor was covered in brackish black blood, and his hair was smarted into tangles.
In the distance he could sense Zana through their bond. He could feel her own fatigue, the weight that cast upon her, but he knew she was okay.
That was all that mattered, and as soon as he recovered he would seek her out. Until then he sent calm, soothing pulses down the bond. His head lulling against the wall as he looked at the approaching soldier. The man was dressed in the garb of the Army of the South, his clothes unstained and his face holding none of the weariness of battle. "A little late for reinforcements."
Talus called out with a dry chuckle.
"We took care of them. You can tell General Yarl we just need him for cleanup." There were a few chuckles from the Central Soldiers that stood around him. Most were as tired as he, though a few seemed to almost be bursting with energy. He smiled smugly up at the messenger, though he realized that the boys face was grim.
Lips thinned for a few moments, and he slowly pushed himself up and off the wall as the Soldier approached him. A sealed envelope was offered, and then the boy turned on his heel almost immediately.
"Sir. It's time."
Talus felt his mouth gape, ripping the letter open and letting his gaze flicker over it. He had never read something so quickly.
'Major. It's time. Alert your men. Aldwaith has been informed. Ilyena guards the north and Blackforge sends what he can. Today we break them.
May Kress shine his light on you.'
A thousand things ran down his mind. Panic. Hope. Anxiety. So many feelings crashed through him, and all of them would be like a signal fire to Zana. She would know. She would feel it. She would see.
"ZAHEER!" Talus voice thundered in the courtyard. Every soldier turned his head, every man and woman gazed to Talus. "Find Zaheer!"
He called to them. They needed the fourth level Dreadlord, the man who the academy had tossed aside. He was a telepath, one able to touch minds en masse but only for a single second. Useless to those who wanted weapons, but so priceless to the revelation. "The People Call."
Three words.
Three little words that would sound through the mind of the guard. Three words that would ignite the revolution.
Impossible words. Words that during the age of his grandfather would have been impossible. Words that had given him hope.
Flik Harrow had never been a loyalist. He had never fought for the Guard because of ideals or love. They had conscripted him, and he'd done nearly everything to get himself tossed out. He had known what they were fighting for, or he'd thought he'd known.
He was only twenty, but he'd seen what the Noble Houses thought of folk like him. He had seen his father tossed onto the streets after a life of service. Had seen Dreadlord execute soldiers who were "too wounded" to save. Had seen men and women both used as little more than bartering tools for those in power.
A year ago he had intended to desert. He had wanted to leave Vel Anir and go somewhere else. Alliria perhaps, or the Empire.
Then he'd heard those words. Those words that echoed in his mind now; The people call.
Flik stared through the throng of soldiers that walked down the street, each one marked with the colors of House Virak. Their plate was better quality than his, their weapons a step above anything he could hope for. They laughed as they walked. Joked. Yet it was not that which ignited his rage.
It was the man that stood at their center.
Archon Isbrand Lorel.
Flik had watched him. Seen him fight. Seen him incinerate dozens of Guardsmen alongside the undead. He'd watched as the man had conducted wanton slaughter and obliterated friend and foe alike with the snap of a finger. He had heard the man laugh, laugh as the undead had torn a woman to shreds.
He had seen the quality of this man. He knew. Flik knew that this was the man he was called against.
His chest rose and fell. His pulse quickened. Sweat pooled within his palm as it wrapped around the hilt of his sword. He felt anger rising within him.
The anger of a dozen generations stepped on and broken. The anger of hundreds of thousands lost because of men like him. The anger of a simple soldier, a man who was tired of it all.
His sword rang as it slipped from it's scabbard, his voice bellowing out and breaking the laughter of the House Guard. "For Vel Anir!"
The shout escaped him, and then he charged.
Flik ran as fast as he could. The sound of his boots lost on him, the world quiet as he focused on the man in front of him. The Archon who stared at him with shock.
His rage so powerful, so strong, that he did not even feel himself turn to ash.
Anir Castra - Guard Offices
The general of the Eastern Army stood at his offices window, a smile sitting on his face as he watched the completely empty training fields below. There were no soldiers left at Anir Castra, no man or woman who had been left behind to fight his battle for him.
He would not have had it any other way. He would have been out there with them, would have fought side by side with those he held every respect for, but he'd known his fight would be elsewhere. Aldwaith slowly turned on his heel, his eyes locking on the door just as it splintered and cracked down it's center.
There was a burst of wood, and then the ancient redwood shattered into nothingness.
Without the space of a heartbeat three men stepped into his office. Two of them wore the black coats of Dreadlords, one of them the slashes of color that marked the Great House Sirl. "Damian."
Aldwaith said in greeting as he stepped over to his desk and laid a hand on the scabbard that lay across the heavy wood.
"Aldwaith what the fuck is going on? Your Guardsmen have gone mental. They're attacking us all over the city! It's a rebellion!"
The nobleman sounded more scared than angry, and Aldwaith couldn't help but smile. It seemed the man could not fathom, could not even understand. His free hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, the brilliant blue blade sliding free.
"No my Lord. It is a revolution." Shock flickered across the three men's faces. "And I am afraid you are under arrest. Until a new government can be formed you will be detai-"
"Are you fucking nuts? Do you know who I am? Who my father is? What the Houses will do to you? Kill this fucking rebel."
One of the Dreadlords raised a hand. "Stop! Think of it. Think of him. His family. How they raised you. What they did to you. Do you follow him because you want to or because you have to?"
There was a pause, hesitation.
"Don't listen to him. Some of your fellows have already sided with the revlution. They join us in creating something new. A free Republic. A place where you have a choice." Aldwaith stepped forward. "A place where men like him have no more power than you."
The two Dreadlords looked at one another, glancing down at Damian Sirl who was practically seething with rage.
"No more power than them?!"
He sounded incredulous, a laugh breaking from the nobleman's throat.
"You little fucking gnats! Do you really think I need you? Do you really think I can't do this myself?"
Again the Dreadlords hesitated, unsure. They looked at Aldwaith, at Damian.
The General fell into a combat stance, his sword moving forward as he prepared for Damian to attack. Yet it never came. Not in the way he thought. A heartbeat passed, and then suddenly a shadow washed up from the floor. A roiling mass of entropy that lashed at the Generals legs and snapped away his flesh.
A scream left Aldwaith's mouth as his muscle and skin bubbled away, torn from the bone in an instant as the shadow crawled up his legs. It seemed to consume and wrap around him. Eating away like an acid. Within seconds alwaith collapsed, his sword clattering to the floor as his legs rotted away beneath him.
"Do you know what you've done? You think you have hope? You think you have a revolution?"
Damian picked up the fallen sword, looking down at Aldwaith.
"All you'll have is a massacre."
The sword plunged through the general's throat.
