Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars [Complete] --- &RPaward

...for in character discussions, contributions and Wheel of Time themed stories.
halfhand
Posts: 180
Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 11:12 am

Re: Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars

Post by halfhand » Fri Oct 02, 2020 4:21 pm

Chapter Nine: Broken Legion

A few leagues away, Lawe Cathon winced as Airena dabbed at his chest wound with a moist cloth. He tried to push himself up, but the Aes Sedai firmly kept an iron grip on his shoulder.

Cathon gave up and laid back, as she began to dress his wounds. Airena had dark circles around her eyes, and her dark curls hung down in limp strands. The general knew she was completely exhausted if she had to rely on old-fashioned healing.

The details of the previous day swam in his mind. The call to retreat. Airena's lashes of fire beating back the shadowspawn, and his men swarming desperately through the southern gap. Cathon hoped those at the northern end had made it out as well, but the last scene he saw as he broke free was the Horde swarming into the hole the Band had blasted through. A glancing blow to his chest had dropped him, but Nathen had dragged him out. They had to leave anything they could not carry, the tents, the supplies, everything.

Cathon sighed, "All my fault. My entire bloody fault. I should've known it was a trap. I could feel it."

"I should've felt the shadowspawn." Airena noted, "If I was not preoccupied with my own problems. But that much Trollocs so near should have raised my alarm. The Dreadlord had done something. Something the Tower knows not."

"It was my decision, and now, ah." Cathon grimaced as she applied a stinging poultice to a deep laceration, "You should get some rest, Airena. I'll survive."

"I'm tougher than you think, Lawe." Airena bound his wounds and stood up, "there are more injured to see. Sit and let these mend. Do not waste the work I just spent on you."

"I need to see my men." Cathon struggled to his feet.

"Do what you will then. It is your life." Airena walked away, her voice like a cold dagger. He watched her glide away like an elegant storm cloud. What did he do?

Cathon swept back the damp hair from his eyes, and gazed around the camp. With all the tents lost in the valley, the men had bivouacked on the bare ground.

Fortunately, the weather had since made tents obsolete. One of the few and only advantages of the Blasted Lands. The sun had set, but the earth was still searing hot. Darkness, unrelieved except for a waning moon, set over the camp, reducing soldiers and horses to black shadows.

"I'm glad to see you're up, Marshall-General." Major-General Diadrem's voice drew Cathon's attention.

"Where are the others." Cathon glancing to see only General Notar with Diadrem.

"Generals Vader, Hill, and Arcanum have all been missing since Getty's Canyon, sir. They were all positioned at the north." Nathen Austern walked up. The two remaining generals nodded grimly.

"Bloody..." Cathon massaged his temples, "What's the situation."

"We have the majority of Black Moon and True Blade. We have half of Hill's Zephyr Hawk and some of Vader's First Legion." Austern said.

"I have taken the survivors of Zephyr and First into True Blade." Diadrem added.

"At the current count, we have a little more than a hundred thousand men left. Roughly half of what we started. Two thousand injured, but thankfully, with the healers and Airena Sedai, the majority will survive. The rest, about eighty thousand men, including the three Generals, are presumed to be casualties."

"No, they survived." Cathon grabbed a rumpled white shirt from the ground and drew it over his body. He glanced up to dubious looks.

"They survived. They must have broken through the north side. They are good men, skilled in survival." Cathon picked up his battered cloak and hung it around his shoulders, "We march for Shayol Ghul again."

"Cathon, is this wise?" Notar asked doubtfully.

"We've suffered a grievous wound today, I do not deny this. But we will heal, and we will strike back. The Shadow thinks it has won. We will teach them differently. And if the other half of the Band still survives, which I believe with all my heart, they will continue the attack. That is the best hope for reunion."

"Sir..." Diadrem began.

"It is your right to advise." Cathon cut him off, "You have advised me. But I have made my decision. We will continue our attack on the Black Bastion once more."

"I understand, general." Diadrem replied, "And the Creator willing, you are right."

"Nathen, what is it you need?" Cathon asked his adjutant.

"Scouts report a fist of Trollocs approaching from the north. Nothing serious, perhaps a hundred. A splinter group from yesterday most likely, eager for loot and blood."

"Notar, lead a banner of your best cavalry. Wipe those raiders out. All of them. Bring their heads back on pikes; we need a morale boost." Cathon glanced up at the black sky and the blacker spire of Shayol Ghul, "We ride tomorrow morning. Send what remains of our scouts out to find a path."

"Sir." The two generals saluted and walked into the night.

"What is the account on supplies, Nathen?" Cathon asked, glancing up at the cloudless sky.

"We managed to pull out a third of our supply wagons. The rations will be thin, and we only have enough fuel for firepits at the siege. No campfires, but in this weather, we'd only need it for perimeter lighting. We might survive with what we have. We might not. Sir, are you sure this plan of yours is still prudent?"

"We can only hope so, Nathen. We can only hope so." Cathon laughed dryly, "Go give me the final breakdown so we can plan."

The adjutant saluted and followed quickly in the steps of the two departing Generals. As Cathon watched them fade into the night, he felt his crafted facade finally cracking. The repressed trembles in his hands came unbidden like rigors before he could still his nerves once more. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his trousers and forced measured breaths until the vice around his chest began to calm.

As he put on his facade of confidence once more, he was grateful that no one was there to witness his brief moment of vulnerability. But as he glanced up at the star filled sky, he felt a familiar presence stepping next to him.

Airena Sedai raised her face to the skies, as if pretending her presence was a mere coincidence for stargazing. Her features so severe in the daytime seemed now so soft under the starlight, the pale skin of her cheeks almost with a subtle cool glow,

They stood in silence for a heavy moment before Airena spoke. “The Wild Skies that can be only seen in the Blasted Lands. Unpredictable and untethered to any astronomer or star map. A beautiful chaos. To navigate by the Wild Skies is to invite trouble.”

Cathon nodded. He expected another lecture on his self care like before, but instead her tone was uncharacteristically soft and conversational. He wondered how long she had been watching him or how much she saw.

“I am merely searching, Lady Airena. For a sign.”

She turned to him, studying him with her penetrating green eyes. “I did not picture you to be a superstitious man, General.”

“One does not need to be superstitious to look for hope in a time of crisis. One cannot find answers if one does not look for them.”

“It is my experience that those who follow signs use them to confirm what they already intend to do. And sometimes the signs are not what they hope. When Prince Caar fell in love with his sign, he paid with his death.”

Cathon turned to face the Aes Sedai and met her thoughtful gaze. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the rippling movement of Warder’s invisible cloak ten feet away standing guard. But for all purposes, the two were alone in the cloak of night’s darkness.

“Caar One-Hand may have died chasing his signs, but he still found love, a precious treasure that many have searched their entire life without finding. Maybe he was not as foolish after all.” Cathon replied. “I know Aes Sedai can make their own miracles, so you may not understand. But for us ordinary men scratching out our fleeting lives, sometimes we need to believe that there is a higher force of purpose or good. Whether it’s the Creator Himself or Caldazar or Lady Luck, I would take anything and anyone at this desperate time.”

“Well you have me. But I am a little light on miracles.” She gave him a rare smile, gentle and human. Her eyes softened as she finally broke off her stare. And for a brief second, she seemed not like the mysterious Aes Sedai figure of legends, but a fellow traveler on a long lonely road. “I hope you find what you are looking for, general.”

“Do get some rest.” She touched him on the shoulder with a light hand, an intimate gesture of her compassion, and left him once more to his eternal search.

