Rogue Vanguard: Book One of the Eterialumen

by Peter Hall

  E.

  XIII

  Where the Wild Things Are

  Swords and Silver armor glistened in the moonlight as the Legion soldiers marched tirelessly across the Siera Valley. Huge flags of royal blue flapped in the breeze, high over the heads of the three hundred or so men of the Eleventh Brigade. They were marching east from the capitol to assist in a fierce battle taking place at the foot of the mountains. A large raider army crossed into Siera during the night and the Kantonese forces had intercepted them at Drens Field.

  Durandal left home the day he turned sixteen years old to become a soldier. He had served a year in the Siera Legion and taken part in a few minor skirmishes, but nothing could have prepared the young man for the chaos he was walking into this day. The situation was dire when Kanton sent out the call for assistance. As they approached the battlefield Durandal saw fires blazing across the horizon and thick black smoke covering the valley for miles. The Kanton Army was dug in behind a wide ridgeline and the raiders were shooting waves of flaming arrows down from the mountains onto the soldiers. There were around a thousand warriors engaged in combat beyond the ridge. Fierce raiders with huge curved swords were hacking the outnumbered Kantonese soldiers to pieces as they stormed through the lines on their stocky long haired mounts. The Kanton Army had constructed a line of spears and archers defending the western side of Drens Field and their Muso Warriors were on the battlefield swinging their long flat swords and dashing between the mounted raiders in what amounted to a contest of speed and agility versus brute strength.

  The Kantonese soldiers cheered when the Eleventh arrived. The force of highly trained soldiers immediately got in formation and charged onto the battlefield, meeting the raiders head on. Durandal felt at least four arrows bounce off his armor before he had even crossed the ridgeline. He ran headlong into the smoke and fire towards the incoming raiders, holding his sword high. The battlefield roared with shouting and screaming, horses squealing and arrows whistling through the air, steel clashing and guts spilling, armor clanking and blood spraying. There were hundreds of bodies scattered across the field and many injured with limbs missing or mortal wounds gushing into pools of blood slowly spreading across the grasslands in all directions.

  Durandal deflected a curved sword that came at him through the smoke and stabbed, sinking the blade into his target. He heard a horse coming from the left, he swung and clipped the rider in the back as he passed by. He watched the huge warrior adorned in black furs slump off his horse moments later. Sweat was beading down his face under the heavy steel helmet and his eyes were stinging. Another horse passed and he dropped to one knee and hacked the horses legs, sending the rider soaring into the air. He saw a Muso Warrior fighting two raiders ahead and charged in. He swung his blade and decapitated one as the Muso sliced the others sword-arm off at the elbow. He turned to his right and saw a Legion soldier get his head crushed by a giant steel ball attached to a chain, blood exploding from his crumpled silver helmet.

  More swords were coming at him through the smoke and darkness and he realized he was surrounded by fire. He felt arrows bouncing off his back as another raider attacked. He deflected the blade and ran the raider through. As he pulled his blade from the burly desert dweller a horse passed by and Durandal was knocked forward, toppling over onto the ground. A raider ran up and slammed his curved sword down and it cracked his leg armour, slicing deep into his thigh in a spray of blood. Durandal screamed and swung his sword into the raiders leg, hacking it completely off. The raider wailed and fell over as Durandal got back to his feet. Hades! Blood was gushing from his leg and he fell over again amongst the blood and bodies. His vision was starting to go blurry and the pain in his leg was intense.

  He saw two Legion soldiers emerge from the smoke. They picked him up by his armor and carried him back across the field to the ridgeline, through the chaos, fire and death on all sides.

  They removed his helmet and leg armor, inspecting the wound on the edge of the battlefield.

  “I’m sorry son, we're going to have to amputate.” the soldier said and unsheathed his sword.

  “No!” Durandal screamed. “No wait!”

  The soldier held his sword back for a moment, as blood poured from the deep wound in Durandal’s leg.

  “Give me a horse!” Durandal said. “Let me die with honor!”

