chp one

I woke to the sound of horns and the beat of a thousand worn boots marching on the dry lands, in the dark west. "So it begins"; I mutter to myself. I sit up, and get out of bed. When I look down I see my armor, that I laid out the day before, so I could be ready at a moments notice. The breastplate, greaves, and gauntlets were forged of the finest steel, and beset with rubies and other gems. The rest of the armor left much to be desired, but was good enough to wear into battle. On my head I wear a half helm, also made fine steel. All the armor I bought in my glory days. I could have settled down in a nice house, married a girl, had children on her. But I had to continue questing, as I called it. So much death, so much. I collapse onto the cot in the tent, when I think of the things I have done, of all the lives I have taken, it is too much to bear sometimes. My only hope is to redeem myself, to try and rid myself of the monster I was. I sit up with a heavy breath, as if I had recently been fighting. Sweat beads on my brow and drips onto the dirty ground. I am old, and so very tired. With a sigh I continue getting ready for the upcoming chaos, it would start any moment now. Next was my sword, my finest treasure, I hid it under my bed, in a chest that I  demanded have a spell be cast on to protect it from thieves. Even among our  group of heroes there are thieves, there is evil everywhere. Only I can open the chest. I lift it onto the bed, and open it. I remembered what the mage told me when he told me how to open it. "Picture a memory, a very unique memory that only you have, and have never shared with anyone else. That alone will open it now." I take a deep breath and go back to the days of my youth, when I was young and foolish. Memories filled with shame, I must remember my crimes if I am to rid myself of them. I go back to when i cut out the heart of the mighty Apocrypha. When i rose up so high I could touch the heavens. And when I fell and broke. Memories only i have. The chest opens with a shudder and click, and inside resting on a silken bed lies the sword, still sheathed. I take the sheath out, feeling the weight of what lies within. The sheath is of a dark iron, enameled with silver veins. Simple, but that's all it needs to be. I draw my sword, Anomia, and revel in its beauty. And its horror. The sword is made of steel, and is dyed a deep black. Arteries of dye run red through it, like a seeping corruption. The hilt is leather, smooth and worn from use. The pommel embodies a smokey gemstone, the shadows inside seem to drift and shimmer. It looks different every time you lay your eyes upon it.

The drums stop, the horns are still. For a second it seems as if the world had stopped. From the mountains in the north to the grasslands in the south, from the great green depths to the icy wastelands. And then a roar as steel strikes steel, as men die, as battle is done.

The spear barely misses my head and continues to impale the man behind me. Poor fellow. But in battle there is no time for grief, or fear. In battle as you bathe in the blood of your foes, you are more alive than ever. There is no moment but the present, and there is nothing but you and your sword. I cut down a legionnaire from Westmark in wonder. Had they sided with the dark too? It seems as if the entire world is falling under their spells. I don't spend too long thinking on it, I can never stop moving. I hear a low grumble that crescendos into a roar, and then, slowly fades away. The low horn blast signifies that our right flank is failing. I should help i think to myself. I look around for a vantage point. I see an abandoned war tower snd begin to run towards it. A man gets in my way, barring the path with his spear, a bloody promise on his face. Lets dance, i think. I charge at him, raising Anomia overhead in challenge. As i get within three feet of him i pivot and swing my sword down on his left. He flicks up his spear head and casts Anomia away. Quick as a viper he jabs at the gap in my armor plates in the armpit. I knock his spear away, and then step forward and begin a complex series of blows. At such short range his spear is useless. His guard begins to waver, inviting my blade. He takes a step back, slips in the bloody mud, and thats the end of it. I strike him in the chest, Anomia cuts through his light scale like butter. Blood spurts from the wound and splashes onto my face when i pull Anomia out. He gurgles and vomits out a surge of blood, he starts a strangled scream and is cut short by death's cold embrace. His body flops to the ground lifeless. His death seems empty, devoid of meaning. With a sigh I begin my accent up the war tower. The ladder is a bit rickety, but strong.  I try to stay low once i reach the tops, so enemy archers wont lay sights on me. The battleground below is like the dreams of chaos. The ground is soaked with blood, bodies are everywhere. The sky is red, the air is smoggy. The dark appears to have thrown small jars of oil with a torch in them, causing great breaths of fire to blast into life sporadically. Pillars of smoke float upwards as if trying to escape this mess to heaven. It doesn't look good, we are outnumbered by a thousand, and they are far more organized than we expected. A great blast of horns startles me from my dread. I look up to the hills on our left, a large force of mounted men stream towards the battle. They carry banners which bear the sigil of our kingdom. A red Ankh on a silver field. A roar rises up from our side: "The king! The king! The king is here!" I collapse in the tower. We are saved.