9 Tales From Elsewhere 10

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  Everywhere he looked he could see his failure in the weeping faces of those whose loved ones had passed into The Fade.

  An old woman squeezed by the guardsmen and marched towards the prince. “Murderous fool!” she cursed, shaking her hand in a ball of fury.

  “Get back, woman!” a man of the watch forcefully pulled her from the street, sending a clear message to others not to approach Prince Sytre and the other returning soldiers.

  The old one wasn’t the only one mourning. She was one of many who grieved, one of many whom he had failed, one of many who would now feel, what the shamans called, the Echoes of the Fallen.

  Her face faded into the crowd as he walked onto the keep. Taking a deep breath Sytre stared up towards citadel doors. His father and his older brother would be waiting for him inside the throne room, along with several other members of his family. He wasn’t deserving of this today, of all days. The thought of what was to come churned his stomach.

  He felt a firm hand rest on his shoulder. It was his new second-in-command. Sytre’s lieutenant didn’t say anything, the man knew what his lord was going through, and so all he did was nod. Sytre knew the gesture was comforting, but he couldn’t make himself appreciate it. A stiff nod was all he could manage in return. Sighing, he took the first step towards Vygar Keep, named after his family and the man whom built the city. After the day’s march, climbing a hundred steps in a full suit of armour was less than enticing. Though, it was a welcomed punishment, one far more lenient than he deserved.

  He strode through the inner hall, making his way to the throne room. From the entrance above the stairs it was a single, white-stoned hallway to where his family waited. It was said that having such easy access to the throne room not only showed the people that their king was welcoming of them, but also showed them strength and courage in that he did not fear being so easily found.

  From down the hall he could see his father, King Garyn Vygar, sitting on his silver throne. A Keeper of the House dashed out, spinning to avoid hitting the Prince, and ran on into the next room. “Sorry, my Prince, but a Keeper’s work is never done!” the keeper shouted back.

  His older brother, Agron, stood by their father’s right. Sytre could see them both smiling, normally he would be swollen with pride and victory but those feelings did not fill him today.

  “So, the Golden Boy of House Vygar has finally come home.” His brother smiled. “Welcome back, Sytre.” Agron gave him a wink with his one good eye, a gesture that was never quite the same after he’d received his eyepatch.

  As was customary Sytre knelt before the throne, with his head bowed, and waited for his king to command him otherwise. “Rise, my son,” his father began, “you are victorious once again. Your enemies have fallen before you and have been beaten back into the darkness.” Now would be the time for Sytre to get to his feet, but his legs felt weak beneath him.

  Agron chuckled, “This makes what? Twenty-eight successful campaigns for you, little brother?”

  “Silence, Agron.” Their father always hated being interrupted, though none of his children could ever help themselves. Agron simply smiled.

  He swallowed hard and, despite his efforts, tears forced themselves from his eyes darkening the white carpet with wet spots. “I… I am not worthy of praise. I failed.” He lifted his head, the shocked expressions on his father’s face was obvious. He looked around the room, only his family were present. This was lucky. It would not have been ‘princely’ to shed tears in front of his subjects. His uncle and grandfather stood together behind the throne, and the rest of his family around the room. Aside from four palace guards, they were the only ones present.

  “Why would you say such things, brother?” Agron stepped down from their father’s side and offered his hand. “What your diversion did led to victory for my troops as well, we have beaten the Ardumier out of the Borderlands and back into Scorched Peak. We have won.”

  He knew his brother was right in this. He nodded and took his hand to get up.

  Sytre was grim, his hazel eyes distant and hollow. “For… Forty-eight,” he bit his lip, unwilling to continue. He looked up to his father, his eyes glancing between him and Agron. Sytre shook his head. “I kept forty-eight soldiers alive. I lost four hundred and fifty-two,” he felt disgusted. “And I still receive praise? Just… don’t, Father.”

  A pained look crossed Garyn’s face. “My son…” The king walked down to him and placed his hands upon Sytre’s shoulders. “It was little more than a suicide mission. You weren’t even supposed to be there.”