In the distance, Notar's cavalry raid galloped away, a single torch among them, from the pitch black camp into the pitch black night.
Last edited by halfhand on Sun Oct 18, 2020 2:17 pm, edited 1 time in total.

halfhand
Posts: 180
Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 11:12 am

Re: Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars

Post by halfhand » Fri Oct 02, 2020 4:37 pm

Chapter Ten: Respite

Sergeant Stef Reimos forded through the chest-deep waters, his wet cloak dragging behind. When the fleeing Band remnant had come upon this fast flowing river, Stef had been stunned to see this clear, flowing tributary in the heart of the Blasted Lands. But, the Red Hands quickly accepted this at face value, as a barrier to hold off any pursuit. Whoever the hell was in charge had decided they should cross, but personally, Stef didn't believe a couple spans of water would slow down the Horde they were fleeing. And speaking of which…

"Who in the bloody ashes is in charge, Tayren?" Stef asked. “This must be what a headless chicken feels like.”

"How should I know? It's either Vader or Arcanum. Maybe one of the Luty Generals will try to take over. And they're welcome to it." Tayren grunted.

Stef glanced down at the fast-flowing water churning around his torso. It looked cool and clear, an anomaly in the core of the Black Lands. His throat was parched from the long march, and he was tired of the flat water they've been receiving as ration, which was not a lot. He cupped some water in his hands and raised them towards his face. But he immediately halted as the once clear water in his hands turned completely black. He stumbled a step, caught his balance, and shook his hands free of the inky fluid.

"It's a bloody illusion." Stef grimaced. He felt more comforted as he finally stumbled onto dry land, out of the water-that-was-not-water. Stef tugged his cloak off, and twisted the soaked cloak free of the water. The falling water droplets turned black in mid-air, oozing down into the soil.
He draped his cloak over one shoulder, and glanced to find the rather soggy Zephyr Hawk Banner of his legion hanging limply upon its pole. He motioned his squad after him, and set off towards a viable camp spot. Satisfied at a dry sandy area, he grunted a command, and stripped himself of his wet clothes, unable to abide having the foul water tainting his skin.

He removed all his clothes except his trousers and laid them on the ground to dry. At least he hoped they would dry. He looked around to see most of the soldiers doing the same, with most of the veterans lying down to catch some sleep. He saw that young Cordin was carefully cleaning his sword with a handful of sand, and walked over to the tyro.

"Lo, soldier."

"Sergeant." Cordin carefully laid his sword down, and stood up to attention. He looked like a child. But, he must at least be twelve, the minimum age for enlisting.

"You did well back there, as well as a raw could. How much swordship training did you get when you started?"

"Just the basics, sir!"

"Don’t call me sir. Well, I have some time on my hand. Hell, the generals still haven't even made up their mind on who's in charge. Let me see what you can do." Stef wielded his sword in a loose grip in his left hand. “I’m a southie, but don’t hold that against me.”

Cordin licked his lips and grabbed his blade as well. Stef gave a couple of casual thrusts, which the tyro blocked to a sufficient extent.

"Now, soldier, not bad. But you're fighting a man, and a man is a world's difference from a spawn. I'm sure you've had experience with that already." Stef snapped his sword forth, which was barely parried.

"Trollocs, as you've seen, are rather large, moody creatures. They're unnaturally strong, and can smash your skull open with a bare fist. They can outrun a horse, and have hides that can deflect steel. If you want to live, you stay fast and stay agile, stay on your toes. Unless you want to be hacking away all day, target three areas. The throat's unprotected and a quick kill but the hardest to hit because of the height. The second is through the armpits. The third is their legs.

"You can attack their chest or belly if you wish, but make sure your blade is angled between the ribs and to one side. But, that tends to be the most well protected." Reimos begins to rotate his sword casually.

"Watch out for their bloody strength. You try blocking their blows the way you're doing to me? Well, comparing the muscles in your wrist to, say, the shoulders of a Trolloc. Like blocking a blacksmith hammer with a hard-boiled egg." With all his strength, Stef spun, and slammed his sword down on Cordin's. The tyro's blade bounced off the ground and skipped through the air, digging a trench into the sand where it landed. Cordin flinched, rubbing at his wrist.

"Angle your sword enough so their blows are deflected away from you. Use their brute strength against them. Like that Order of Black Moon; those crazy empty-hand warriors in Aegar. Though, give me a sword any day." Stef kicked up Cordin's sword and tossed it back to him, "But dodge whenever possible. Avoid it. Even a glancing blow can snap your arm."

Stef slammed his sword down again, but Cordin parried it aside correctly. The kid seemed to have gotten over-enthusiastic, thinking he could give his tutor a move of his own, snapping forward with Reimos still overextended. Stef twisted his body, bringing his hilt around to send Cordin's sword flying again.

"Cute…" Stef grinned, "And remember to keep a better grip on your weapon. Well, I'm going to get some shut-eye. You're showing improvement."

"Thank you, sir." Cordin retrieved his sword and started to wipe the blade with his red cloak.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Stef exploded.

"Sir?" The young man seemed confused.

"Never use your cloak to wipe your sword. Hell, tear it up to bandage someone's wounds, to save a life. But that cloak is the symbol of what you are here for. You get one bloody cloak, and you better treat it with bloody respect. Being a soldier is two equal parts, the Way and the Means. Your hands are the Means and your cloak is your Way. Without your Way, you become nothing but a brute with a sword.“ Stef slowed to catch his breath, and then spoke softly, "You want to keep your sanity, son. That's Manetheren you're carrying on your shoulder and back. That's bloody Manetheren. Your Way."

Stef turned and left without another word, his sword trailing in one hand.

halfhand
Posts: 180
Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 11:12 am

Re: Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars

Post by halfhand » Fri Oct 02, 2020 4:46 pm

Chapter Eleven: Final Measures

Diest Arcanum met eyes with the remainder of the Legion and Banner generals gathered around: Trystan, Warsal, Blane Cathon, and Courwin. Less than half of the officers that the Band had begun with. A single torch stabbed into the earth within the circle of men, casting flickers on their dour faces.

"Who is to lead now that the Marshall-General is lost?" Major General Vike Warsal of the 37th Banner asked bluntly.

"Lieutenant General Stren Vader will be taking command of the entire Band. I accede to seniority." Arcanum nodded to the older man.

"Thank you, Diest." Vader cleared his throat, "Due to the massive loss at Getty's...Trystan will be raised to Lieutenant General, taking over Zephyr Hawk Legion from Hill, presumed dead. His 50th Banner will be joined with Warsal's 37th. Stragglers from other banners will be temporarily formed up as a company under Blane Cathon."

The cousin to the late Marshall-General nodded to his new assignment, and the rest of the major generals acquiesced to the new positions. Vader continued, "The latest scout report states that the body of Shadowspawn from Getty's Canyon is in our pursuit, some leagues away. They have organized themselves and will arrive, at best estimate, in the morning.

"That will give us somewhat of an advantage. As we all know, Trollocs will have difficulty seeing with the dawning sun in their vision. Although the sun will be in our faces more, our eyes will adapt easier. Furthermore, we have placed that...river...between us, but it seems that we are bracketed in the back by steep cliffs. And there's no Getty's Canyon this time for us to cross. The only way in- and out- is crossing that river. We will make our stand here. After all, we have nowhere to run. General Arcanum will provide you with the battle details."

Arcanum cleared his throat. "Zephyr Hawk Legion will form their infantry lines along the river, with the First Legion in reserve. My Thunder Legion will be providing the support with our cats. We will have field works at the edge of the river, and in the river itself. We will be outnumbered; even worse than Getty's Canyon. But we will be prepared," Arcanum added grimly.

"Have your men split into shifts on construction of the fieldworks. Normal communications cipher. Dismissed for now. Return in an hour for battle orders." The new Marshall-General Vader ended the meeting. The lower generals melted into the night, leaving Vader, Arcanum, and Trystan behind.

"Major, any suggestions?" Arcanum asked a shadow entering the sphere of light, revealing himself as Drov Borsy.

"E-Corps supplies are at an extreme low." Borsy addressed the three generals, "Our entire arsenal consists of a few wagons of caltrops. We will be able to facilitate the construction of the fieldworks, the spike wall, at least a crude version. We have some naph and brew as well."