  The soldier lowered his sword and grabbed a squire that was standing next to him.

  “Bandage his leg boy, now!” the soldier ordered. He turned and removed his helmet, whistling over the chaos of clashing steel and screaming coming from Drens Field. A beautiful black stallion with the royal standard of Velden on its blanket came trotting over. The soldier walked the horse over as Durandal got to his feet.

  “Take my horse. May Esra be with you.” the soldier said, handing him the reins.

  Durandal winced as he mounted the mighty steed and the soldier handed him his sword. Durandal gripped the blade and kicked his heels, charging back onto the battlefield. He cut to the left and sprinted to the northern side of Drens Field, then cut across to the east, just outside the view of the archers lining the mountains. He cut to the right and charged south, heading back towards the battle along the foot of the mountains. He could see archers up ahead and soldiers gathered around. He kicked his heels and sped towards the enemy line. They had no idea the lone soldier had flanked them.

  Durandal swung his sword as he rode past the archers and clipped dozens of them standing around focusing on their aim, totally unaware he was bearing down on them. They screamed and shouted and after a few moments there were hundreds of arrows flying past the young soldier as he kicked his heels and sped across the enemy line. He felt an arrow sink into his leg and a dozen more bounce off his cuirass.

  The Legion soldiers watched on as Durandal tore all the way across the enemy front on the black stallion, sending the raiders into total confusion. The archers were all focused on him and they were setting the mountains alight trying to take out the lone rider. They were blowing their horns from the mountains, which sent half of their troops running from the battlefield in a panic. The Legion seized their moment and charged the enemy line. As Durandal made it to the southern end of Drens Field he turned his horse and looked back to see the Legion soldiers advancing up the mountain. The tide of battle had turned. The raiders were being decimated as they tried to retreat up the steep eastern slopes. By the time Durandal made it back to the soldiers, it was over. The battle was won.

  Durandal was taken back to Velden and the royal healers were able to save his leg from amputation. He was praised for his valor at the battle of Drens Field and awarded a medal of bravery from the King himself, along with the black stallion he had made his suicide run with. The Commander of the Siera Legion promoted Durandal to the rank of Chevalier, a rank slightly below that of Knight. Chevalier’s did the dirty work without the pomp and ceremony the royal knights were accustomed to enjoying, which suited Durandal perfectly. They gave him his choice of assignment and he asked to be transferred to the Southern Frontier. The Commander was surprised at Durandal’s choice of posting. The Southern Frontier was a wild and dangerous place where fierce skirmishes were common between the Legion and the tribes of the south. As the people of Siera had expanded their cities and towns further out, they had been met with fierce resistance from the native peoples that inhabited the barrons separating the jungles of the Southern Wilds from the rolling grasslands of southern Siera.

  “Why in Hades would you choose assignment at the frontier boy?” The Commander said, as he looked up from his desk at Durandal with incredulity.

  “I wish to see it Sir, before it’s gone.” Durandal said.

  The Commander eyeballed him for a moment and finished signing the paperwork.

  “Enjoy.” the Commander said, handing him the papers.

  Durandal took his leave and headed to the stables. He packed his horse and took off south towards his new posting at Fort Duskwood.

  He rode south th
rough the central forests and plains of Siera for weeks. It was a long journey across the countryside but it passed without incident. He was exhausted by the time he finally arrived at Duskwood and after unpacking his belongings from his tired mount, Durandal headed straight for the horse trough and splashed his face with water. As he walked through the gates with his blanket over his shoulder, he realized it was chaos inside the walls. Soldiers were running around, strapping their armor on and mounting their steeds. Durandal grabbed a soldier as he jogged by.

  “What is happening?”

  “Raiding party coming in from the south.” the soldier said and ran off towards the stables.

  Durandal jogged over to the gates and placed his belongings on a wooden crate inside the walls. He brushed his scruffy black hair from his forehead and took a few breaths. The sun was setting over the hills to the west and a cold wind was blowing across the plains. No rest for the damned, he thought and ran back out to his horse.