  A dark glare shot into Sytre’s eyes, “I went because we have no right to ask our soldiers to die for us, if we would not die for them.”

  “And that is how we Vygars have ruled all this time, but this was different. I was certain I was letting you go to your death, my son. It is lucky that any of you survived. Their noble sacrifices led to a major victory and the reclaiming of lost land.” Garyn looked into his boy’s eyes, “You did well, Sytre.”

  His father’s words did little to settle his nerves. The victory was empty. More than four hundred wives, husbands and children grieve today. This trauma, this loss, has them all afflicted with the Echoes of the Fallen. It was because he couldn’t keep more alive. “I know what you are saying. ‘People die, it is part of war.’ I just can’t accept losing so many.”

  A rough, deep voice weighed in, “And why is it you feel like this? When you lead the armies of the Third Assault Force far more perish. How is this different?” Barca stepped forward.

  “I… I don’t know. I don’t have an answer for you, Uncle. It… just is. When I look at those who survived, I see that all of their friends are dead and yet I am alive. Knowing that it isn’t the other way around kills me.” Sytre stepped back from his parent. “Excuse me, Father, I need to be alone.” With a sad smile Sytre turned on his heel and marched back out the front and down the steps, leaving Vygar Keep and his confused family behind.

  Chapter 2

  Memories of the Past

  The Ardumeir fell to his knees as Sytre put a sword between the metal plating of his dark, patchy breastplate and straight through its heart. The undead elf choked up black blood as his life ebbed away and death found him for the second time. The once beautiful Ildumier, cursed with walking the earth again as an Ardumier warrior, had been put to rest once more and this time it would never rise again. Sytre thanked the All Being for that.

  “My Lord!” a soldier shouted. “My Lord!” he cried again when he got no reply. “Sytre!”

  “What is it, Forlen?” Sytre demanded as he slid his blade out of his foe’s body.

  “We have to keep moving, there is a second company moving to reinforce the Aldumier, if we don’t…”

  “Yeah, I know… We’ll be surrounded.” Sytre looked around the battlefield. Warriors, both friend and foe, were dying everywhere he looked. “We all knew this was probably going to be a one way trip…” He gritted his teeth. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like being forced into a situation where he couldn’t win. He’d lost thirty men in this first skirmish already.

  He looked up to the sky, checking the position of the sun. It had long past its zenith and had begun to dip below the horizon, casting purple and pinks across the darkened sky. “We will not fall like the sun does this day.”

  Sytre fumbled at his side, grasping his Enskar bone war horn and brought it to his lips. He let loose a powerful breath and a loud, resounding bellow rose above the sounds of battle, signalling the retreat. “Fall back! Get back over the ridge!” Sytre shouted. The men and women that he commanded scrambled up the side of the rocky hills behind their leader.

  “Forlen, we’ve given Agron enough time by now. We need to get everyone back, now!” Sytre charged up the hill. He stopped short as he stared over the next plain of battle.

  “Hoorah! Hoorah! Hoorah!”

  Aruks. Thousands of them. Sytre’s jaw dropped as he looked over the enemy. They were surrounded. Sytre could see th
e bone ornaments swaying over the hulking bodies of muscle and power that were the aruks. They were as blood thirsty as the demonic bastards that conjured them. They were bred to be killers and were forged into weapons from birth. Sytre had never battled with an army of them before, as their homelands were far away across the Blighted Sea. They bared their razored teeth and battered their weapons of death against their iron shields; some could even summon up some kind of dark magic.

  “They wield Chaos,” a knight somewhere to his left muttered, disheartened.

  “Wh-What are we going to do, my Lord?” Forlen asked. Sytre looked from the battlefield to him and back to the enemy. There was only one thing he could do. Get his men home alive.

  His body began to shake. He lifted his sword and powers of the light surged around his silver infused, steel blade. The bright glow warmed around his plated steel armour and his pauldrons shaped as the wings of a gryphon. Even his white tabard, trimmed in gold and bearing the five headed hydra crest of his house, began to glimmer.

  “For Silverseat!” his men shouted as they witnessed the Light, renewing their strength. One by one the other zealots ignited with radiant light, shining as beacons of hope, but none as brightly as the Prince.