"I have some carts full left." Arcanum said, "Mostly Witch's Brew, but some Naphtha as well. Might as well use them here. They'll be no retreating this time."

"Perhaps. The Engineer Corps still has some cards up our sleeves, as the late Cathon used to say. Something we can create rather quickly. Just need to cannibalize some supply wagons, proofing caulk, and lots of naph." Borsy winked.

"Good. Update me on your results." Vader grunted.

"Oh, and we have sieved the water from that river." Borsy unplugged a water skin and poured some liquid out onto a pan. In the flickering torchlight, Arcanum could see the filmy water swirling, and he blanched at the smell emanating from it.

"We did our best to make it edible, short of distilling it." Borsy emptied his skin and capped it, "It tastes like dung, smells like dung. But it isn't dung. Though, you can't take my word on it."

"Dismissed, major." Vader said, tipping the pan over with a foot, spilling the water into the ground. Borsy gave a quick salute and left.

As the generals returned, Vader spread a large map on the ground, hastily surveyed by Borsy's Engineers Corps, and they began to plot the strategies of their defense. As the commanders brooded over the plan, Arcanum couldn't help but remember that no strategy survives contact with the enemy. But better to fill their mindspace with strategy rather than dread the approaching execution. As the generals deliberated over the map, messengers came and went, delivering progress reports and orders, flitting to and forth like moths to a flame.

Sometime later, Arcanum rubbed his eyes tiredly, and excused himself for a breather. He walked into the night to rest his mind and personally see the preparation. He had often felt useless with numbers and such (unless it pertained to his precious machines), and would rather physically interact with his men.

With all fuel in short supply, the camp was drenched in darkness, and Arcanum felt a shield of anonymity surrounding every shadowy figure in the camp, including himself. As he walked through the encampment, men who would avoid the general in the daylight would start up conversations with Arcanum, who found it rather refreshing.

In rotation, half the soldiers were asleep, the other working feverishly away. When Arcanum arrived near the river, he could already see the skeleton of the fieldworks stabbing forth from the soil. Arcanum could count around five rows of fieldworks, each a wall of spikes jutting out of the ground at an angle towards the river. Four reserve fieldworks, Arcanum noted to himself, for when the first wall fall.

Arcanum weaved his way through the narrow opening of the fieldworks, arriving at the waterfront. He could make out large, dark shapes bobbing far out on the river, which startled him at first.

"What are those things?" Arcanum pointed out those floating figures to a faceless soldier working nearby. The man seemed to peer up at the general's face, but apparently did recognize him.

"Some toys the specs cobbled up. Hulks of wagons, waterproofed and caulked." The soldier returned to his work.

Arcanum digested the man's statement slowly, remembered Borsy's earlier plan, and wished that he had learned more of the details. He studied the floating wagons for a time, but unable to see them clearly, he walked on. He came upon an engineer working a miniature catapult, firing caltrops into the river. When those sharp-headed steel traps landed in the river, they sunk to the bottom to lie in wait for the foot of a Trolloc. By now, the entire riverbed should be almost entirely blanketed by a coat of sharp spikes. Seeing the man work the mini-catapult, the Thunder Lord immediately asserted his birthright to all ballistic machines, and began to correct the man's inefficient aim, much to the engineer's annoyance. Finally, the man ran out of caltrops, and scurried away quickly, leaving the trop-flinger behind in his haste to get away.

Arcanum studied the far shore, lost in thought. The darkness was a cloak of protection, for the dawn would herald the arrival of the Shadowspawn horde that had destroyed more than half of the soldiers of the Light. He glanced to the east, and saw the faint pink haze of an approaching day. He could almost hear the heavy footsteps of the Trolloc Horde approach.
Last edited by halfhand on Mon Oct 05, 2020 8:15 pm, edited 1 time in total.

halfhand
Posts: 180
Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 11:12 am

Re: Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars

Post by halfhand » Fri Oct 02, 2020 6:32 pm

Chapter Twelve: Flight of the Red Eagle

Marshall-General Lawe Cathon rode quietly at the head of the other half of the Band, which mimicked their leader's hushed conduct. For all eyes drew up northwards towards the spire of Shayol Ghul, a destination many believed to be final and fatal. The Band of Red Hand crawled forth silently like a stalking jungle-cat, creeping upon its larger foe, claws and teeth bared to strike. It was also a silent mourning for those souls believed lost in Getty's Canyon, but who, unbeknownst to the general, were actually now preparing their desperate defenses.

Cathon felt the outline of his bandages covered by his shirt, and studied the lay of the land spread before him. Brooding, he glanced around, his dark eyes sweeping the land. Much of the Blasted Lands were shrouded in darkness, and shadows stretched across the ground from the pale light of the rising sun. Something seemed to draw his attention. He blinked as if he could not believe his eyes, and stilled his pounding heart.

"Nathen." Cathon suddenly broke the brittle quiet, "Do you know the story of the founding of Manetheren."

"I do not believe so, sir." The adjutant replied, arching his eyebrow.

"It is a story truly all of the blood should know. The world was shattered by the Breaking, as you know. Then came two brothers, carved from stone by lightning, and life breathed into them by the Eternal Wheel. Don't roll your eyes at me, Nathen. They were raised by a wolf bitch, and grew up running with their wolfbrothers."

"Are you sure they weren't Lichs, sir? Or the Queens of the White Faeries?"

"Hush. They were named Safii and Jaralus, or it is said, who around a band of men and women was formed, a covenant, if you will, against the rising chaos. Sort of like us. Our precursors, if you will."

"So am I Safii or Jaralus?" Nathen interjected.

"And the two brothers led their people into our land, a land finally at peace from the destruction of the Breaking, and they came to a place of seven hills. And an eagle, Caldazar, flew overhead, and the brothers knew the sign in their hearts.

"They made sacrifices to that raptor. Safii burnt his people's grain and fruits, offering stability and strength to Caldazar. Jaralus slew a great hart, whose majestic antlers bore all the colors of a rainbow, and laid the heart and entrails before him. The red eagle alighted before Jaralus, and accepted the man's gift of flesh and blood.

"Jerii, incensed by Caldazar's rejection, scorned Caldazar and his brother, and left westward. Some of the first people went with him, crossing the mountains to the west, dissolving into the barbaric bands soon to be Safer. Jaralus stayed and where Caldazar landed, built his City Upon The Hills, but known as Jara'copan, City of Jaralus, where it reigned as the capital of the Manetheren Empire for three hundred years before moving into the Mountain Home." Cathon finished his tale, and glanced to see Nathen Austern's reaction.

"That is an utterly fascinating tale, sir. Foundation-myth I think it's called. What brought up this mythical side, Lord General?"

"Caldazar flies with us once again." Cathon laughed deeply and gestured to the side. Nathen turned his head to see a red eagle perched upon a boulder, its intense eyes meeting the adjutant's gaze. It swept its immense scarlet wings back, and soared into the red-hued sky, circling above the Band. Cries and shouts came from the ranks, as men began to notice the fierce but undeniably noble creature above. When all the heads had turned upwards, the eagle gave a shriek, and glided westward. A second red eagle joined its kin, weaving through the air, westward.

Cathon turned to look for Airena to gloat, but she was nowhere to be seen. But this did not dampen his enthusiasm. He will have to find her later.

"It is a sign. We go west!" Cathon called, "This tide has turned on this full sea. The Band will be united once more."

