by DJ Morand
Mason Akar, he thought. That's who it is. No, not Mason. A demon, he corrected.
Mason struck with the large two-handed blade again. Bastion rolled to his right and deflected the blade with his shield. The impact stung worse than ever. Mason raised the sword again and snarled. Bastion could smell the sulfur surrounding demon-Mason. He swung his armored foot as hard as he could at Mason’s knee. The bone cracked audibly and he could feel the bone give under his attack.
Mason continued his swing, but the broken leg put him off target. The demon fell beside Bastion and he backhanded the creature in the face over and over again with his shield. The thunk, thunk, thunk soon turned into a squishier sound and he could smell the blood. Bastion rolled to his front and pushed himself up. Overwhelming guilt flooded into him. Mason had been his soldier and he had killed him, twice.
The siege engines, he remembered.
The entire reason for this foolhardy mission had been the siege engines. Bridgeguard Keep was under siege and the main host of the army was pinned down in Maker’s Pass. The narrow pass had been employed to bottleneck the demon army approaching from the North. Bridgeguard-Captain Bastion Frell had been put in charge of protecting the Keep. Bastion was not fond of any command that took him from the safe protection of the castle walls. He was a strategist and an expert at siege warfare. The second host of demonic forces showed up only a day after the forward scouts had reported siege engines preparing for an assault on the keep.
He agonized over the decision, but he sent a contingent of men to secure the siege engines. Mason had been a part of that mission. When the first team did not return, Bastion knew he would have to lead a force to secure the engines. He drew his sword and the metallic trill of the blade gave him a sense of hope. He didn’t understand it, but having a weapon in his hand meant everything to him.
He heard a shuffling and turned. Mason, despite his smashed face, rose up again.
* * *
Riftland: Year 1100 AO
23 Torfer: Fraal - 1st Hour of Eralda
Maker’s Pass
Bridgeguard-Master Alder Gronwol stood at the mouth of Maker’s Pass. Word had been sent back to Bridgeguard keep. His forward scouts had not come back. It concerned him. If they hadn’t come back it either meant they were killed or Bridgeguard-Captain Frell needed them.
If Frell needs them then we’re all fucked, he thought.
Concerns about the keep notwithstanding, Alder surveyed the battle-lines. His men were exhausted from the forced march through the canyon. The eastern wall had collapsed early and now they were trapped. The plan had been to trap the demon army in this pass. Now both armies were unable to escape. Bridgeguard-Master Gronwol signaled one of the runners. The wiry boy, likely no more than ten, ran with all abandon.
“Sir!” he saluted the Bridgeguard-Master.
“At ease boy,” Alder barked a laugh. “Any word from the keep?”
“No sir,” the boy looked at his feet. “The forward scouts left ten days ago.”
“Bah,” Alder grunted. “Go on then. Fetch me the lieutenants.”
The boy ran through the camp. Alder looked up at the canyon walls, our very own Rift, he thought. He knew it wouldn’t long until the demons caught up with them and crushed them against the landslide. The plan was brilliant, lure the demon army into the pass, escape through the east, and collapse the east wall behind them. On the other side of the east wall a two-man wide path led up to the canyon ridge. Archers could pick off the demons and pike-men could keep them in the canyon. It would have been a slaughter that would go down in history.
Instead, Bridgeguard-Master Alder Gronwol had fallen prey to his own trap. Alder stood and kicked the stool he’d been resting on. The great-axe hung from his back. The sharpened edge gleamed in the twilight of the evening. He was tempted to draw the axe and smash the stool, but decided the exertion would be a waste.
After a few moments, the boy returned, “The Lieutenants are waiting for you in the command tent, sir.”
“Very good. Go and get some rest. We’ll need every man come day.”
Bridgeguard-Master Gronwol walked slowly to the command tent. Worry creased his brow. His long gray locks swayed and clicked as the beads rustled against each other. The intricate braids had been a custom of his home in the western Riftlands. Even after moving to Bridgeguard Keep, he kept the custom. He reached the tent just as the cries of a demonic horde reached his ears.
