The Wielder of Death Magic

Late evening muddled over Aina Forest, a massive patch of trees, wildlife, monsters, caves, and hidden soldiers covering a massive portion of land at the Krestonian-Dorchestrian border. The area was different from most around – contrary to other borders. Imagine a wave, the trough, and the peak, the former is where the dividing line was drawn, as for the peaks, well, they each flourished into their own land. One could see the other side when standing ashore, firing their gaze across an unnamed lagoon, each side shared different references, in the end, reduce to a simple dot on the map. Dawn at the coast was life threatening, the moment the sun vanished – light snuffed immediately – darkness eroded the gentle rays, covering the thicket, adding a pool of black as a reference to the sea. Brigadier General Erano’s forces spread across the forest, dressed in adequate camo and equipped with silent rifles – not standard issued but custom made for his men. Erano’s military history spoke volumes, and his men were bards ready to retell the tale of an absolute madman.

The grass is always greener on the other side; such goes the saying. When confronted by the reality of Kreston and Dorchester, it couldn’t be farther from the truth. Kreston carried beautifully lush forestry, amazing wildlife, and a landscape that would make any painter drool. Dorchester held strong, remnants of trees, barren soil, and open areas – if compared as hair, Kreston would have silky long hair as Dorchester would sneer at her opponent, baldness and unmistakable bald spots, a difference vested as night and day.

Months elapsed; each side studied the other. When the time came for battle, Dorchester made no effort in hiding their intention – sending troupes running through open fields, leaping over makeshift wooden fences, and proning at the first line of cover. At the risk of being discovered, Erano opted for the enemy scouting unit to advance, willingly sacrificing a chance of picking off the runners. Outside looking in, Dorchester’s scouting unit’s commander; Viscount Olian, a defector from Hidros; was trained at the military academy, graduating with high honors and proving his might in many o’ campaigns before the succession debacle. Fame for unorthodox tactics, sending light on their feet troupes to establish an advanced position was the first order of business. Erano, despite arguments from his fellow attendants, stuck with his gut and allowed a force of a few hundred to swim deeper, slowly cutting their escape.

Slowly, the terror of Erano’s trained unit shone – Olian received news of a safe passage through unexplored territory. Under a moonless sky, troupes were filed to a stronghold, namely; a cave. Whistle and muffled snap, a soldier dropped. Alarm raised to no avail – a narrowed path channeled by bushes and unknown terrain, pitfalls and the bunch hidden admits the scenery, those very flashlights used to guide became targets, before the retreat or a counterattack could be issued, Erano’s dubious ways ensured a flawless victory. Unmatched on land, the battle seemed to turn in Kreston’s favor until Olian took action, reading the situation masterfully. “They’re not fighters,” cried one of the soldiers – on a further look, they were prisoners of war, demi-humans, and villages outfitted to look like Dorchestrian soldiers. It dawned, Olian used innocent lives as bait – Erano’s disbelief was short-lived as artillery fired rained over the forest, killing a few and seriously wounding many.

“RETREAT!” he ordered, spacing proved a godsend, an escape followed, so they thought. Similarly, on the darkened seas, a boat carrying troupes crossed the lagoon and landed north at an unexplored area on either side. Cliff and rough seas proved much to handle, Kreston had no option but to focus on important areas, leaving an opening for exploitation. The boat was spotted by a retreating soldier, barely able to make camp, “-north,” he related to a grievously wounded intelligence officer, on his dying breath, the man opened a channel to Erano and passed, leaving the line for intel exchange. The brigadier General made camp with a wounded shoulder, the sight of injured fighters passed his mind as a report hurried into his ear, “-doesn’t look good,” he exhaled, fighting through the pain, ‘-the northern district is under Dorchestrian control – they can push south and capture Port Smith. No fighting from the northwest either,’ greater detail reached the duke, who made way to an outpost in the forest.

‘Using the night to send troupes silently across the lagoon, how did we allow for such a blatant mishap,’ he and his makeshift army arrived at only a few military supplies and ration, ‘-we’re fighting a losing battle,’ deep down, under the moonless night, Duke Carrigan knew, ‘-we’ll lose.’

.....

Hope of reinforcement laid at Port Smith, quarantined from the province on the uprising of a new variant of the monster plague, ‘-it makes sense,’ he blinked as did Erano miles away, ‘-they used the lagoon during the ceasefire, send troupes under the cover of darkness. We were none the wiser for lack of resources.’

Viscount Olian, for his notorious reputation as a womanizer and hater of demi-humans, showed intellect and sound judgment in battle. In the few days after battle rang – Kreston found themselves at the end, victory nay but a dream. Central, so became the name of the Ministry of Defense, refused allocation of troupes.

“Brigadier General, what now?” inquired the duke dressed in religious attire.

“We’ve asked for reinforcement, no luck so far,” replied a wounded Erano, “-I wish I could stand side by side with my men and fight,” they stood on a hill, peering over the thick dark-green foliage, “-I can only imagine the battle.”

“We can only imagine,” added the duke, “-who’re we fighting?”

“Viscount Olian, he’s a good leader and better strategist. If only we had more resources...”

The Duke paused and glanced at a letter, “-Central ordered for your troupes to retreat, destination, Port Smith.”

“I saw,” added Erano, “-substituting able fighters for the village folks. Willingly sacrificing our inhabitants... I understand the merit, still, it won’t leave a good taste.”

“About that, tis a voluntary armed force. We made sure to speak of the low survival rate. Kreston will face a food crisis, funds and resources were drained in the early stages of the battle.”