Life began to infuse the Band of Red Hand, the patched and tattered banner of Caldazar was held forth with new zeal. The red jungle cat changed directions, stalking westwards after Caldazar, hope rekindled.
Last edited by halfhand on Sun Oct 18, 2020 2:18 pm, edited 1 time in total.

halfhand
Posts: 180
Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 11:12 am

Re: Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars

Post by halfhand » Fri Oct 02, 2020 6:35 pm

Chapter Thirteen: Primal Fight

As the hours drew on, Stef Reimos strained to control his impatience. The Horde had arrived with the dawn, dark bodies covering the far shore, until nothing could be seen in the distance but the blackness of the gathering shadowspawn. But they had not attacked yet, seemingly satisfied with waiting for all their numbers to gather, against the trapped Band. Reimos had a clear view of the gathering storm, as Hill's replacement, Drogan Trystan, seemed to follow the same philosophy of placing Stef in the line of fire. Stef’s squad was positioned at a section of the first fieldworks, lined up behind the jagged wall. The sharp fieldworks designed to keep the Trollocs at bay and Stef safe did not please the disgruntled sergeant at all. Of all the works he had worked behind, this had to be the shoddiest piece of sheep fodder...light, even a soft wind could probably blow the entire thing over. Half of it was scavenged wagon parts hastily sharpened to points; the other was some honed local sapling, which had to be burned to curtail their homicidal tendencies.

"Light, I wished we had some Saferi phalanxes with us right about now, barbarians though they be." Stef grunted wistfully, "Our swords are too short for this kind of work. But as long as I'm wishing, I'd rather have all of the Saferi here, and me in Safer, with a mug of mulled ale and a fire." Glancing forward at the scorching sun, Reimos amended, "Or at least chilled wine in the shade of a tree that won't attempt to eat me."

"Yeah? That makes it two of us," Tayren wiped the sweat from his head, "What are the bloody spawns waiting for. They expect us to drop our weapons and surrender?"

Stef spat on the ground, "You see any dreadlords? This can prove rather painful without the Sedai."

"Can't see any. There might be some staying in the back."

"Rations!" A soldier interrupted the conversation, tossing tacks to the stationed men. Stef caught his hardtack with a grimy hand, and attempted, but failed, to break it in half.

"They should use these rations for the fieldworks. Well, so much for last meals. So much the pity." Tayren groused and kicked a strut in front of him. It made an uninspiring creaking noise, but held together.

"Tayren, you break that bloody thing, we're nailing you in as replacement. I spent half the light-forsaken night hammering it in." Stef threatened him with his hardtack, when a shudder ran through the earth.

Stef turned his head to the river, to see the overwhelming sight of the Trolloc lines plowing into the water, driving towards the Band. Stef knew that although the Horde started slowly, like a boulder tumbling down a mountainside, it would soon become an unstoppable force.

Stef flexed his sword hand, and waited for the boulder to hit. Thousands and thousands of shaggy Trollocs poured into the river. Scores began to drop, plummeting into the frothy water. The caltrops placed by the specs were doing their jobs with a vengeance. But though many shadowspawns fell splashing, and a faint red sheen appeared on the water surface, the Horde did not abate. Those who fell were trampled and drowned, but there were dozens for every one that fell. They pushed past the bobbing wagon hulks at the midpoint, and came within bow range.

Arrows took flight over Stef's' head, stabbing into the river and the Trollocs like a vengeful rain. The Shadowspawn was enclosed by a ceiling of arrows and a floor of spikes, but continued to plow through the river.

"GET READY!" Stef bellowed, "It's our bloody turn!"

The sergeant stepped forth to the fieldwork braces as the first wave of frothing shadowspawn stepped upon shore, greeted by the wall of spikes. Stef stabbed forth into the chest of a climbing Trolloc, who fell back with a death howl. Stef moved quickly to strike down a second clambering Trolloc, and a third, a forth. Waves and waves of shadowspawn were beaching now, attacking the fieldworks with almost suicidal determination. The front line of the Band strived to keep the Trollocs from ascending the surprisingly resilient fieldwork.

However with waves of Trollocs slamming into the wall, parts of the support began to crumble, and shadowspawn began to break through. Stef thrust up into a Trolloc who had almost managed to scale the works, pushing the corpse back over. However, this gave time for two Shadowspawn to climb over, their torsos scored with red from the spikes, but still healthy enough to put the soldier on the defensive.

Warding off the blows, Stef heard the signal he was waiting for, the beating of swords against shields, echoing down the lines, as more soldiers took it up. Stef gave a cursory tap with his sword while backing away from the fieldworks and shouted, "MOVE BACK!"

Other officers had also taken up the call, and the entire infantry line shifted away from the fieldwork. Only a bright flare and a loud crackling noise signaled the sudden arrival of the fire chewing through the fieldworks. Flammable Naphtha rested in a shallow pit dug beneath the fieldworks and also soaked the wood of the supports. With the front line about to break, the designated soldiers had thrown burning torches into the wall, causing flames to race down the naph-soaked fieldworks.

Swarms of Trollocs had begun scaling the fieldworks without the humans warding them off, when their beady eyes caught sight of the approaching inferno. The shadowspawn attempted to leap back from their perches, but were stopped by the press of their fellow Trollocs behind. The fire tore through the fieldworks, burning hotly from the naph, chewing through wood and flesh alike. Howls of pain infused the air, and a blackened mass fell off the burning wall in front of Stef.

A wall of fire now separated the bulk of the Horde and the Band of Red Hand, buying them valuable time. Stef’s squad quickly finished up the remnants of the Trollocs' advance wave, and retreated back towards the second fieldwork. Keeping together, they streamed through the narrow openings and took up a new position at the second work.

"We got over-run too bloody fast." Stef cursed, "We only got four left."

"We're dead otherwise." A soldier growled.

"Yeah? Well, I'm not rolling over for a spawn." Stef growled. The fire of the first fieldwork began to die down, and Trollocs began to swarm through again, pounding against the next layer of fieldworks.

The Band of Red Hand soon found themselves at the last fieldwork, the black ashes of the first four fieldworks a testament to the day's trials. Though at each wall, they had slain thousands of shadowspawn, the Horde kept throwing itself at the besieged humans.

"We need a bloody miracle to get us out of this mess." Stef muttered to himself as he fought to dislodge a Trolloc from the work, "What the bloody hell is Vader waiting for?"

As Stef ducked below the reach of a climbing Trolloc, he heard a distant bugle. Not from behind him, but faintly in front of him. The horn came again, its clarity pointing to a human origin.

Then a raptor flew over the fraught Band, a bird of magnificence and grace, a red eagle. The sigil of their home lent Reimos strength once more, his tired spirit propped up. He heard himself shouting, "Carai an Caldazar!", and attacking forward with a fury that surprised even him.

Stabbing in through the mist that veiled his mind was the distant horn, growing in intensity and volume, its origin growing closer and closer. The men around Stef had taken up the cries, their swords clearing shadowspawn from the wall.

A Trolloc in front of Stef fell headless from the fieldwork, giving the soldier a view of the river and distant coast. Past the waterway, the Horde had begun to mill in chaos, as a host of humans tore into them from the other side. A host of red-cloaked soldiers bearing the standard of the Caldazar and Red Hand.
Last edited by halfhand on Mon Oct 05, 2020 8:16 pm, edited 1 time in total.

halfhand
Posts: 180
Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 11:12 am

Re: Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars

Post by halfhand » Mon Oct 05, 2020 4:45 pm

Chapter 14: The Burning Rivers

Diest Arcanum shouted above the din of battle, "THEY'RE BREAKING. TARGET THE FADES!"

Missiles arched through the air, slamming down among the Trolloc ranks. The leading Fades' luck could not overcome the sheer number of boulders slamming down from above. The rapid death of many of the Horde's leaders threw the shadowspawn ranks into further confusion. The Band's infantry lines switched quickly to offensive, cutting away at the retreating Trollocs. Across the river, the other half of the Band was slicing through the Horde flanks, forcing the panicking shadowspawn towards the river. The arrival of the presumed dead soldiers had momentarily stunned both sides, but the Band had recovered quickly.

Lightning scored from the heavens, stabbing into the ranks of the shadowspawn. So, the Aes Sedai survived, Arcanum reflected, and perhaps Cathon as well.

