Post by Joshua, the Wayne on Sept 20, 2009 18:51:55 GMT -5
A chilling wind brushed Dameus freely in the face; it irritated his eyes and tousled his crimson hair wildly, waving his headband like a green flag behind him. He secured his grip tightly around Aeric’s waist; he’d otherwise be thrown off balance if a broad draft were to sail in from the fermenting tempest ahead.
Both massive armies were positioned on either side of Fortosa’s formless landscape, each legion uniformed in distinct sable shrouds of protective clothing; the lurid obsidian-black of Gortek’s flag and the broad, deep, brave cerulean blue of Fabrith’s insignia.
Dameus was submerged in thought, his eyes darting in search of the Wolf Lich. He cautiously stared at the endless dense-black sea of lancets and shields; each wielded by rather ghoulish specters of men, which horrified Dameus; they resembled a congregated frenzy of beetle-like soldiers with wide, beady, misshapen black eyes and broadly carved figures—each was heavily encased in glossy uneven shells of enameled black steel, then shrouded in dense-hued shawls ornately trimmed with silver thread. Fabrith was only a dash of blue and iron cuirass.
The empire was widespread, a deep opaque sea of men—it might have been ten-thousand, maybe twenty or more—Dameus had never been taught to count. It was an acrid sight. The image primed Dameus to imagine their captain, the Emperor’s ambassador; he noticed his heart refrained beating when he recalled the pontifex’s name—Count Umbra. Dameus imagined the Pontifex was erupted in laughter at the flank end of the field while avoiding watchful eyes.
A sour taste flooded Dameus in the mouth and he shut his eyes closed, his stomach churning in disgust while trying to imagine Umbra’s brutal torture dealt to captives.
Umbra—it was such a dark air to a title, he thought; as if when the very name “Umbra” was spoken, the earth’s mountains scattered to hide and the rivers wove backwards in a fretful escape.
Dameus in his time spent with Fabrith’s military heard many nostalgic claims about the Gortek Pontifex, more fearsomely known as the Wolf Lich.
Umbra was said to be immortal, born somewhere around the ghost town of Nalàugh. Some foreigners claimed he was the son of a wolf, making him beastly and ornately instinctive. A select few said he was the spawn of an angel and a venomous demon, and less than a handful ever claimed he was the surviving offspring of the King of Crows himself; but the most terrifying, most feared rumor that was ever spoken claimed he was a Lich.
Some believe that long ago he was murdered by King Sarmad, around the period of unrecorded history where some say Sarmad practiced the arcane art of necromancy. If this was true, Umbra would be neither dead nor alive—in between; a black phantom. He would be immune to pain, he would be masterful after his vicious years of swordsmanship, and he would be his own empire in the embodiment of an individual man.
A dead angel of war.
“Aeric, how do you kill a Lich?” Dameus’ voice trembled. There was no response. The princely warrior was too exhibited on his task that he paid no attention to Dameus or the armada behind him.
Sighing heavily, Dameus disregarded his friend. A few words at the least might have given him encouragement to fight, but Dameus abandoned hope and decided to accept tragedy. Dulled by his loss of morale, he looked in the sky and was enthralled by the sinister view around him.
Looming vast overhead was a colossal wall of twisting and lurching black clouds, waning and condensing in cyclones of inky-black plumes. The gigantic amassment towered over both armies and dwarfed all other things that would have been called gargantuan.
This tempest was surely the grandest Dameus had ever seen. Every cloud seemed to be burdened with an immense load of wash from the western ocean, reassuring it would be less than a few clock turns until the battlefield was swept into a squalling torrent.
Shivering green chords of lightning descended like God’s judgment and shook tremendously with terrific beauty, falling and assembling in all unpredictable directions. An omen rode with the wind, carrying the salty smell of iron and sweat which filled Dameus’ nose without welcome.
Dameus swallowed and wiped his forehead. A violent history today would be made, he thought. It was interesting how time slowed in his mind, the moment creating it’s own unoccupied space, with no texture—no temperature, no scent or taste in the hot air; only the foretoken of calamity before him, and as man after man shouted and barked and bellowed aloud, Dameus felt them fade and disappear from his attention one by one—all he noticed was the inside of his heart where existed an awesome and terrible feeling, a quiet notion that he would be galloped off to death when Aeric’s powerful pearl-white steed would make her way, sending them on a quest bound for death way into the black horizon.
With the roar of a lion, King Aaron thrust his lance into the air and sent his horse thundering toward the ebon sea of flesh and steel on the horizon. Aeric, keeping his attention focused on Aaron’s lead, gave a quick “Hya!” and began Thelmiscis at a rampageous speed.
It took no time until their roars, the cries of the Fabrith Armada, arrived clarion in the desolate wind, rusted and loud with iron throats. Dameus’ concentration all of a sudden quavered and he felt his senses return with a crushing wall of feeling.
The air was hot and sticky, stenches of sweat and rustled skin permeated his nose.
He whimpered, trying not to stare at the black ocean of Gortek’s empire ahead—unable to recall why he was even there. How was he drawn into such a fight? All he could remember was stealing fruit and money, not lifting a sword and slaying legions of men. It was because of Aeric, he concluded, but even now Aeric was in front of him encased in armor—and they were both trapped in the vanguard force, the leading wave of the armada.
The war had nearly begun, and only anticipation was beating through every heart. The world that once contained an entire continent was now reduced to a single struggle of skirmish, a dark and blood-red world where Dameus felt miniature, reduced to a mere grain of dirt.
He winced as the cape on Aeric’s back flapped in his vision, slapping him gently as the soft drum of horse feet made its way. It would be a while until they arrived at the Empire’s front, so Aeric preserved his energy. All of his secondary thoughts were put aside.
His only intent was to locate and hunt down Umbra. He knew Aaron would be searching too, and so Aeric’s ears were perked slightly higher than their usual level, ready to jerk when Aaron said “There!”
The amassment of Gortek knights began to separate into more distinguished statues of recognizable human soldiers, each nearing faster than Aeric anticipated. He cut short his search for Umbra and let the grotesque image of their pale faces and hardened gray skin settle grimly in his mind.
What once resembled a beetle in their insectival figures now looked more like ghostly manifestations with blank, formless-faced emotions. They reflected no shades of fear or courage, not even a variety of grins or sobs; only chiseled and rough-edged expressions like lifeless marble sculptures. Aeric was taken aback by the bizarre sight.
He quickly drew his father’s sword, Scaesbolg, from its scabbard. Dameus lifted his gaze for a brief moment to stare at the miraculous shimmer of silver-edged steel in Aeric’s hand. The saber caught and reflected a profound version of light, no stains of fingerprints or scratches hinting on its beautiful stem of metal. Dameus sniffed, his nostrils flaring, and turned his gaze away. It was too fanciful for him. Besides, Dameus’ sword looked better—slightly.
The whole wall of Gortek’s knights bent on one knee in unison, each out thrusting a lance. They were prepared to eliminate the onslaught, which haunted Dameus to a profound degree.
Aeric braced himself, raising his sword above his head, his right hand clutching tightly on Thelmiscis’ reins. He shouted and Dameus bit his lips, carefully aiming with his crossbow at the warrior directly across from him.