  The men gathered on the southern side of the fort in the wide open grasslands that bordered on the frontier. The Commander of Duskwood rode up on a white horse, his blue cape billowing in the wind. Durandal joined the soldiers in formation and they slowly marched south. As they headed south across the plain, Durandal saw shadows in the distance, getting closer.

  “Charge!” The Commander called and the bugle player belted out the Legion war cry. The men roared and charged towards the enemy at full speed, unsheathing their longswords and holding the silver blades high in the dying light. Arrows whistled past Durandal’s face as the shadows got closer and all of a sudden they were amongst them. Spears shot through the air and skewered men, knocking them from their mounts. Swords flashed and fur covered warriors were being dismembered and decapitated as the horses were swarmed. Soldiers were being dragged from their horses and stabbed to death on the ground. Durandal cut left and right, swinging his blade back and forth, cutting a line through the tribal warriors. They had tan skin and dark hair and were covered in wolf furs. Durandal looked to his right and saw a tribal warrior had jumped up onto the Commander’s horse and they were struggling. He kicked his heels and sprinted towards them. He swung just as the warrior was going to stab the Commander in the neck, severing his arm. The warrior screamed and fell to the ground. The Commander looked back and saw Durandal stop and turn. They shared a glance and returned to battle.

  After a short while, the remaining tribal warriors scattered and the Legion had won the day, suffering only minor casualties. When the soldiers arrived back at Fort Duskwood, the Commander called Durandal into his quarters.

  “Who the Hades are you?” the Commander said with his hands on his hips.

  “Durandal of Velden. I have been assigned to Duskwood by the Supreme Commander of the Legion.”

  The Commander's eyes widened. “Oh well isn't that just lovely. What are you? Another one of his bastard sons! How dare you come in here and interfere with my operations! This is my Fort! Do you understand, boy?”

  Durandal could smell alcohol on the Commander’s breath.

  “Sir I don’t know what you are talking about. I am here to serve the Legion, nothing more.”

  The Commander's eyes widened and he stepped forward into Durandal’s face.

  “Oh really? Well I've got just the assignment for you, Chevalier. Report to Gorn Outpost by sundown tomorrow.”

  Durandal gritted his teeth and stared down the Commander.

  “Thank you Sir.”

  The Commander grinned. “Get out.”

  Durandal arrived at Gorn Outpost just before sundown the following day. He walked his horse around the perimeter of the small fort and realized it was deserted. It was a square building, two stories high made of stone with a grass roof. The fort sat on a hill not too far from a dense thicket of dead trees to the south. Gorn was the most remote outpost on the frontier. The ground was dry and what little vegetation was growing in the arid region appeared to be dead on arrival.

  There was a stone wall surrounding the structure with spikes coming out from the base. A gate at the eastern side of the wall led to a small courtyard with a stable. Durandal dismounted and walked around, inspecting the abandoned fort for some time, then settled in for the night. He awoke the next morning and cooked himself some stew over a small hearth on the lower floor of the fort. He sat outside and ate, watching yellow grass sway as the wind rolled across the plains and considered his predicament. He did not want to return to Duskwood. Perhaps the Commander thought he was a spy, or perhaps he was crazy, or a drunk. Either way, he wasn’t welcome there. So he decided that day that he would remain at Gorn and guard the outpost alone.

  A few days passed and Durandal began to settle in to life at the remote outpost. It was quiet, peaceful. He watched the sun rise and set over the plains and saw the birds flying south, heading to the Southern Wilds for the winter. He found a bow and hunted game during the day. A week passed and he found that he was enjoying his new routine. He tidied up the fort and fixed the gate. He found a diary book that was left behind from whoever was there previously and started making his own notes. He drew pictures of the landscape, of the flora and fauna and wrote his thoughts down from time to time. He tanned hides and made clothing of leathers and furs to keep himself warm as the winter months began.