A small flash of red pierced through the air, the great crimson eagle clawing at the face of a boar-faced Trolloc. The Red Hand closed in from both sides, hemming the shadowspawn into the water, but resistance soon hardened in the Horde. Though they had taken heavy casualties from the surprise flank attack, the shadowspawns still outnumbered the combined Band at least two to one, and with the surviving Fades ruthlessly driving them, they began to fight back. If immediate actions were not taken, the Trollocs would recover enough to devastate the humans, and were already delivering a punishing counter-offensive.

This was the moment Arcanum was waiting for. The surprisingly rapid progress of the initial Trolloc advance had pushed the retreating catapults out of range of the river. The general had been caught off-guard, as he was planning to wait for the last possible time to unleash the surprise Borsy had set up. Until now, he had cursed the lost opportunity. But now, as his catapults advanced over recovered ground, and the majority of the Horde bottled up in the river, it proved to be the tantalizing target for which Arcanum had waited.

"BLOW THE HULKS!" Arcanum bellowed, his voice carrying across the small rising in which the Thunder Legion had set up advance position. The catapults' carriages snapped their load up, arching up and slamming into thick knots of Trollocs in the river. But, their true targets were the buoyant wagons bobbing in the water, which were shattered by the rain of missiles. The splintered hulks soon leaked their glistening load into the river. The witch's brew diffused rapidly across the top of the water, the current stretching the black liquid around the Trolloc Horde.

Streaks of light arched from positions near the front lines, as archers dipped their arrows into the firepots and let fly at the river. Where the hail of glowing arrows touched the water, tongues of flames licked the surface, inferno swelling violently forth. Within seconds, the river was embroiled in a firestorm that swallowed the Horde. Trollocs that broke free were cut down as the humans closed in. Those who did not die to blades were driven to a fiery death. The Trolloc counterassault deteriorated to chaos, as they found disciplined soldiers to the front and an inferno to their back. The Band of Red Hand was merciless, forcing the last Trollocs to their death in the smoking blaze.

With victory nigh, medics swarmed the fields, bringing in the wounded and dying, setting up camp near Arcanum's station. A particular arrival caught Arcanum's eye, a man whose entire skin surface was a mass of fresh burns and glistening blisters.

"Borsy?" The general hurried over to the prone shape, lying on the makeshift cot. The man opened his blood-shot eyes and gazed up at Arcanum. The Thunder Lord knew immediately that the Chief Engineer would not survive his devastating injuries.

Drov Borsy opened his cracked lips slightly, "Killed by my own creation."

This was followed by a soft raspy chuckling noise, as he struggled for breaths against the thick black eschar constricting his chest and neck. Borsy sighed, "Got caught in the collapse of a burning fieldwork. The soldier who dragged me out...should've left me there. Only postponing..."
The engineer's eyes clouded for a second, then refocused, "Afraid I can't make that...design of yours, Diest. Leis Nosi...will take over. He's a good man. I’m glad to see the burning river. It was...beautiful."

Borsy sighed once more, a whisper of breath’s end, before descending into final silence.

Arcanum kneeled silently for a moment, then detached the man's tattered and burnt cloak and placed it over the blackened corpse. In a quiet voice unlike his namesake, he murmured, "May you find the way to Manetheren, my friend."

Arcanum stood up and watched the final moments of the battle. The river fire burned hot, consuming the bodies of its victims, its thick, black plume rising into the air. Two red eagles flew around the pillar of smoke, dancing ever upwards. The wall of fire separated the two halves of the Band, but would soon expire.

"Thank you, Caldazar." Arcanum called to the eagles as they disappeared into the cloud. A single red feather floated down, alighting upon Borsy's covered body.

halfhand
Posts: 180
Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 11:12 am

Re: Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars

Post by halfhand » Mon Oct 05, 2020 4:48 pm

Chapter Fifteen: Red Flood

The Band of Red Hand stood united before the river of smoldering smoke, the fire's thirst quenched. A spirit of joy and victory suffused the red-cloaked soldiers who had seized victory from the teeth of the Horde. The loss at Getty's Canyon was only a faint memory to the infused soldiers of Manetheren.

Marshall-General Lawe Cathon felt that elation rising, a sort of weightless after the long ages of bearing a heavy burden, a victory long awaited for, a victory so sweet. He stood before the cheering soldiers, the smoking sign of their victory bellowing up behind him.

"It seems your luck still remains, General?" Airena Andalusa gave him a rare quirked smile, "So, you were right after all."

"High praise from you, my lady Airena." Cathon grinned back, and feeling the light spirit of the moment, bowed graciously and kissed her hand. The Aes Sedai touched his cheek lightly and dipped into a slight curtsy. She stepped back to allow Vader to greet Cathon.

"Sir, welcome back to the land of the living," Stren Vader took one knee before Cathon, "I return the office of the Marshall-General back to your hands."

"You have done well, Bastion. If I were to leave in earnest for the land beyond, I will know that the Band will remain well in your able hands, as we had seen today." Cathon placed his hands around the general's shoulder.

Vader stood up, and the two Marshall-Generals clasped hands, the final sign that the Band was whole once more. Vader bowed off, and Cathon turned to face his men.

"True sons of Manetheren!" Cathon shouted over the cheers of the soldiers, "Caldazar has given us this chance, has brought us together once more, for that task that remains. The enemy that hounded us has been destroyed, but the greater enemy still awaits. Though we have become one once more, we have suffered grievously. From Getty's Canyon to this Burning Rivers, we have lost over twenty thousand men of Manetheren, including Lieutenant-General Hill and countless others. Buried in a strange land far from home.

"But we still stand. For we are the steel of Manetheren. Though the Hordes may have stolen the secret of our forge from the Homeland, they have not mastered the art. Their mortal flesh may be stronger, but they are brittle, and will break with a heavy blow. Steel will win over iron, for we will keep on, no matter how beleaguered and battered we are. For they fight for blood and greed, we fight for Manetheren.

"Let the shadows tremble in fear. Let the creatures of darkness howl in terror. Let the black flood churn in dread. For the Band of Red Hand approaches. We have paid the Butcher's Bill too long. It is time to challenge the Butcher himself.

"We bring the blade of red fire to consume the shadows. We bring the chalice of red blood to cleanse the land. We bring the talons of the red eagle to pull down the Fortress of Night. We bring the Red Hand to strangle the Dark One in his own parlor.

"Let the red flood flow forward, for we cannot be stopped. We are the Curse of the Blasted Lands, the Foe of the Shadow, and the Thorn in the Dark One's Side. To Shayol Ghul we march this day! And arrive at last tomorrow!

"Forward the Band of Red Hand! Forward the Caldazar, Forward Manetheren!"

"Shen an Calhar! Shen an Calhar!"

"To Shayol Ghul we march!"

The roar of the soldiers stirred the air, the calls of the men who dared to defy the gods themselves.
Last edited by halfhand on Sun Oct 18, 2020 2:18 pm, edited 1 time in total.

halfhand
Posts: 180
Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 11:12 am

Re: Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars

Post by halfhand » Mon Oct 05, 2020 5:15 pm

Chapter Sixteen: In The Shadow of Shayol Ghul

Every red-cloaked soldier knew they were at the final league; their destination loomed ever higher. But they were driven, the victory the day before easing their weight, and the wings of Caldazar drove them forth. As the sun began to dip in the sky, the Band stopped at the edge of a canyon whose interior was immersed in fog, through which a giant spire rose forth, its peak disappearing far above.

"Thakan'dar." Stef Reimos whispered, tales of his youth returning to his mind. The eternally shrouded valley where the Black Miasma rests, cold as death itself, and half as forgiving. The Band began to circle around the high cliff, seeking an incline down and a place to rest. Stef was caught off guard when he walked under the limbs of a massive tree, for this one looked quite...deader...than the other foliage of the Blasted Lands. His sweeping gaze saw that they had entered a forest, sprawling forth, disappearing into the fog, and beyond in the other direction. These trees did not reach or grab at the passing soldiers, and though their barks were marked by bores and blisters, lacked the sickly growths that the Band had often encountered. In fact, these trees would not be amiss growing in the Westwoods.