It was a quick jolt, as if lightning had struck every finger in Dameus’ body. He heard faint noises all around him; time was once again slowing to a stop.
Horse collided with spear and hoof struck helmet on all sides, but before Thelmiscis herself could be caught off guard, he shot a bolt shaft from his crossbow and pierced his anticipated target in the forehead.
This was a clean and worthless shot, for as soon as the dead corpse rolled to its side, the soldier from behind took its place—reforming the wall of spears.
This meant the enemy wall couldn’t be broken. Dameus clenched his fist and cursed in a whisper of air, but from behind him he heard Aeric’s laugh, as if his mistake was mere entertainment.
“Don’t worry,” Aeric smiled and spoke between puffs of amusement “I already had something in mind.”
Aeric patted Thelmiscis twice on her rump and she gave a equine grunt, flexing the muscles in her hind legs and taking a brief pause of motion, then in a forceful effort released the energy in a massive leap. Dameus shouted, now almost squeezing Aeric’s stomach in a death grip while trying to hold on. He was unable to keep his thoughts steady while the dark fleet shrunk in size below them.
Both of them were in the air!! Dameus had no idea that Aeric’s horse was strong enough to send them soaring up this high—twenty, thirty, maybe even forty feet above ground! Aeric readied his sword and made a quick swing with his right hand, sending a tidal wave of power to clear a circle of plain earth. Warriors below were shoved outwards from the space they originally occupied, and a tiny hole was made for Aeric to land Thelmiscis without unwanted pomp under her hooves.
Both he and Dameus braced themselves as impact was made against the tough soil. Dameus was in a daze, his wassail and apple dinner bouncing up and down inside of him so much that he felt he might regurgitate willingly. Dameus shook off the notion of his stomach and lifted his crossbow, taking aim.
There were several of them, all surrounding him and Aeric in a circle that expanded into a mass of armor and flesh. How could Aeric stay so positive? They were outnumbered!
Aeric twirled Scaesbolg in his hand, waiting to see if the enemy would attempt a lead assault on the two. Of course, they did.
The knights on both sides of Dameus were ready to make battle, honing their lances upward and steadily pacing forward. They would attempt to spear Dameus first, given he was obviously the weakest.
The soldier on his right was the most muscular, wielding a halberd in both hands and staring Dameus down. His head was as high as Dameus’ shoulder, so when the giant warrior lifted his weapon, Dameus expected the match to end all too quickly—but he would not go without a worthy fight.
He bared his teeth and blindly pointed his crossbow to the halberdier, releasing the trigger—which missed his target—and opened his mouth to holler.
Fear overwhelmed his thoughts, making what should have come out as “They’re after me first!” instead sound like “Aeric! Help!”
Aeric responded before Dameus had time to wince, a quick jolt of motion blurred in front of Dameus and the warrior’s spearhead disconnected from the shaft, dropping harmlessly to the ground. Aeric, keeping a steady tempo, thrust his left hand outward at the knight on the opposite end of Dameus and sent a rush of relentless force to tumble the knight over in a daze.
Dameus, however, was still in trouble. The halberdier, as if he expected the pole to be separated from its spearhead, readied the pole to bludgeon Dameus. Dameus gasped and reached for a dagger, simultaneously out raising his right hand to catch the man’s spear—which took more force than Dameus expected.
The warrior eyes bulged in a furious rage, but he was soon dealt to the forehead by the dagger enclosed in Dameus’ fist. The man, without even a howl of battle, collapsed in a heap.
Dameus smiled and felt a triumphant glow shape around him—he had slain a man twice his size, but the glow faded as he realized he was still surrounded by legions of men, and the peripheral circle of sprawled knights were beginning to reform as one knight after another stood and out-thrust his spear.
Dameus shivered while hurriedly loading another bolt in his crossbow. There were so many of them, how could he and Aeric possibly put on a worthy fight and win?
“Aeric, are you sure we can take them?” Dameus asked.
“Of course I can,” Aeric’s voice blew like a trumpet. He then paused and blinked, reconsidering his words, and quickly rephrased his statement.
“I mean, yes; we can.” he spoke definitively and cracked a slanted smile.
The fight was constant. However many men Aeric felled with his saber, ten more would emerge from the crowd of soldiers, each with outraised spears in hand.
Dameus made his effort worthy, occasionally pelting them with barrages of needle-sharp arrows. He was mostly useful, though Aeric kept a steady rhythmic tempo with his bloodied sword. Dameus, however, was closely observing Aeric’s ability. It was quite interesting, the ability to move things without a touch.
Aeric was a fantastic magician in his own way, occasionally hurling wide talons of fire at a squad of soldiers or throwing his combatant off balance with a yank of a finger.
Dameus was confused why Aeric didn’t toss them all to the ground in a heap and snap their necks with this power, which would have ended the entire battle in a flip.
However, Dameus imagined Aeric would have some sort of logical explanation to why he didn’t.
He was always so outlandish, jaunting lordily about with a rich air permeating around him; never taking questions or suggestions to mind, seldom paying attention even to what was in front of his nose, and always stepping on people’s feet to their displeasure.
Dameus grumbled and bit his tongue when he remembered this fault in Aeric. It was very bothersome, prompting him to sour up and heave a regretful sigh.
But Aeric was still his friend, and Dameus was grateful for this. Everyone had their faults, Dameus concluded, and even when Aeric shouted curses at Dameus or disregarded him for being human, Dameus still called him a close companion. Pleased to have resolved his conflict, he returned all attention to marvel Aeric’s technique.
Aeric squinted and bit his tongue. It was heartless, he thought, to cut and shred his way through war. His father told him often to fight with a heart rather than a sword. Aeric found that an impossible feat, but he meaningfully tried. Maybe he could stun them, disarm them, something useful rather than a jab or sever..
From behind, Aeric heard Dameus warn of an oncoming wave.
Dameus was right. The wall of men ahead was shifting. New, more distinct armored men marched forward at the drum of a heartbeat.
Aeric had a plan. He smiled and cocked his head to the side, carefully taking aim as he slid two fingers over Scaesbolg’s blade. A shimmer of sparks followed his hand, which made Dameus blink in surprise. Aeric’s eyes were steady, watching carefully while another squad of knights marched forward. Aeric was ready, and a flicker of light shot from his hand into the edge of the sword, as if energy was condensing itself in the sword’s steel. Dameus couldn’t understand what Aeric muttered next, but whatever it was it didn’t halt the trampling soldiers.
“This sword was named the Thunderblade.” The prince muttered warmly and beamed a heavy smile. “It has the uncanny ability of lightning.”
Curious, Dameus leaned in with anticipation, but was then startled.
“Cover your eyes, Dameus!”
Aeric flexed his sword arm backwards, yelling something in his foreign language, and slung his arm forward—pointing the saber towards the knights.
The blade fluttered a cautious hue and released a brilliant cluster of radiant light, which startled Dameus. A booming explosion of thunder tore across the sky. The light blinded the soldiers just as intended. Aeric muttered quickly to Dameus, “Now! Shoot them now!”
Dameus jolted, he was so interested in watching that when Aeric addressed Dameus to shoot the vulnerable men, Dameus quaked with astonishment—sending his crossbow tumbling out of his hand.
Aeric made a bemused grunt and slapped Dameus across the face.