  Two months passed and a messenger boy arrived at the fort with a letter that came from Velden. The letter was sent to all the forts in Siera. It was somewhat of a herald informing the Legion’s Commanders of developments that have occurred throughout the season. Durandal read the letter and it contained a list of fallen Legion soldiers. Towards the end of the list he saw ‘Commander Farris of Duskwood ~ Died of Self Inflicted Wound’.

  “Hey! How did you know I was here?” Durandal shouted out to the messenger boy as he began to head back north.

  “I didn’t… This fort was on my list though so I came here anyway. To be honest I thought it was abandoned.” the boy said and took off across the plains.

  As Durandal watched him ride away, he saw a shape darting across the grasslands towards the boy. It looked like a huge animal of some kind. It was bounding on all fours and it launched at the boy, sending him flying from his saddle. Durandal ran to the edge of the hill where the fort sat and watched the animal in the distance pin the boy down and rip him to shreds. The black beast stood over the dead body and howled at the sky, then sprinted across the plains into the thicket of dead trees to the south. Durandal ran back inside the fort and locked the gate. He sprinted across the courtyard and into the fort, locking the door behind him. He headed up the narrow stone staircase and grabbed his bow and quiver. He walked the perimeter of the room and scanned the perimeter through the long windows carved in the stone walls. He watched the treeline for any signs of the beast until the sun went down, but it did not return that night.

  Now Durandal knew he was alone. The Commander of Duskwood was dead and so was the messenger boy. No one else knew he was at the remote outpost... and now he had a beast on his hands. He drew a picture of the beast in his diary and stayed at the fort all day, keeping watch. That night, just as he had begun to fall asleep, he heard rustling noises at the stables. He peered out from the upper window and searched the darkness. He saw a shadow moving near his horse. He saw fur in the moonlight. His heart was racing. Why isn’t the horse in a panic? He thought. When the figure started walking the horse towards the gate. It’s a native! Hades he’s stealing my horse!

  Durandal jumped up and grabbed his sword, sheathing it at his waist. He pulled his boots on and flung his hooded fur cape over his shoulders, then headed for the stairs. He unlocked the door and ran out into the courtyard as the native warrior sped off on his horse through the gates. Hades! He sprinted after the horse as it headed into the woods to the south. Durandal had never ventured far past the treeline, the dead woods of Gorn went for miles into the southern barrens and there were more than likely hostile tribes living within their borders. It wasn’t the tribes Durandal was worried about this ni
ght, however. He was scanning the trees for the beast. As he sprinted further into the woods the horse got further and further ahead until he lost sight of it. He kept moving south with his sword in hand, skipping over branches and vines, darting between the twisted dead trees and plants in the misty moonlight filtering into the dark forest.

  He started to slow down and just as he was about to stop and turn back, he saw a light ahead, flickering in the distance amongst the trees. The wind howled through the woods and the dead branches rattled and creaked as he made his way through the darkness towards the light. He stayed low as he got closer to the light, then he hid behind a tree, watching from a distance.

  There was a tribe ahead, dancing around a fire. They were naked and their skin was painted with white lines drawn in patterns all over their bodies. He spotted others hiding in the woods, wearing furs, guarding the tribe in the darkness. He slowly crept away and headed back north through the woods. He made it to the treeline and wiped the sweat from his brow. He sheathed his sword and jogged back up the hill towards the fort and locked the gates behind him.

  He sat by candlelight in the abandoned old fort and drew pictures of the strange tribe in his diary, the patterns of their bodypaint and the path he had followed to find them. It seemed quiet, so he blew out the candle and tried to get some rest as the night winds swept across the plains.

  The following night he saw them at the treeline. They were wearing their furs and watching the fort from the darkness of the woods. Durandal had his bow ready, he had put all the lights out and locked the doors. He peered over the edge of the window, keeping his eyes on the treeline, sweat dripping down his brow. They watched him for hours, then eventually they disappeared back into the woods. Durandal slumped against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief. He realized that making himself an enemy of these people was not going to work out in his favor... he was going to either make peace with them, or run. He decided to sleep on it.