"Even the Horde needs healthy wood for their furnaces and war machines." Tayren said, reading Stef’s mind, "Though they probably burn souls for fuel, or what not. But still, I am sure that it would be quite a pain for the Spawns to hafta fight every tree they needed to use."

"More’s the luck for us then. They’re ours for the takin’." Cordin Brogan joined in.

The Band came to a clearing in this forest, presenting all the soldiers with an unadulterated view of Shayol Ghul. The Valley of Thakandar sloped upwards at an almost gentile incline, which Stef realized was the main path. The forest grew to the left, and Thakandar steeped to the right.

"So we have arrived." Stef breathed heavily, his eyes traveling up the black bulk. What the bloody hell were they thinking? There was no way they could take this massive, sinister bastion. But he locked away those doubts, and followed the orders to set up camp.

A messenger rode past, to gather companies for wood duty. Stef was finally glad that he was not "volunteered" this time, giving an audible sigh at the messenger's back. Though the majority of the timber went towards the huge tower-thing growing high up near the back of the camp, companies were allotted small portions.

Stef took his company's share eagerly, starting a bon-fire as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Although the fire was not needed in the muggy weather, it, well, felt good. In the darkness is where men are most vulnerable, their strongest tools useless. Near the pinnacle of evil, it gave the men confidence to have a fire that crackled and popped and took their attention from the morrow's target. Stef thought he knew what the primitive men must have felt when they created fire, for it gave a sense of power to the wielder. The camps had been immersed so long in darkness because of lack of fuel, the return of the fire was like the homecoming of a dear friend.

And as tradition dictated, the men around the fires began to break into story and songs as they shared the hearth. They were no gleemen, but together, they were able to patch together epics of old, bawdy tavern songs, and even children’s tales.

Tayren surprised the group with his near perfect rendition of the Ballad of Caar One-Hand, the late father of King Aemon. Someone was even able to find a working flute for accompaniment. Tayren was no bard, but he did a surprisingly passable rendition as he sang of Prince Caar’s journey from Manetheren to Aridhol to redeem the fallen land, his days of dark torture by Mordeth, and his eventual flight to Aramaelle. He gave an attempt at the high notes of Rhea’s sonata where Caar fell in love with fire-haired Rhea, to much guffaw and laughter. But, he finished strong with the famous Prince’s Lament, where in order to redeem a Shadow-claimed Rhea, he allowed himself to be killed at her hands and save her soul. As he gave his last bellowing note, all the listeners clapped as if it was a wondrous gleeman’s show.

It was the highlight of the night, but soon the soldiers ran out of actual stories, and they turned instead to tales of the places they've been and their own lives. Stef felt better than he has been for a long time, sitting next to the dancing flame, and listening to the personal history of his companions.

And then it was the sergeant's turn, and as he gazed at the fire for a moment, started to speak.

"Well, my life began middling. Born in the city of Corartheren, son of a linen draper gone soldier. Life was hard, but then I don't need to tell you that. The war had been draining, many houses were abandoned, and food was expensive. Then my father went to the Band while I was seven. I grew up by myself generally, teaching and raising myself on the street. Had no father figures, since any able men were gone fighting.

"So, I joined the Post Sentries (lied about my age of course), and found myself stationed up near Jaramide. Well, the part that was still Jaramide that is, the Shadowspawn having run over the majority of it. I got stationed with a real silver tongued bastard, named Tayren Suturb. Well, I learned to fight, and luck brought me out of situations where I should've perished. We passed messages on for the partisans, and learned how to ghost stalk. Well, sort of. It was a hell of a time. We were set alone in a war torn zone with few experience and equipment. I can't even count how many times we barely escaped a Trolloc pot.

"The worst was probably the time that our entire sector was over-run by a Dreadlord and his cronies. When our base was discovered, we ended up on a dead run, dodging through dense foliage with them two steps behind us. At a gut wrenching time, Tayren must have hit a root of something—and I thought I had lost him, because a Trolloc patrol immediately jumped on us. But, I scrambled free, dove through a deep cluster of thorn brushes, which gave me enough head start to reach the closest green sector at dawn. Tayren showed up half a day later, nonchalantly, and we went back to work as if nothing had happened.

"Then, I got posted to Aelgar for basic training. I spent a couple months in the Monastery of the Moon by Ancohima. Didn't really like the Order of Black Moon, but I did learn a few moves. But give me a sword any day. I'd like to see even one of their Master of the Order throw a five hundred pound Trolloc.

"Well, my time was up, and I returned to Manetheren for leave. Then my ma died during a bad winter, and Light, I had nothing to stay for. I enlisted in the Band, and got made sergeant since all the other experienced soldiers' were getting their head chopped off. And, here I am. Sitting outside the gates of the bloody Pit of Doom." Stef finished. He felt...strange...that his entire life story has gone out, all his life's aspirations and hopes summed up in some sentences. As he sat in the light of the flickering fire listening to someone's life, mortality intruded in his thoughts.

Stef twisted his lips at the irony, for after such years in battle with creatures bred to kill, he had begun to feel the touch of transience in his thoughts. Yeah, he had bouts of nerves when faced with rampaging beasts, but truly now did he realize the briefness of his own life. He felt the guilt and regrets of his life. If he could just go back through time, to be with his mother when she needed him instead of proving his manhood in the Jaramide posts. If he could just done all he should've done, instead of being the bloody idiot he had been. If only, if only. To face a future in a shallow pit, or to be a lifeless man like his father...

Speaking of whom, he had not seen Jorj much since the Shayol Ghul campaign, only fleeting sights of someone who could have been. His father had severed all his connections, and the son seemed to be following in the same footsteps.

Stef clenched his fists until they throbbed. No, he had a new family now. He wore that family’s crest on his back, and he sat now with his brothers, fathers, and sons of the sword. That was his only family that matters now, and the other thing that will keep him going. Yet, why did he feel so alone still. Stef sighed, clearing those thoughts from his mind. The battle for Shayol Ghul begins the next day. If it could be brought down, the war would be over, and a child, like he had once been, could have a father and the mother Stef had lost.

halfhand
Posts: 180
Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 11:12 am

Re: Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars

Post by halfhand » Mon Oct 05, 2020 5:25 pm

Chapter Seventeen: Wings of the Night

"The Marshall-General has called a staff meeting." The messenger called to Arcanum, who waved him off with a dismissive hand. The general returned to his study of the beautiful item resting on the makeshift table inside the E-Corps' scavenged tent.

"The woodwork is excellent, in the present circumstances." Arcanum touched the piece, "And the design seems to operate elegantly. But it should, since it was mine after all."

"Yes, sir." Leis Nosi agreed, "Borsy had the main drafts all set up. We only needed the wood that we have found. It might not be sungwood, but it will do for its purpose."

Arcanum picked up the item and hefted it in his arms. To the layman, it would appear to be a giant crossbow, or to be more precise, a scaled down Ballista. The surface was unfinished, but to the general's eyes, it seemed radiant. He touched the loaded bolt and grunted satisfactory at its sharpness.

"The Arbalest." Arcanum murmured thoughtfully to himself, "How many of these can you provide me?"

"Well, currently most of the Corps is occupied with your Siege Trebuchets. But we have about five Arbalests in operational order."

Arcanum glanced up through the cracks of the makeshift tent, towards the three black titans looming up high into the sky. The three siege trebuchets were capable of launching a 1-ton boulder over nearly a league. While its massive size made it impractical for the roving ways of the Band, it was perfect for a siege of a fortress. However, Arcanum still had lingering doubt about its use against Shayol Ghul.

"Five will be enough. Keep focusing on the Three Idylls. If we can't crack the shell off that fat egg, we won't be able to do much of anything."

"We have made significant progress. But we have had setbacks with the departure of Borsy." Leis Nosi shook his head sadly, "We've taken a heavy pounding in the ranks, especially at Burning Rivers, victory or not. Many brilliant minds like Borsy died on the fieldworks as reserves. But the Siege Trebuchets will reach completion by morning. Though since we dumped all our naph and brew in that river, we will have to make use with mundane stones. Airena Sedai did offer to ward some of our rounds as well."