  “We will not die!” Sytre shouted, “We will make it home alive!” He charged, with four hundred and seventy brave souls at his back, straight into the troops of their foe.

  Sytre knew that they were all likely to perish before reaching the other side of the field, and when they collided with the aruks it was carnage, pure and brutal. The aruks were larger and stronger. They felt nothing of pain, even when losing limbs they fought on as if nothing had touched them. Their bloodlust was insatiable and relentless.

  He could hear his soldiers dying. The cries of pain while soldiers bled out, arms ripped from their bodies, was unbearable. It had never hit him until now, not in a single one of his battles. All he could see as he looked around was his friends falling, destined to join the Ardumier in undeath. He fought on but as doubt and fear crawled its way into his heart the light surrounding him faded to nothing more than a dull glow.

  “Sytre!” Forlen shouted, his sound drowned out by the dying.

  “Sytre!”

  The voice was distant to the Prince. He could hear it, but it was as an echo calling to him from another time, another place.

  “Sytre! Damnit, snap out of it!” A mug full of ale crashed down, almost flipping the table. Sytre shook himself back into reality. He took a few deep breaths and blinked away his visions. A rundown alehouse soon came into focus, as did a shadow that loomed over him. The orange beard of Thuldin Shieldback, his mentor, pressed in close to his face. “Hey, ar’ ya hearin’ me boy?” Sytre could smell the ale on his breath.

  He sat back in his chair, “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. What the hell do you want?” Sytre crossed his arms. Thuldin got comfortable and slumped into the seat next to him. “I don’t remember asking you to join me. Haven’t you heard of personal space?”

  “Close yer trap, windbag, and listen up.” That made Sytre’s eye twitch. “I don’t know what happened out there, but ye’re different. The Light isn’t connecting with ye as it did when ye left. I know, because I taught ye, lad.” Thuldin chugged down half a mug of ale, “So are ye goin’ to tell me, or do I have to beat it out o’ ye like the ol’ days?”

  Sytre stared into his tankard. He couldn’t look his mentor in the eye. He couldn’t stand seeing that worried, concerned gaze that Thuldin always seemed to give him whenever something was wrong. “You know I’ve always hated that you could tell when something was wrong.” He’d bet that even if the senior zealot couldn’t sense the weakened light field around him, he would still know something was wrong.

  Thuldin chuckled, stroking his beard, “Like the time ye shot Garyn’s parrot with an arrow.” His smile faded with his laugh and Shieldback’s brow furrowed, “It’s as clear as day to anyone that something is wrong.”

  “I’m… I’m sorry, Thuldin. I need to go…” Sytre stood but Thuldin grabbed his arm and yanked him close.

  “Be wary, lad, you’ve the curse upon your soul. I can see it in yer eyes. The Echoes of the Fallen are tormenting you. Just accept it, boy. Accept their loss, and move on.”

  Sytre howled in fury, he didn’t even know where it had come from, or why. It was just there, overwhelming, consuming him. Before he knew what he was doing his hands lashed out and grabbed Thuldin by the collar. “What do you know about it, Old Man? You weren’t there when your entire platoon were being butchered like cattle by a horde of brutes!” He shoved his mentor against the wall. “Stay out of my way, Thuldin, I’m not in the best of moods.” Sytre looked up. Everyone in the tavern was staring at him. They were shocked.

  Thuldin pulled his collar away from his throat, “What happened to the Golden Boy of Silverseat?” He watched Sytre’s eyes grow dark. “The Echoes…” Thuldin whispered to himself.

  “What are you looking at?” the Prince hissed at the patrons. He stormed out into the empty streets of his city.

  Chapter 3

  Darkness

  Sytre cursed himself as he marched through the cold night. His heart sunk, he felt muddy and not like his usual self. Tonight’s rain had brought with it more than water and muck. “Why did he have to push me? Why? Why?” His anger at the man was wrong and misplaced. But, what was worse, he didn’t regret it either.