“In a way, sending them into battle alleviates the coming food crisis, skim off the top and watch the glass fill again. Desperate measures in a desperate situation.” And so, the battle continued, days became weeks and weeks turned months – 25th of May. Winter settled firmly across Hidros, seas roughened and the winds blasted, temperatures dropped below the norm. Northeastern peaks affectionately named Sibling range, on accounts of its jumps and drops began its transformation into a white scape.

Dorchestrian forces who invaded the north, forced to climb Sibling’s range were uninformed about a local legend. ‘When the peaks whitened with their snowcap, retreat for when white beast crashes, naught is to be left alive.’

Erano puffed fog from inhaling a warm cup of tea, Monsia’s cold personality rubbed against Port Smith, freckles of white – icy cold streets – winter was nigh. He approached a door and tapped, pushing into a warmer inside, “-Brigadier general,” waved Duke Carrigan sat before a warm fireplace.

“Duke, I didn’t expect a visit,” they sat, casting their lonesome shadows against empty seats, “-where’s Jerad?”

“Poor fellow was diagnosed with the plague – doctors arrived earlier. Poor Jerad isn’t great on his feet,” he coughed, “-winter’s especially cold this year.”

“Tell me about it,” shivered Erano, “-I have news. Winter’s grasped Siblings’ high. We can expect Dorchester’s hidden forces to finally make a move. They hid for so long; I wonder what they’re up to.”

“Maybe they’re dead?”

“Speaking of dead,” Erano firmed his mug woefully, “-I heard the last of the ten-thousand was found dead at an unmarked camp. Seems starvation got the better – we barely have enough food to go around town never mind a voluntary army.”

“Time’s rough, we’re living off goblin meat, well, we lived off said meat. Winter’s settle, no wildlife nor fish in the sea – whatever reserves we had was sent to Oxshield in exchange for ration.”

Brigadier General studied the duke, a warm friendship built over the months, “-we might need to surrender.”

“General?”

“I’m sorry, there’s no way my famished soldiers have morale to handle a full-scale invasion. They haven’t trained for such harsh weather; I’ve asked part of them to have drills at Monsia high – results were worse. Growing plagues forced the stationed naval army and us to control the malady, burning the deceased, many of them children and women – takes a toll on one’s psyche. Northwest invasion’s forcing many to make a run east, not knowing the situation.”

The door echoed, a messenger drenched in blood held a letter, “-Duke Carrigan,” he handed the envelope and ran. “Holy Church’s insignia...”

“What?”

“You know what it is,” Carrigan threw an exasperated exhale and unfolded the paper over the counter. Erano’s curiously had him unconsciously leaning over the duke’s shoulder. “-To pseudo-pope and his heretic followers, the true church of lucifer decrees for Kreston to be made a vassal state of the Leon papacy. If thee wish to comply with our orders, we promise to reform Kreston’s heretic ways and start a righteous way of following our lord and savior. If Duke Carrigan opposes our demand for surrender – our troupes will launch an unbiased attack on the whole of Kreston. You’re surrounded, and with help from the Wracian naval forces – there’s no winning against our might. We expect great things from you, pope Carrigan II. May the word of our god guide thy heart true,” signed, Bishop Greg.

“Demanding a surrender.”

“An ultimatum,” exhaled Erano, “-I’ll mobilize the troupes.”

“And I’ll contact Central.”

A colder winter rose over Oxshield, a month of painful battle and reports countless casualties piled onto Igna’s desk. General Minerva, on orders from the king, was forced to stand down and not help Kreston. The only help provided was via scares rations and limited ammunition. Eira’s department had her hand full dealing with Krestonian court members demanding remuneration for Hidros’ lack of involvement.

*Tap, tap,* “-I’m coming in,” Minerva entered a secret laboratory built under Phantom’s military fortress, “-this is where you’ve been, majesty.”

Igna’s slumber broke, and magazines toppled as he straightened from a couch, “-Athena, how long has it been?” he yawned, “-I heard much from the exploits.”

“No,” she threw her hands akimbo, “-Igna, enough is enough. We received a demand for surrender, Kreston will be lost if we don’t act. Throwing the populous to the wolves, what kind of monarch does so...”

“The kind who wins,” he stretched and turned her attention to a display, “-our secret weapon’s ready. With this, the range of the air force increases and so greatens its accuracy. I heard about the revolt and how it was resolved the Haggard way.”

“Majesty, drop the jests – Kreston needs help, Erano’s proven his might time and time again, we should answer the call for reinforcement.”

“I guess it’s time. How are the new units doing?”

“They’re ready, a month’s training won’t suffice.”

“Tis good enough – long as they can hold a firefight, we don’t need much. Tell Erano the good news, Hidros’ sending twenty-thousand, distribution and allocation will be at thy own discretion,” numbers flowed around his fingers, “-Athena, it’s time to get serious,” he said on her reaching the doorway.

“As you wish, majesty,” the door clicked, leaving Igna to open a communication channel, *Connecting – Ela,*

“Majesty, long time no see.”

“Yes, long time. Are the medical supplies ready?”

“Yeah, any time thee wish.”

“Good, make preparations, they’ll be dispatched alongside reinforcement.”

Central’s answer spread hope, Hidros finally decided to help, ‘-of course, we were going to help. Taking a month off to adjust and retrain personnel at the cost of a few thousand. Their sacrifices won’t be in vain,” lights toggled up a massive silo.

“She’s ready for deployment,” gasped a fatigued and smelly Marie, “-majesty, you’re a slave driver...”

“To win, we had to sacrifice the lives of many to buy time. Their deaths won’t be in vain. Here’s the culmination of Hidros’ know-how and our hard work – we’re entering a new age. Be ready, Marie, for it’s no message, tis an announcement.”