"Good, then that is all I needed to know. I must go see what Cathon wants." Arcanum turned to leave when the entire roof of the patchwork tent collapsed. Arcanum hewed his way out with his sword, throwing the canvas from his head with a curse. He looked up and stared into the eyes of a pale winged man. Arcanum tried to bring up a sword, but he was frozen upon the spot, his muscles paralyzed by the strange cooing emanating from the creature, like a siren's song.

Arcanum could only look up into the inhuman eyes as it approached. Something whistled hard past the captured general's ears and stabbed into the creature's chest. And exploded out of its back. And further stabbed into the ground thirty paces behind the collapsing creature.

"Bloody Draghkar." Arcanum found his voice and command of his body, his sword swinging forth to decapitate the already dead shadowspawn.

"At least we know this thing worked." Leis Nosi walked up, the Arbalist slung on his shoulder, "Overkill... if there is such a thing in war."

"It is not tactical sense to send one of these creatures to kill even a general, unless...raise the alarm, Nosi. If I'm right, there's more Draghkars around. A lot more."

Arcanum crumpled up some parchment to stuff in his ears, before grabbing the Arbalist and bolt pouch from Nosi, who left at a run. Arcanum jammed in a fresh bolt and winched it up as he raced towards the more populous areas.

The swishing of a fast-moving object was the only warning before something hit him in the back, sending him sprawling. Arcanum watched his arbalest spin away, but rolled to a crouch. He pulled out his sword and jammed it into the chest of the poised Draghker, who instead gurgled and tumbled.

Arcanum pulled out his blade and kept it at ready as he retrieved his arbalest. He could hear shouts and calls from the once quiet camp, the sign of a massive raid. As he sprinted closer towards the sleeping areas, he could hear the ring of steel and the shriek of arrows. In the dead of night, he almost tripped over a body. Glancing down at the red-cloaked corpse, Arcanum blanched. Even in the dim light, it looked like something had sucked all the life out of it, its face frozen in surprise.

Arcanum came upon a still raging battle, a squad of men attacking a flying Draghkar who managed to elude their reach. Arcanum brought his arbalest to bear, checked the aim, and let fly with its bolt.

The Draghker fell like a stone.

Arcanum gave a grunt of satisfaction and reached back to discover that there was only one bolt left. He was loading it when the sentry alarms began to go off. Bugles shattered the night with their warning calls, and black hulking shapes began to stalk into the camp. The general cursed as he tried to ram the bolt into its locking carriage, as the shapes grew closer.

A grotesque bear-head loomed down at the general, when Arcanum stabbed him through the muzzle with his sword. Arcanum pulled his blade out, warm liquid dripping down into his hands. He gave up on the arbalest and began to retreat from the fringe of the camp. The Draghkers had tried to work a diversion, for this coming onslaught, and Arcanum did not feel like fighting it alone.

Rallying calls filled the night, as the Band of Red Hand recovered from the surprise attack. Knots of men formed up, and began to cut up the lone elements still present in the camp interior, and turned to face the Trollocs charging in. The fighting turned to close quarter melee, the most dangerous kind when facing creatures of larger girth and strength.

With much of the camp in turmoil, Arcanum began to call out orders to the defenders. Recognizing the general, soldiers began to rally around, a dangerous obstacle in the spawns' way. Like a blacksmith's hammer, Arcanum's company slammed into the Trolloc forces.

Arcanum slashed across a Trolloc's face, and kicked him back, to reveal the figure of an eyeless rider gazing down. Arcanum swung his arbalest up and fired, the bolt stabbing forth. The Fade grabbed the bolt in mid-flight, and snapped it contemptuously. The creature sneered and struck forth. Arcanum barely parried the blow, saved by his rapier training. Though his swordsmanship was not on par with Cathon's, he could manage his own.

The Fade did not realize that his minions lay dead around, and only too late did he realize that he was surrounded by Arcanum's men. It twisted its sword around, to hew a way out, but succeeded in only shattered a soldier's upraised iron shield. Arcanum took the opportunity to swing the arbalest into the Fade's face, its hard edge splintering upon impact. Arcanum's second blow was with his blood-blackened sword, severing the shadowspawn's milky white visage from its neck.

In one motion, the soldiers ducked away, as the corpse shivered and thrashed, and finally stilled when it apparently realized that it was past sundown.

Arcanum glanced around to see only the figures of humans, with the Trolloc raid quashed. He glanced at his sword, hammered of the best Manetheren steel, drenched in the corrosive spawn ichors. He withdrew a handkerchief and wiped clean his sword to the best of his abilities, and threw away the dissolving shred of cloth. He regarded the bodies lying around, and bid good duty to the men who had rallied around him.

As the soldiers began to dissolve into the night, Arcanum remembered that he had a meeting to attend. He sheathed his sword, gazed sadly upon the shattered remains of the arbalest spread across the ground and strolled away toward the direction of HQ.
Last edited by halfhand on Sun Oct 18, 2020 2:18 pm, edited 1 time in total.

halfhand
Posts: 180
Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 11:12 am

Re: Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars

Post by halfhand » Mon Oct 05, 2020 5:55 pm

Chapter Eighteen: Caldazar's Gifts

Lawe Cathon breathed in and felt the old chest wound throb with a dull pain, the result of the recent activity. He was not a young man anymore, and close-quarter battle was a laborious exercise. He was too proud of a man to acknowledge this fact though, and instead of entreating Airena for a healing, kept this hidden, even when she flat out asked him.

"Old man, are you sure that you are okay?" The Aes Sedai glanced at the general, her green eyes flashing.

"Twas nothing you need to mind yourself of, Airena Sedai." Cathon replied, hiding a wince at the sudden effort, and reminded himself to take smaller breaths. He glanced at the shredded remains of the already mutilated HQ tent and sighed. The Draghkers had brought down the canvas upon the heads of the congregating generals and attempted to pick them off one-by-one. But, there was hell to pay as the generals were not unacquainted with swordplay. Cathon did not dishonor his Aristocracy training, and personally brought down two of the shadow's assassins. When Airena and Warder came upon the scene, it was all over for the Dragkhers. To which, the commanders turned towards the routing of the Trolloc raid.

With the beasts' corpses being dragged away from camp (out of healthy fear of their being agents of contagion), the site returned to a semblance of order, and the generals, patched and healed, returned their attention back to the summit.

"Well, it does seem that we must hold this meeting outside." Cathon said, and nodded to Airena, who waved a hand. Though Cathon saw nothing, he knew a ward against wandering ears had enveloped the generals. A shape approaching the congregation soon showed himself to be Arcanum, who entered the sphere after being verified by Warder.

"We have all arrived thus." Cathon cleared his throat, "Well, this assault of the Shadowspawn will not hold us from our attack tomorrow."

"Should not have Airena Sedai's wards given warning of the Draghkers?" Arcanum spoke up.

"My wards, so close to the core of the Dark One, are failing." Airena coolly remarked, "This is the Sightblinder's domain, and I hold little power here unassisted. Simply put, I will be unable to assist in most ways in your assault in the morrow. I can feel the threads of the One Power here grow wild and hard to control. Channeling in Thakan'dar can be a death sentence for even those who are under the Dark One's guide. But I will put up wards against Nightstalkers or Phantom Blades tonight. They may hold up, but I cannot guarantee it."

"We strike one hour after dawn." Cathon said, "Dawn and dusk are immediately ruled out, for as we all must know, the Dark One has his greatest strength during the death of day or night. Through the section of the valley we perceive to be the main pass. As for the Gates of Night, we leave that to Arcanum."

"As you all see, the Siege Trebuchets are near completion." Arcanum said, "And guarded now with the E-Corps' newest machines, the Arbalests. Trust me, that less the Gates are made of heart stone, they will break."