  Thunder boomed overhead and the night sky lit up as lightening flashed across the moonless sky. He pulled at his undershirt. “Damn it! Why’d it have to rain while I’m still in armour?” There was no one around to listen. Other than the odd drunk leaning against a post or a door, Silverseat was deserted. Fires glowed through almost every window in the streets, helping him find his way.

  A crash echoed through the night as lightening surged through the sky, striking a chimney. Sytre rubbed his arms, trying to work the electricity in the air out of his body as his hairs pulled towards his armour. “I should have worn my leather...” he grumbled.

  He ducked into a lit alleyway and wiped the rain from his face. Sytre rested his head upon the bricked wall, the warm light of someone’s fire, glowing through a window, felt nice against his cold skin. “At least it’s a little dry here,” he sighed; the overhang of the buildings sheltered him from the brunt of the rain.

  “Oi!” Sytre looked over to the voice. Through the dark he could see three silhouettes against the glow of the moon, and another appeared next to him. “So you’re the Prince, ey? The little piece of a rat’s foreskin that got our boys and girls slaughtered for no good reason.”

  “Aye, that’s ‘im. I’d recognise the King’s littl’ pecker-boy anywhere,” another voice called.

  The four shadows advanced. “Stay back!” Sytre warned. They grunted out some laughter and ignored him. Still feeling the effects of the drinks he’d enjoyed earlier in the night, he caught the glints of steel in the fire’s light. They were armed and his head was spinning. He breathed in deep. “I am your Pri-” the leader’s arm shot out, the blade cut through the air. Sytre flinched and the edge of the knife struck Sytre on the cheek.

  “Bullocks, I missed,” the man cursed and pulled a second dagger from his belt.

  Sytre stumbled back a few paces and drew his sword. He clenched his fist and gritted his teeth. Focusing in his state was hard. “Light, bless me,” he mumbled. He felt a weak empowerment grow within him. A dim brightness illuminated from him. It was enough to help his focus.

  “Stay back, I don’t want to hurt you,” Sytre’s warned, but his words fell on deaf ears.

  “You ‘ear that, lads? He’s goin’ to hurt us.” The man laughed, and lunged again. He aimed for Sytre’s face. Without thinking Sytre stepped into the thrust and caught the man’s arm under his own and shoved his silver blade though the cutthroat’s stomach. This man, this citizen, who’d just tried to kill his Prince, gave Sytre a confused look as he slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor in a pool of blood.

 
The other three howled and attacked. Sytre moved fast, relying on the instinct his years of battle had instilled in him. He turned and launched himself at the one coming from behind. The young man slashed his dagger up towards Sytre. It was an easy thing to raise his blade and parry the strike before sliding his sword across the assailant’s throat.

  Sytre used his hilt to knock the man down for good. Finally, it was one against two and he didn’t have an enemy at his back. “Leave. Now.”

  The two remaining assailants hesitated. “What do yo’ think, Crabba? He’s pretty good. Maybe we should get out of here?” Sytre thought they were going to tuck tail and run but their friend’s last blood curdling gasps escaped him and he died clutching his neck. “Oh, sod, Gren! You bastard!” The man whipped himself up into a fury.

  They attacked him simultaneously. Sytre stepped forward and delivered a heavy kick to Crabba while raising his arm to the incoming slash of the other. The small blade barely scratched the plated steel gauntlets Sytre wore. He shoved his sword down through Crabba’s collar bone before quickly dealing with the other.

  That was it. It was done. Sytre was breathing heavily. “You…” Sytre looked down, the last to fall grabbed at his ankle. “Our children put their lives in your hands, because they believed in you. They trusted you. My dau...” he was caught off by a coughing fit, he splattered up blood. He gave Sytre a hard, hateful glare. “My daughter loved you. Her noble Commander. You… killed them… all…” his last breath left him as he died.

  Sytre stared at the man’s corpse. The power of the light within him faded and he was shocked. ‘You killed them all.’ The words repeated themselves in his head, over and over. ‘You killed them all.’ He stumbled out of the alley way until he found himself in front of the graveyard. “You killed them all…” he repeated out loud. He could hardly hear himself against the torrential downpour. His knees felt weak and buckled under him, he fell.

  “I killed them all.”