“Pay attention.” Was all he said before he returned his gaze forward, rearing Thelmiscis on her front hooves to cripple the bodies.
Dameus was stunned and lifted his left hand to his cheek, feeling a sharp, stifling sting—he traced the exact outline of Aeric’s hand, and a tear fell from his eye. Dameus was ashamed. Aeric was better at everything—ten times better than he was.
“I’m sorry, Aeric.”
“Quiet yourself, we need to find Aaron and Umbra.” Aeric snorted, steam funneling in his breath. He lashed Thelmiscis’ reigns and she bolted forward into the ebon crowd.
“Aeric,” Dameus all of a sudden realized, “my crossbow—I need it!”
Aeric, absently annoyed, nodded harshly behind his back, and Dameus saw the crossbow lying snug in between both legs. His cheeks flushed a warm radiant red with utter embarrassment. He hadn’t notice his crossbow lying there, making a fool of himself to Aeric yet again. Moments later, he decided it best to stay quiet for the time being in an effort to avoid further harassment.
Leading the way with tremendous sword in hand, slashing every body that was before him with Scaesbolg’s piercing edge, Aeric continued his search for Umbra. The Lich was still nowhere to be seen, which tempered Aeric’s nerves to a hot boil and made his forehead feverish and sweaty. Where is that murderer!
Aeric could only hope Aaron was still alive, though he did acknowledge the fight of ten men in Aaron’s heart. He trusted that Aaron would keep fighting. They called him the King of Lions, anyway—that probably meant he had nine lives.
Uninterested in the current fight, Dameus decided to turn his gaze at how many men were still holding up the Fabrith front. He twisted his back and neck to see what was possible in the masquerade of war.There were large blobs of the Fabrith cobalt blue that Dameus could see, though since he was in the midst of the Gortek army, the blobs were scaled down by colossal waves of dense black, and the black—though in best hopes mostly equal to what was the Fabrith force—undeniably outnumbered the cobalt blue from Dameus’ perspective of vision.
Dameus returned his focus to his brigade on horseback. He noticed Aeric was sweating—though it didn’t seem sweat from hard work, but nervous sweat.
Cold sweat.
Aeric was worried, Dameus realized.
“Dameus, help me find Aaron or Umbra.” Aeric said with a fried tone of voice.
Dameus gave no answer. Puzzled, Aeric repeated his sentence. Silence again.
Aeric careened his neck and looked at Dameus, who was intently focused on a distant point towards the west. Immediately, Aeric turned his gaze to find where Dameus was staring.
Aaron was nearby; Aeric noticed the black brush of his helmet towering just above the height of the lifeless gray soldiers. The Fabrith Armada was still holding a stand, as well as its robust king.
Empty space began to open within the black sea of armor, allowing Aeric more room to slither through, attempting to reach Aaron.
“Dameus!” Aeric shouted in an enraged voice, “why didn’t you tell me you had found Aaron? I just told you he—“
Dameus raised his hand to halt Aeric’s words.
“Aeric, I wasn’t looking at Aaron. I’m trying to find where it is he’s looking at.”
Aeric was silent, confused. “What is it you see?”
The roar of Fabrith warriors began to diminish and hush. More and more were beginning to see what it was that only King Aaron had noticed.
“What are they…” Dameus trailed off.
Aeric, puzzled, saw that they were all staring at the sky—so he turned his vision towards the west and saw large blots of ink-black in the churning skies. Aeric, troubled because he couldn’t see them so clear due to distance, increased his range of sight with his natural ability.
From far away, the sound of war horns with the most unusual polyphony of tone splintered across the sky. The black dots were traveling from a mile away, skyward, towards the battle.
In the sky, Aeric realized, were squadrons of man-mounted wyverns bringing an ominous black wind. Aeric had never seen a wyvern before; he had heard them referred to as the Lions of the Sky once, it was Centis who told him of this.
The wyverns looked nowhere near pleasant or noble with their glinting black scales, or at least not as noble as the dragons Aeric remembered from when he was a young child, but each of the wyvern’s shrieks followed soon after the war horns—creating a horrible clamor of noise that made every man, or at least every man in the Fabrith Armada, raise their hands to their ears and wince.
Aeric however did not. He was determined.
Wyverns, he thought, couldn’t be much different than dragons—they were missing two front feet, anyway—though that made them exceedingly quick. He could handle them. He was quicker than any human; therefore he was sure this meant he was quicker than any mindless animal—especially an animal missing two legs.
Finally, having taken longer than Aeric expected, Thelmiscis managed to relinquish their duo from the gravity of the massive Gortek army. Aeric gave her a quick fervent pat on the neck, rubbing it softly. He was scanning the horizon for signs of Aaron, and eventually he saw a large figure mounted on Garzol stride out from the mass of knights. Aaron was entirely unharmed—though dents and scratches embellished his shield and helmet. His lance, dripping with claret blood, was nearly in two and holding itself together with mere splinters.
Aaron made visual contact with Aeric, and the two quickly rode towards each other. It was Aeric who first gestured a greeting, and Aaron followed suit.
“Aeric,” Aaron shouted from ten feet away with his low, mountainous voice. “They summoned men on large black beasts; they are airborne—arriving fast and swift. Should we hold our formations or retreat battle?”—Aaron was hesitant to say the word ‘retreat’.
Aeric shook his head.
“Never retreat, my good King Aaron. We have enough men to fight, thus we should keep fighting. I assure you, we can claim victory.”
Aaron nodded and gestured the answer to a patient captain on the other end of the field. Aeric was caught off guard as something in either a hurry or a sour mood clenched his shoulder vigorously and yanked him backwards.
“Watch out!”—it was Dameus.
Dameus tugged, but it was too late. A black arrow shaft steered its way into Aeric’s left lung, stabbing straight through his bosom, and launched him off of the saddle.
This startled the horse, so she began to rear and shriek. Dameus was stunned; he realized that the arrow would have missed Aeric if only Dameus hadn’t pulled him backwards.
Dameus heard something whizz past his ear, another arrow. Dameus turned around and saw that it indeed was a shafted missile—now embedded in Aaron’s knee.
Aaron blasted air through his lungs in an effort to shout, but was struck in the left shoulder by another dense black shaft, sending him sprawling backwards.
Dameus panicked; Aeric and Aaron were both injured on the ground, wounded terribly, and he had no shield to deflect unexpected missiles from the gloomy air.
He soon realized he was mounted on a fretting, almightily angered horse. He hastily clamped his hands on Thelmiscis’ reigns. She was berserk, caught off guard by the sudden flurry of surprise, and he was helpless while thrown and pawned about in her destructive tantrum.
However tightly he secured the reigns, Thelmiscis was still overpowering, causing him to sway violently like a branch in the wind. For a moment his feet were entirely airborne, the reigns his only means of security. Then, with a loud crack! , the reigns snapped and he was launched through the moist air, another arrow humming by—this time past his neck.
He winced while he braced for impact and made stone-splitting contact with a large extruding rock in the soil, sending him volleying sideways in a convulsion of bruises and scratches.
Every muscle in his body ached; pulses of blood in his heartbeat felt like molten iron sent coasting through his veins. His vision was vague, and he felt there was an absence of air in his lungs. He felt miserable.
In an effort to breathe, Dameus rolled onto his side and opened his throat.