"Shayol Ghul and Thakan'dar will be the heaviest challenge the Band will ever face." Airena Sedai watched each general's face carefully, "All of you have entered directly into the Dark One's sphere of influence. Close as we are, tonight, no men will be able to sleep, for all they will dream are nightmares and incubus. Fear and despair may take them tomorrow, no matter their blood. I will not lie to say that my doubts are great upon the success of your siege."

"I am quite disappointed that you will be unable to lend us much aid, though I do not wish to risk you." Cathon said softly, "But this is a task for Manetheren, and with Manetheren shall we win."

The Marshall-General leaned and picked up a simple red-gold container from the ground by his feet. As the box rotated through the air, its exterior gleamed softly, a testament to long hours of polishing. A small gold eagle adorned the otherwise plain cover, and was smooth all around, showing no cracks of openings.

"A dagger if you will." Cathon asked, his hands moving across the box, feeling its smoothness. Notar hesitated and then drew a bronze-hilted dagger, placing it in the proffered hand. Cathon nodded to Notar, and placed the edge blade against his left thumb and drew it across the skin. A thin trail of blood gleamed in the torchlight as he turned his hand above the container, and squeezed out drops of blood from his cut. The droplets fell upon the red-gold box, pooling for a moment before soaking into the metal.

A line sliced across the box's exterior, enlarging to reveal the opening that was not there before. Cathon returned Notar's stiletto, and opened the box to reveal its interior.

Vader, a Second Lord of Manetheren and almost as well a study of history as Cathon, was the first to recognize the objects, "Light, Cathon. The Timari!"

Airena narrowed her eyes at the items cradled in the box, "Timari? Shells?"

"If you will permit me, Cathon." Vader received the container from Cathon, staring into it with amazement, "How is it you possess this?"

"I am a First Lord of Manetheren and have all rights to the Timari’al’Caldazar."

"If you will excuse my impertinence," Trystan grunted, "But I've never heard of these Shells of Caldazar."

"Allow me, Cathon..." Vader said, "Some call it but an artifact of history, others the true source of power for Manetheren. In the years following the Founding, came the time known as the False Dusk. A creature of the Dark One, stronger than any that ever existed and now long dead, came into the world of the Living. Upon the Day of Umbri, the creature swallowed the Sun as all watched, to the amazement of even the staunchest skeptics. Queen Sorella ay Marena asked the aid of Caldazar, who has been the patron of Manetheren since the days of Jaralus. And in that battle, the creature consumed Caldazar as well, but before she died, she clawed open the belly of the Shadow Maw from within, and the sun fell from the Maw, falling upon the earth of Manetheren, falling upon the nest of Caldazar. And where it touched, a mountain of fire rose.

"Now all accounts say that Sorella came to the Mountains, walking through the rivers of fire, to the nest of Caldazar. The egg had been shattered by the fall of the Sun, but the young red eagle survived; Caldazar was reborn in the fire, and took to the skies. And Sorella sung her praise, and took the six pieces of the eggshell, whose power Caldazar had bound to its own. And Sorella and Caldazar banished the Shadow Maw to whence it came, and pulled the sun back into the sky.

"The mountains of fire died, and in its place stood the Misty Mountain, and where the nest of Caldazar perched, Sorella placed the city of Manetheren, and set the shells to metal and chains. And the shells were passed on from generations to generations, under protection of the Monarch and Lords, for the time of the Last Defense of Manetheren."

"The Shells of Caldazar will allow our victory tomorrow, as it allowed Sorella's banishment of the Shadow Maw." Cathon took the container, and slowly withdrew each of the six items. They did not look to be shells, but shimmering medallions, dangling by silver chains. "It is my strongest advice that each general wear this during the attack, for you will be awarded some protection against the Dark One's touch per legend. I do not make promises, for this is His Domain. But they are better than nothing."

Cathon carefully placed each medallion into the hands of the generals, "And to how I possess this, I will tell you. When King Aemon pledged the Band to the Covenant immediately after his coronation, he handed the Cradle of the Shells to Marshall-General Prodis, First Lord, and said, 'Manetheren is with you, for you are Manetheren. Go with the Shells of Caldazar, in the last defense of Manetheren.' And, when Prodis died at Wikun's Folly, the Shells were passed to me. And the destruction of Shayol Ghul will preserve Manetheren's safety, for can anything else be the Last Defense of Manetheren?"

Cathon finished, and stood silent for a moment, "That is all we have tonight. You each know your personal orders. Dismissed."

Cathon fastened the medallion upon his own neck, and gazed up quietly up at the heavens, as the generals departed. He was brought out of contemplation when he realized that Diadrem still remained.

"Marshall-General, sir." Diadrem said, his hand still holding his Shell, "I regret to say that I will not be able to wear this tomorrow."

When Cathon arched his brow, Diadrem continued, "My men do not receive this protection that I do. And I will not go into battle knowing that I am at less risk than they are. I ask the same of them that I ask of myself. I cannot."

Diadrem placed the medallion in Cathon's hands, saluted smartly, and left.

Cathon glanced at Diadrem's Shell, and slowly placed it back in its Cradle, sealing it.

"Cathon, do you truly believe that you can take Shayol Ghul? That those medallions will protect your men?" Airena Sedai asked, now standing alone with the general.

"That is a question I ask myself time after time." Cathon replied, "But do not think that I am insane to attack Shayol Ghul. I am not so foolish to think that I will raze the walls of the Black Bastion and kill the Dark One in a duel. The Pits of Doom and the Seal and Bore I will not disturb. I am no Dragon."

"Then what is it you are attempting to accomplish?"

"I am not irrational. Many reasons dictate this attack. Shayol Ghul is the breeding grounds of the Shadowspawn. Slay the spawns of the spawns, and slay their mothers, and the War Machine of the Dark One grinds to a halt. Enough time for the Nations of the Compact to recover and prepare.

"The war is wearing the nations out, and there is no end to sight. A titular destruction of the seat of the Shadow will do much to restore faith.

"Finally, I ask you, Airena Sedai, why after all those long centuries after the Breaking had the Trollocs stormed Barsine, to start the Trolloc Wars. Why had they not begun earlier before the Covenant was even formed? Creatures of strength they are. Creatures of intelligence and planning they are not. For such organization in this war, they are driven by something. Someone. The Dark One is still sealed, so they take command from someone else. Who do you think planted that forest? Would the Dark One care if his minions are efficient or not? The driving forth of the Trolloc resides in Shayol Ghul. The General, if you will, must die. And when he dies, the Trollocs will lose their leadership and falter.

"That is why we are here. Not for some delusion of grandeur, but for the cold, listed reasons of stopping this War." Cathon finished almost at a shout, and composed himself. The pair was surrounded by silence, before the Aes Sedai changed the subject.

"And the Timari’al’Caldazar, Cathon?" She asked, her eyes glancing down at the closed box, "How is it that few know of this?"

"Matters of Manetheren are matters of Manetheren, Airena." Cathon glanced at Airena. With the high shadows cast by the torches, Cathon realized the Aes Sedai looked quite bewitching, though she might have found the term offensive.

The Aes Sedai accepted his explanation, and glided closer, touching the medallion hanging from his neck, "An odd artifact...I have never seen anything quite like this. That design, especially. That looks like the Flame of Tar Valon and the other....If..."

Cathon felt icy coldness seeping through his shirt from the medallion, and Airena drew back in surprise. It was one of the few times Cathon had seen Airena so astounded, her eyes widening.

"Are you alright?" Cathon moved towards her.

"I...my powers..." Airena looked up at Cathon, "Must be failing so close to Shayol Ghul..."

Then Airena almost ran away into the darkness, Warder taking up her side. Cathon looked down at his medallion, and slowly traced his fingers over the foxhead engraved upon the Timari.
Last edited by halfhand on Sun Oct 18, 2020 2:19 pm, edited 2 times in total.

Post Reply