Cool wind filled the vast emptiness inside of him. This told him he was making progress, so he began conducting his thoughts on other means.
He knew that Aeric must be downed somewhere nearby, or worse, but hopefully not—dead. Haste was the only priority, and so he proceeded—trying to lift himself onto his feet. When he finally managed to stand on both legs without passing out, he quickly began glancing for Aeric’s body.
There was a silhouetted figure collapsed about twenty feet from Dameus, but it was too bulky to be Aeric. It must have been Aaron, and there was already a clearer image of someone aiding him.
Aaron was taken care of. Aeric was next.
Dameus squinted, again searching, and spotted Aeric.
The wounded prince was sprawled three yards away. Dameus bolted towards him and knelt, examining Aeric’s state. It was pitiful; the first Dameus ever saw Aeric in a crippled state like this. The prince was wincing silently in pain, trying to sit up, but it was near impossible with the arrow protruding through his chest. He made an almost unnoticeable noise; Dameus thought it was a whimper.
“Aeric, are you there? Are you alright?” Dameus asked, checking Aeric’s pulse and wiping the sweat off of the prince’s forehead.
Aeric nodded his head, a tremor moving shakily through his limbs, and he opened his crystal-blue eyes.
Dameus couldn’t help but notice a scarlet stain of blood in Aeric’s bronze hair. Maybe he had hit his head when he was launched to the ground by the arrow.
“Aeric—can you talk?” Dameus fretfully asked.
Aeric slowly grunted as Dameus helped lift his torso into a raised position.
“Dameus,” Aeric panted, “why in the world did you pull me near the arrow? Give me some time while you explain yourself!”
Dameus quickly nodded. Aeric expanded his chest to fill it with air, and he gave a heavy sob from the ache in his lungs.
“I need you to pull the arrow out quickly so I can heal the wound… but that will be difficult while we’re fighting, so keep an eye out—will you?” he said.
Dameus nodded half-heartedly, trying to process the entire situation. He might be the reason his friend died, if that were to happen. The war had succeeded in frightening him.
“Aeric, what if they surround us? What am I going to do?” Dameus was thinking of all the unfortunate possibilities that might ruin Aeric’s recovery. The prince gave an amused chuckle and patted Dameus’ shoulder.
“Don’t worry about that now, I might be hurt but I’m not dead. You’re a good fighter anyway,” Aeric tried at amusement, “and you have a tremendous amount of luck that I find almost impossible to exist in such a clumsy human like you.” He then faked a faint smile.
A stiff laugh was dragged out of Dameus’ lungs; however, he couldn’t produce a smile. “I’m sorry,” a silent tear slid down his cheek “it’s my fault—,” he lowered his head ashamedly, and a flood of misery ran over him, “I didn’t mean too, Aeric. I always make stupid mistakes, I always mess up, I always get in your way.”
Aeric attempted to break in, but Dameus shook his head and reduced to the ground, speaking in hiccups.
“I am a terrible excuse for a friend. You’re better than me in every way. Forgive me. I’m sorry for ruining everything. Please forgi—”
A sudden calm washed over Dameus, a warm hand closing around his fist. Trembling, he looked up into Aeric’s eyes, and for the first time, Aeric was crying.
“Dameus, you only tried to help,” he whispered. “Don’t apologize.”
Dameus would have smiled, but was too stunned by hearing those words escape from Aeric’s mouth.
Aeric waited to see if Dameus would respond, but there was nothing but a depressive silence. Giving a heavy sigh, Aeric continued.
“Dameus, I treat you horribly.” Aeric mumbled as he snapped the protruding shaft of the arrow and flinched.
“It’s because I am jealous, that’s why…” he briefly paused and thoughtfully raked the soft ground with his fingernails, “when I make a fool of myself, I take the toll out on you.”
Both were silent with grief. Dameus snuffed, his puffy nose glowing a rosy hue and Aeric’s frown swelling into a violent sob.
The prince had reduced himself to as miniature a dirty grain as Dameus was, and spoke with a gentle smile.
“You just tried to save me, and after how I’ve treated you…” Aeric barely dipped his head below his shoulders, wiping his wet face, and returned to look straight into Dameus’ glass green eyes.
“I… want you to forgive me.” Aeric tightened his hand over Dameus’ fist.
They were silent. A chilling wind swept over the two, cloaking them in cold.
“Aeric…” Dameus sullenly bent his head down in a loss for words, but then lurched forward and wound his arms around Aeric’s shoulders, burying his wet face in Aeric’s neck. The prince was startled, but gladly completed the embrace.
For the first time since they had met in Mortega, a quiet knowledge spread through them as both the scampish rogue and princely warrior knew that no matter the wall of difference between the two, they would always be friends.
A crackling bang of thunder exploded above the battlefield, and as Dameus predicted—the torrent had begun. Rain was his favorite type of weather. He laughed, a new thought entering his head.
“Aeric, we’re just like brothers. We fight, but we’re still friends.” He said.
Aeric laughed and thumped Dameus on the back, “Well, of course we are.”
The two released their warm hold on the other, comforted by their friendship, and watchfully turned their heads to observe the battlefield. Dark night was approaching, and helping the night was the shadow of the storm looming overhead.
Dameus analyzed the battlefield. Neither army was prevailing.
“Night is falling quick. Do you suggest we return to the fort and go—“ Dameus was cut short by a troubled Aeric.
“Something’s wrong. It’s raining. We can’t make fire in rain.” Aeric stated quite dramatically.
Well, of course it was raining. Nothing could be wrong about that, Dameus thought.
“Why would we need fire? Can’t you light up the air with your magic?”
“It’s not that we won’t be able to see, but we need fire to kill—“
Aeric ceased his words.
Dameus waited for further elaboration, but the prince did not answer. Curious, Dameus turned and saw Aeric’s eyes were no longer focused on the eerie skies; rather they were largely fixated behind Dameus. Aeric’s eyes were terrified.
“Look out!” he shouted.
Dameus reacted quickly and retrieved his time-worn sword from it’s sheathe—keeping a steady eye as he watched for whatever was the alarm.
“What, what’s wro—“
Before Dameus finished his question, Aeric shoved Dameus away with a tremendous thrust of his palm, sending Dameus soaring.
Once again, Dameus relayed through the air and felt the wind escape his lungs. Strange. He thought he heard a metallic noise swing right next to his ear.
Dameus made contact with the ground and rolled over onto his side, dazedly in confusion. The sword that he clenched in his hand was gone. It had landed near a rueful Thelmiscis—a good ten feet away, useless. Dameus swore loudly and tried to catch his breath. He was thinking, unsure if it was wise to find out what Aeric must have seen to react in such a manner.
Dameus slowly lifted himself onto his feet and cautiously backed away, the flurry of rain now in a pouring rage—bitterly cold. A shock passed through him as he raised his head.
There across from Aeric mounted on a dense, broad stallion with coal-black eyes was a cruel and grotesque figure—inky lines of webbed hair tousled around his throbbing yellow eyes, black brigandine bound itself together over his shivering bone-white skin, and gripped in his right fist—which he clenched so hard that his gnarled hands were even paler than his milky flesh—was a long and stout razor-edged sword.
The thick black horse vaunted noisily, wisps of steam rising steadily from its nostrils, and the cruel figure of Gortek’s dead angel upraised his weapon.
“Dameus! Run!” Aeric shouted as Umbra lashed his black mount and began to charge.
Both massive armies were positioned on either side of Fortosa’s formless landscape, each legion uniformed in distinct sable shrouds of protective clothing; the lurid obsidian-black of Gortek’s flag and the broad, deep, brave cerulean blue of Fabrith’s insignia.
Dameus was submerged in thought, his eyes darting in search of the Wolf Lich. He cautiously stared at the endless dense-black sea of lancets and shields; each wielded by rather ghoulish specters of men, which horrified Dameus; they resembled a congregated frenzy of beetle-like soldiers with wide, beady, misshapen black eyes and broadly carved figures—each was heavily encased in glossy uneven shells of enameled black steel, then shrouded in dense-hued shawls ornately trimmed with silver thread. Fabrith was only a dash of blue and iron cuirass.
The empire was widespread, a deep opaque sea of men—it might have been ten-thousand, maybe twenty or more—Dameus had never been taught to count. It was an acrid sight. The image primed Dameus to imagine their captain, the Emperor’s ambassador; he noticed his heart refrained beating when he recalled the pontifex’s name—Count Umbra. Dameus imagined the Pontifex was erupted in laughter at the flank end of the field while avoiding watchful eyes.
A sour taste flooded Dameus in the mouth and he shut his eyes closed, his stomach churning in disgust while trying to imagine Umbra’s brutal torture dealt to captives.
Umbra—it was such a dark air to a title, he thought; as if when the very name “Umbra” was spoken, the earth’s mountains scattered to hide and the rivers wove backwards in a fretful escape.
Dameus in his time spent with Fabrith’s military heard many nostalgic claims about the Gortek Pontifex, more fearsomely known as the Wolf Lich.
Umbra was said to be immortal, born somewhere around the ghost town of Nalàugh. Some foreigners claimed he was the son of a wolf, making him beastly and ornately instinctive. A select few said he was the spawn of an angel and a venomous demon, and less than a handful ever claimed he was the surviving offspring of the King of Crows himself; but the most terrifying, most feared rumor that was ever spoken claimed he was a Lich.
Some believe that long ago he was murdered by King Sarmad, around the period of unrecorded history where some say Sarmad practiced the arcane art of necromancy. If this was true, Umbra would be neither dead nor alive—in between; a black phantom. He would be immune to pain, he would be masterful after his vicious years of swordsmanship, and he would be his own empire in the embodiment of an individual man.
A dead angel of war.
“Aeric, how do you kill a Lich?” Dameus’ voice trembled. There was no response. The princely warrior was too exhibited on his task that he paid no attention to Dameus or the armada behind him.
Sighing heavily, Dameus disregarded his friend. A few words at the least might have given him encouragement to fight, but Dameus abandoned hope and decided to accept tragedy. Dulled by his loss of morale, he looked in the sky and was enthralled by the sinister view around him.
Looming vast overhead was a colossal wall of twisting and lurching black clouds, waning and condensing in cyclones of inky-black plumes. The gigantic amassment towered over both armies and dwarfed all other things that would have been called gargantuan.
This tempest was surely the grandest Dameus had ever seen. Every cloud seemed to be burdened with an immense load of wash from the western ocean, reassuring it would be less than a few clock turns until the battlefield was swept into a squalling torrent.
Shivering green chords of lightning descended like God’s judgment and shook tremendously with terrific beauty, falling and assembling in all unpredictable directions. An omen rode with the wind, carrying the salty smell of iron and sweat which filled Dameus’ nose without welcome.
Dameus swallowed and wiped his forehead. A violent history today would be made, he thought. It was interesting how time slowed in his mind, the moment creating it’s own unoccupied space, with no texture—no temperature, no scent or taste in the hot air; only the foretoken of calamity before him, and as man after man shouted and barked and bellowed aloud, Dameus felt them fade and disappear from his attention one by one—all he noticed was the inside of his heart where existed an awesome and terrible feeling, a quiet notion that he would be galloped off to death when Aeric’s powerful pearl-white steed would make her way, sending them on a quest bound for death way into the black horizon.
With the roar of a lion, King Aaron thrust his lance into the air and sent his horse thundering toward the ebon sea of flesh and steel on the horizon. Aeric, keeping his attention focused on Aaron’s lead, gave a quick “Hya!” and began Thelmiscis at a rampageous speed.
It took no time until their roars, the cries of the Fabrith Armada, arrived clarion in the desolate wind, rusted and loud with iron throats. Dameus’ concentration all of a sudden quavered and he felt his senses return with a crushing wall of feeling.
The air was hot and sticky, stenches of sweat and rustled skin permeated his nose.
He whimpered, trying not to stare at the black ocean of Gortek’s empire ahead—unable to recall why he was even there. How was he drawn into such a fight? All he could remember was stealing fruit and money, not lifting a sword and slaying legions of men. It was because of Aeric, he concluded, but even now Aeric was in front of him encased in armor—and they were both trapped in the vanguard force, the leading wave of the armada.
The war had nearly begun, and only anticipation was beating through every heart. The world that once contained an entire continent was now reduced to a single struggle of skirmish, a dark and blood-red world where Dameus felt miniature, reduced to a mere grain of dirt.
He winced as the cape on Aeric’s back flapped in his vision, slapping him gently as the soft drum of horse feet made its way. It would be a while until they arrived at the Empire’s front, so Aeric preserved his energy. All of his secondary thoughts were put aside.
His only intent was to locate and hunt down Umbra. He knew Aaron would be searching too, and so Aeric’s ears were perked slightly higher than their usual level, ready to jerk when Aaron said “There!”
The amassment of Gortek knights began to separate into more distinguished statues of recognizable human soldiers, each nearing faster than Aeric anticipated. He cut short his search for Umbra and let the grotesque image of their pale faces and hardened gray skin settle grimly in his mind.
What once resembled a beetle in their insectival figures now looked more like ghostly manifestations with blank, formless-faced emotions. They reflected no shades of fear or courage, not even a variety of grins or sobs; only chiseled and rough-edged expressions like lifeless marble sculptures. Aeric was taken aback by the bizarre sight.
He quickly drew his father’s sword, Scaesbolg, from its scabbard. Dameus lifted his gaze for a brief moment to stare at the miraculous shimmer of silver-edged steel in Aeric’s hand. The saber caught and reflected a profound version of light, no stains of fingerprints or scratches hinting on its beautiful stem of metal. Dameus sniffed, his nostrils flaring, and turned his gaze away. It was too fanciful for him. Besides, Dameus’ sword looked better—slightly.
The whole wall of Gortek’s knights bent on one knee in unison, each out thrusting a lance. They were prepared to eliminate the onslaught, which haunted Dameus to a profound degree.
Aeric braced himself, raising his sword above his head, his right hand clutching tightly on Thelmiscis’ reins. He shouted and Dameus bit his lips, carefully aiming with his crossbow at the warrior directly across from him.
It was a quick jolt, as if lightning had struck every finger in Dameus’ body. He heard faint noises all around him; time was once again slowing to a stop.
Horse collided with spear and hoof struck helmet on all sides, but before Thelmiscis herself could be caught off guard, he shot a bolt shaft from his crossbow and pierced his anticipated target in the forehead.
This was a clean and worthless shot, for as soon as the dead corpse rolled to its side, the soldier from behind took its place—reforming the wall of spears.
This meant the enemy wall couldn’t be broken. Dameus clenched his fist and cursed in a whisper of air, but from behind him he heard Aeric’s laugh, as if his mistake was mere entertainment.
“Don’t worry,” Aeric smiled and spoke between puffs of amusement “I already had something in mind.”
Aeric patted Thelmiscis twice on her rump and she gave a equine grunt, flexing the muscles in her hind legs and taking a brief pause of motion, then in a forceful effort released the energy in a massive leap. Dameus shouted, now almost squeezing Aeric’s stomach in a death grip while trying to hold on. He was unable to keep his thoughts steady while the dark fleet shrunk in size below them.
Both of them were in the air!! Dameus had no idea that Aeric’s horse was strong enough to send them soaring up this high—twenty, thirty, maybe even forty feet above ground! Aeric readied his sword and made a quick swing with his right hand, sending a tidal wave of power to clear a circle of plain earth. Warriors below were shoved outwards from the space they originally occupied, and a tiny hole was made for Aeric to land Thelmiscis without unwanted pomp under her hooves.
Both he and Dameus braced themselves as impact was made against the tough soil. Dameus was in a daze, his wassail and apple dinner bouncing up and down inside of him so much that he felt he might regurgitate willingly. Dameus shook off the notion of his stomach and lifted his crossbow, taking aim.
There were several of them, all surrounding him and Aeric in a circle that expanded into a mass of armor and flesh. How could Aeric stay so positive? They were outnumbered!
Aeric twirled Scaesbolg in his hand, waiting to see if the enemy would attempt a lead assault on the two. Of course, they did.
The knights on both sides of Dameus were ready to make battle, honing their lances upward and steadily pacing forward. They would attempt to spear Dameus first, given he was obviously the weakest.
The soldier on his right was the most muscular, wielding a halberd in both hands and staring Dameus down. His head was as high as Dameus’ shoulder, so when the giant warrior lifted his weapon, Dameus expected the match to end all too quickly—but he would not go without a worthy fight.
He bared his teeth and blindly pointed his crossbow to the halberdier, releasing the trigger—which missed his target—and opened his mouth to holler.
Fear overwhelmed his thoughts, making what should have come out as “They’re after me first!” instead sound like “Aeric! Help!”
Aeric responded before Dameus had time to wince, a quick jolt of motion blurred in front of Dameus and the warrior’s spearhead disconnected from the shaft, dropping harmlessly to the ground. Aeric, keeping a steady tempo, thrust his left hand outward at the knight on the opposite end of Dameus and sent a rush of relentless force to tumble the knight over in a daze.
Dameus, however, was still in trouble. The halberdier, as if he expected the pole to be separated from its spearhead, readied the pole to bludgeon Dameus. Dameus gasped and reached for a dagger, simultaneously out raising his right hand to catch the man’s spear—which took more force than Dameus expected.
The warrior eyes bulged in a furious rage, but he was soon dealt to the forehead by the dagger enclosed in Dameus’ fist. The man, without even a howl of battle, collapsed in a heap.
Dameus smiled and felt a triumphant glow shape around him—he had slain a man twice his size, but the glow faded as he realized he was still surrounded by legions of men, and the peripheral circle of sprawled knights were beginning to reform as one knight after another stood and out-thrust his spear.
Dameus shivered while hurriedly loading another bolt in his crossbow. There were so many of them, how could he and Aeric possibly put on a worthy fight and win?
“Aeric, are you sure we can take them?” Dameus asked.
“Of course I can,” Aeric’s voice blew like a trumpet. He then paused and blinked, reconsidering his words, and quickly rephrased his statement.
“I mean, yes; we can.” he spoke definitively and cracked a slanted smile.
The fight was constant. However many men Aeric felled with his saber, ten more would emerge from the crowd of soldiers, each with outraised spears in hand.
Dameus made his effort worthy, occasionally pelting them with barrages of needle-sharp arrows. He was mostly useful, though Aeric kept a steady rhythmic tempo with his bloodied sword. Dameus, however, was closely observing Aeric’s ability. It was quite interesting, the ability to move things without a touch.
Aeric was a fantastic magician in his own way, occasionally hurling wide talons of fire at a squad of soldiers or throwing his combatant off balance with a yank of a finger.
Dameus was confused why Aeric didn’t toss them all to the ground in a heap and snap their necks with this power, which would have ended the entire battle in a flip.
However, Dameus imagined Aeric would have some sort of logical explanation to why he didn’t.
He was always so outlandish, jaunting lordily about with a rich air permeating around him; never taking questions or suggestions to mind, seldom paying attention even to what was in front of his nose, and always stepping on people’s feet to their displeasure.
Dameus grumbled and bit his tongue when he remembered this fault in Aeric. It was very bothersome, prompting him to sour up and heave a regretful sigh.
But Aeric was still his friend, and Dameus was grateful for this. Everyone had their faults, Dameus concluded, and even when Aeric shouted curses at Dameus or disregarded him for being human, Dameus still called him a close companion. Pleased to have resolved his conflict, he returned all attention to marvel Aeric’s technique.
Aeric squinted and bit his tongue. It was heartless, he thought, to cut and shred his way through war. His father told him often to fight with a heart rather than a sword. Aeric found that an impossible feat, but he meaningfully tried. Maybe he could stun them, disarm them, something useful rather than a jab or sever..
From behind, Aeric heard Dameus warn of an oncoming wave.
Dameus was right. The wall of men ahead was shifting. New, more distinct armored men marched forward at the drum of a heartbeat.
Aeric had a plan. He smiled and cocked his head to the side, carefully taking aim as he slid two fingers over Scaesbolg’s blade. A shimmer of sparks followed his hand, which made Dameus blink in surprise. Aeric’s eyes were steady, watching carefully while another squad of knights marched forward. Aeric was ready, and a flicker of light shot from his hand into the edge of the sword, as if energy was condensing itself in the sword’s steel. Dameus couldn’t understand what Aeric muttered next, but whatever it was it didn’t halt the trampling soldiers.
“This sword was named the Thunderblade.” The prince muttered warmly and beamed a heavy smile. “It has the uncanny ability of lightning.”
Curious, Dameus leaned in with anticipation, but was then startled.
“Cover your eyes, Dameus!”
Aeric flexed his sword arm backwards, yelling something in his foreign language, and slung his arm forward—pointing the saber towards the knights.
The blade fluttered a cautious hue and released a brilliant cluster of radiant light, which startled Dameus. A booming explosion of thunder tore across the sky. The light blinded the soldiers just as intended. Aeric muttered quickly to Dameus, “Now! Shoot them now!”
Dameus jolted, he was so interested in watching that when Aeric addressed Dameus to shoot the vulnerable men, Dameus quaked with astonishment—sending his crossbow tumbling out of his hand.
Aeric made a bemused grunt and slapped Dameus across the face.
“Pay attention.” Was all he said before he returned his gaze forward, rearing Thelmiscis on her front hooves to cripple the bodies.
Dameus was stunned and lifted his left hand to his cheek, feeling a sharp, stifling sting—he traced the exact outline of Aeric’s hand, and a tear fell from his eye. Dameus was ashamed. Aeric was better at everything—ten times better than he was.
“I’m sorry, Aeric.”
“Quiet yourself, we need to find Aaron and Umbra.” Aeric snorted, steam funneling in his breath. He lashed Thelmiscis’ reigns and she bolted forward into the ebon crowd.
“Aeric,” Dameus all of a sudden realized, “my crossbow—I need it!”
Aeric, absently annoyed, nodded harshly behind his back, and Dameus saw the crossbow lying snug in between both legs. His cheeks flushed a warm radiant red with utter embarrassment. He hadn’t notice his crossbow lying there, making a fool of himself to Aeric yet again. Moments later, he decided it best to stay quiet for the time being in an effort to avoid further harassment.
Leading the way with tremendous sword in hand, slashing every body that was before him with Scaesbolg’s piercing edge, Aeric continued his search for Umbra. The Lich was still nowhere to be seen, which tempered Aeric’s nerves to a hot boil and made his forehead feverish and sweaty. Where is that murderer!
Aeric could only hope Aaron was still alive, though he did acknowledge the fight of ten men in Aaron’s heart. He trusted that Aaron would keep fighting. They called him the King of Lions, anyway—that probably meant he had nine lives.
Uninterested in the current fight, Dameus decided to turn his gaze at how many men were still holding up the Fabrith front. He twisted his back and neck to see what was possible in the masquerade of war.There were large blobs of the Fabrith cobalt blue that Dameus could see, though since he was in the midst of the Gortek army, the blobs were scaled down by colossal waves of dense black, and the black—though in best hopes mostly equal to what was the Fabrith force—undeniably outnumbered the cobalt blue from Dameus’ perspective of vision.
Dameus returned his focus to his brigade on horseback. He noticed Aeric was sweating—though it didn’t seem sweat from hard work, but nervous sweat.
Cold sweat.
Aeric was worried, Dameus realized.
“Dameus, help me find Aaron or Umbra.” Aeric said with a fried tone of voice.
Dameus gave no answer. Puzzled, Aeric repeated his sentence. Silence again.
Aeric careened his neck and looked at Dameus, who was intently focused on a distant point towards the west. Immediately, Aeric turned his gaze to find where Dameus was staring.
Aaron was nearby; Aeric noticed the black brush of his helmet towering just above the height of the lifeless gray soldiers. The Fabrith Armada was still holding a stand, as well as its robust king.
Empty space began to open within the black sea of armor, allowing Aeric more room to slither through, attempting to reach Aaron.
“Dameus!” Aeric shouted in an enraged voice, “why didn’t you tell me you had found Aaron? I just told you he—“
Dameus raised his hand to halt Aeric’s words.
“Aeric, I wasn’t looking at Aaron. I’m trying to find where it is he’s looking at.”
Aeric was silent, confused. “What is it you see?”
The roar of Fabrith warriors began to diminish and hush. More and more were beginning to see what it was that only King Aaron had noticed.
“What are they…” Dameus trailed off.
Aeric, puzzled, saw that they were all staring at the sky—so he turned his vision towards the west and saw large blots of ink-black in the churning skies. Aeric, troubled because he couldn’t see them so clear due to distance, increased his range of sight with his natural ability.
From far away, the sound of war horns with the most unusual polyphony of tone splintered across the sky. The black dots were traveling from a mile away, skyward, towards the battle.
In the sky, Aeric realized, were squadrons of man-mounted wyverns bringing an ominous black wind. Aeric had never seen a wyvern before; he had heard them referred to as the Lions of the Sky once, it was Centis who told him of this.
The wyverns looked nowhere near pleasant or noble with their glinting black scales, or at least not as noble as the dragons Aeric remembered from when he was a young child, but each of the wyvern’s shrieks followed soon after the war horns—creating a horrible clamor of noise that made every man, or at least every man in the Fabrith Armada, raise their hands to their ears and wince.
Aeric however did not. He was determined.
Wyverns, he thought, couldn’t be much different than dragons—they were missing two front feet, anyway—though that made them exceedingly quick. He could handle them. He was quicker than any human; therefore he was sure this meant he was quicker than any mindless animal—especially an animal missing two legs.
Finally, having taken longer than Aeric expected, Thelmiscis managed to relinquish their duo from the gravity of the massive Gortek army. Aeric gave her a quick fervent pat on the neck, rubbing it softly. He was scanning the horizon for signs of Aaron, and eventually he saw a large figure mounted on Garzol stride out from the mass of knights. Aaron was entirely unharmed—though dents and scratches embellished his shield and helmet. His lance, dripping with claret blood, was nearly in two and holding itself together with mere splinters.
Aaron made visual contact with Aeric, and the two quickly rode towards each other. It was Aeric who first gestured a greeting, and Aaron followed suit.
“Aeric,” Aaron shouted from ten feet away with his low, mountainous voice. “They summoned men on large black beasts; they are airborne—arriving fast and swift. Should we hold our formations or retreat battle?”—Aaron was hesitant to say the word ‘retreat’.
Aeric shook his head.
“Never retreat, my good King Aaron. We have enough men to fight, thus we should keep fighting. I assure you, we can claim victory.”
Aaron nodded and gestured the answer to a patient captain on the other end of the field. Aeric was caught off guard as something in either a hurry or a sour mood clenched his shoulder vigorously and yanked him backwards.
“Watch out!”—it was Dameus.
Dameus tugged, but it was too late. A black arrow shaft steered its way into Aeric’s left lung, stabbing straight through his bosom, and launched him off of the saddle.
This startled the horse, so she began to rear and shriek. Dameus was stunned; he realized that the arrow would have missed Aeric if only Dameus hadn’t pulled him backwards.
Dameus heard something whizz past his ear, another arrow. Dameus turned around and saw that it indeed was a shafted missile—now embedded in Aaron’s knee.
Aaron blasted air through his lungs in an effort to shout, but was struck in the left shoulder by another dense black shaft, sending him sprawling backwards.
Dameus panicked; Aeric and Aaron were both injured on the ground, wounded terribly, and he had no shield to deflect unexpected missiles from the gloomy air.
He soon realized he was mounted on a fretting, almightily angered horse. He hastily clamped his hands on Thelmiscis’ reigns. She was berserk, caught off guard by the sudden flurry of surprise, and he was helpless while thrown and pawned about in her destructive tantrum.
However tightly he secured the reigns, Thelmiscis was still overpowering, causing him to sway violently like a branch in the wind. For a moment his feet were entirely airborne, the reigns his only means of security. Then, with a loud crack! , the reigns snapped and he was launched through the moist air, another arrow humming by—this time past his neck.
He winced while he braced for impact and made stone-splitting contact with a large extruding rock in the soil, sending him volleying sideways in a convulsion of bruises and scratches.
Every muscle in his body ached; pulses of blood in his heartbeat felt like molten iron sent coasting through his veins. His vision was vague, and he felt there was an absence of air in his lungs. He felt miserable.
In an effort to breathe, Dameus rolled onto his side and opened his throat.
Cool wind filled the vast emptiness inside of him. This told him he was making progress, so he began conducting his thoughts on other means.
He knew that Aeric must be downed somewhere nearby, or worse, but hopefully not—dead. Haste was the only priority, and so he proceeded—trying to lift himself onto his feet. When he finally managed to stand on both legs without passing out, he quickly began glancing for Aeric’s body.
There was a silhouetted figure collapsed about twenty feet from Dameus, but it was too bulky to be Aeric. It must have been Aaron, and there was already a clearer image of someone aiding him.
Aaron was taken care of. Aeric was next.
Dameus squinted, again searching, and spotted Aeric.
The wounded prince was sprawled three yards away. Dameus bolted towards him and knelt, examining Aeric’s state. It was pitiful; the first Dameus ever saw Aeric in a crippled state like this. The prince was wincing silently in pain, trying to sit up, but it was near impossible with the arrow protruding through his chest. He made an almost unnoticeable noise; Dameus thought it was a whimper.
“Aeric, are you there? Are you alright?” Dameus asked, checking Aeric’s pulse and wiping the sweat off of the prince’s forehead.
Aeric nodded his head, a tremor moving shakily through his limbs, and he opened his crystal-blue eyes.
Dameus couldn’t help but notice a scarlet stain of blood in Aeric’s bronze hair. Maybe he had hit his head when he was launched to the ground by the arrow.
“Aeric—can you talk?” Dameus fretfully asked.
Aeric slowly grunted as Dameus helped lift his torso into a raised position.
“Dameus,” Aeric panted, “why in the world did you pull me near the arrow? Give me some time while you explain yourself!”
Dameus quickly nodded. Aeric expanded his chest to fill it with air, and he gave a heavy sob from the ache in his lungs.
“I need you to pull the arrow out quickly so I can heal the wound… but that will be difficult while we’re fighting, so keep an eye out—will you?” he said.
Dameus nodded half-heartedly, trying to process the entire situation. He might be the reason his friend died, if that were to happen. The war had succeeded in frightening him.
“Aeric, what if they surround us? What am I going to do?” Dameus was thinking of all the unfortunate possibilities that might ruin Aeric’s recovery. The prince gave an amused chuckle and patted Dameus’ shoulder.
“Don’t worry about that now, I might be hurt but I’m not dead. You’re a good fighter anyway,” Aeric tried at amusement, “and you have a tremendous amount of luck that I find almost impossible to exist in such a clumsy human like you.” He then faked a faint smile.
A stiff laugh was dragged out of Dameus’ lungs; however, he couldn’t produce a smile. “I’m sorry,” a silent tear slid down his cheek “it’s my fault—,” he lowered his head ashamedly, and a flood of misery ran over him, “I didn’t mean too, Aeric. I always make stupid mistakes, I always mess up, I always get in your way.”
Aeric attempted to break in, but Dameus shook his head and reduced to the ground, speaking in hiccups.
“I am a terrible excuse for a friend. You’re better than me in every way. Forgive me. I’m sorry for ruining everything. Please forgi—”
A sudden calm washed over Dameus, a warm hand closing around his fist. Trembling, he looked up into Aeric’s eyes, and for the first time, Aeric was crying.
“Dameus, you only tried to help,” he whispered. “Don’t apologize.”
Dameus would have smiled, but was too stunned by hearing those words escape from Aeric’s mouth.
Aeric waited to see if Dameus would respond, but there was nothing but a depressive silence. Giving a heavy sigh, Aeric continued.
“Dameus, I treat you horribly.” Aeric mumbled as he snapped the protruding shaft of the arrow and flinched.
“It’s because I am jealous, that’s why…” he briefly paused and thoughtfully raked the soft ground with his fingernails, “when I make a fool of myself, I take the toll out on you.”
Both were silent with grief. Dameus snuffed, his puffy nose glowing a rosy hue and Aeric’s frown swelling into a violent sob.
The prince had reduced himself to as miniature a dirty grain as Dameus was, and spoke with a gentle smile.
“You just tried to save me, and after how I’ve treated you…” Aeric barely dipped his head below his shoulders, wiping his wet face, and returned to look straight into Dameus’ glass green eyes.
“I… want you to forgive me.” Aeric tightened his hand over Dameus’ fist.
They were silent. A chilling wind swept over the two, cloaking them in cold.
“Aeric…” Dameus sullenly bent his head down in a loss for words, but then lurched forward and wound his arms around Aeric’s shoulders, burying his wet face in Aeric’s neck. The prince was startled, but gladly completed the embrace.
For the first time since they had met in Mortega, a quiet knowledge spread through them as both the scampish rogue and princely warrior knew that no matter the wall of difference between the two, they would always be friends.
A crackling bang of thunder exploded above the battlefield, and as Dameus predicted—the torrent had begun. Rain was his favorite type of weather. He laughed, a new thought entering his head.
“Aeric, we’re just like brothers. We fight, but we’re still friends.” He said.
Aeric laughed and thumped Dameus on the back, “Well, of course we are.”
The two released their warm hold on the other, comforted by their friendship, and watchfully turned their heads to observe the battlefield. Dark night was approaching, and helping the night was the shadow of the storm looming overhead.
Dameus analyzed the battlefield. Neither army was prevailing.
“Night is falling quick. Do you suggest we return to the fort and go—“ Dameus was cut short by a troubled Aeric.
“Something’s wrong. It’s raining. We can’t make fire in rain.” Aeric stated quite dramatically.
Well, of course it was raining. Nothing could be wrong about that, Dameus thought.
“Why would we need fire? Can’t you light up the air with your magic?”
“It’s not that we won’t be able to see, but we need fire to kill—“
Aeric ceased his words.
Dameus waited for further elaboration, but the prince did not answer. Curious, Dameus turned and saw Aeric’s eyes were no longer focused on the eerie skies; rather they were largely fixated behind Dameus. Aeric’s eyes were terrified.
“Look out!” he shouted.
Dameus reacted quickly and retrieved his time-worn sword from it’s sheathe—keeping a steady eye as he watched for whatever was the alarm.
“What, what’s wro—“
Before Dameus finished his question, Aeric shoved Dameus away with a tremendous thrust of his palm, sending Dameus soaring.
Once again, Dameus relayed through the air and felt the wind escape his lungs. Strange. He thought he heard a metallic noise swing right next to his ear.
Dameus made contact with the ground and rolled over onto his side, dazedly in confusion. The sword that he clenched in his hand was gone. It had landed near a rueful Thelmiscis—a good ten feet away, useless. Dameus swore loudly and tried to catch his breath. He was thinking, unsure if it was wise to find out what Aeric must have seen to react in such a manner.
Dameus slowly lifted himself onto his feet and cautiously backed away, the flurry of rain now in a pouring rage—bitterly cold. A shock passed through him as he raised his head.
There across from Aeric mounted on a dense, broad stallion with coal-black eyes was a cruel and grotesque figure—inky lines of webbed hair tousled around his throbbing yellow eyes, black brigandine bound itself together over his shivering bone-white skin, and gripped in his right fist—which he clenched so hard that his gnarled hands were even paler than his milky flesh—was a long and stout razor-edged sword.
The thick black horse vaunted noisily, wisps of steam rising steadily from its nostrils, and the cruel figure of Gortek’s dead angel upraised his weapon.
“Dameus! Run!” Aeric shouted as Umbra lashed his black mount and began to charge.
I wanna know!!)