He drew the double-bladed ax from his back and roared, "To ARMS!"
* * *
Riftland: Year 1100 AO
23 Torfer: Fraal - 1st Hour of Eralda
Outside Bridgeguard Keep
The two-handed sword descended again. Bastion dodged to the left and struck out with his sword. The Longsword bit into flesh, but Mason seemed unperturbed by the large swath of torn skin across his brow. Bastion ducked under another swing from Mason’s sword and drove the point of his own sword into Mason’s gut. The putrid stink of Mason’s bowels smacked against the ground. Still, Mason attacked.
“Why won’t you fucking die!?” Bastion snarled.
Mason did not seem to be tiring, but Bastion felt as if he’d been battling for hours. He tried not to look at Mason’s face. The horrid disfigurement he had given it spoke to the horror of the reality. Mason was dead. Mason was dead, because Bastion had sent him to die. The crushed bloody face of Mason did not snarl or moan. It made no gesture suggesting any traits of life, but Bastion still felt like his guilt was personified in Mason’s eyes.
“DIE!” Bastion dropped his shield and hacked at Mason with two hands around his sword. The muscles of his fingers cramped and ached as he smashed the man with the blade.
Mason did not have an opportunity to attack, and he did not block. He stood and took the abuse from Bastion’s sword. Bridgeguard-Captain Bastion Frell was sweating with the exertion. His men had slain the other demon-possessed men on the battle line. Covered in blood and bits of flesh he continued to hack at Mason. The man had long ago fallen prey to Bastion’s attack, but the Riftlander captain could not stop. Rage, fear, and desperation bubbled inside him. He swung one last time and felt his sword catch in Mason’s chest.
The corpse held fast to the blade and try as though he might, Bastion could not dislodge the weapon. The men under his command stared in horror at the macabre scene their captain had made. Blood and visceral fluid had been flung about the battlefield. Bastion heaved and gasped. The exertion of his attack was catching up to him now. Images of the lost soldiers flooded his vision and he fell to his knees with a sick plop. The dirt beneath had become blood soaked earth. Bastion looked up into the horrified faces of his men. They did not judge, but he felt their fear keenly.
Bastion gathered himself, “The siege engines will not destroy themselves. Come.” He rose from his knees and picked up a fallen soldier’s ax. The blade was half the size of the shaft and had a wicked curve to it. With the back of his free hand, Bastion wiped the gore from his face and eyes. He tested the weight of the ax. Satisfied that it would not be too heavy for him, Bastion looked to the west.
He did not turn as he spoke, “The demons want our lives, our bodies. They will stop at nothing to overrun the nations of our lands. The Riftland, Marshweld, Winterweld, and then the eastern islands; all these the demons will consume. They do not have the right to take what is ours. For over a thousand years, Riftlanders have protected the western lands. For over a thousand years, our mothers, our fathers, our brothers, and sisters have bled to secure a future. I ask you, are we any different from those that came before!? Are we more afraid!? Are we not as strong!? Rise up Bridgeguard! Rise up and enter your names in the annals of history! Today we will not allow the Riftland to fall to these foul creatures.”
He slowly turned around. Blood still smeared his face and his eyes glowed with passion, “We will not fall! Riftland!” He roared and his men roared with him. “Bridgeguard!” he roared.
“Bridgeguard! Riftland! Honor! RAH!” the w
ords echoed across the battlefield.
“To Battle!” Bastion gripped the lead of a mount and swung himself into the saddle. He raised the ax above his head, “Charge!”
* * *
Riftland: Year 1100 AO
23 Torfer: Fraal - 1st Hour of Eralda
Maker’s Pass
He panted. His vision blurred as he spun. His breaths came in short quick gasps as he battled his foe. The thunk thunk of his ax as it embedded and withdrew from demon flesh spurred him on. The world around him froze in time as he swung again and again. Limbs of monstrous beasts grasped and clawed at him. Bridgeguard-Master Gronwol leaned back bending awkwardly as claws narrowly raked across his vision. They did not catch much flesh, but the bright spurt of blood belied his misfortune. Time resumed and the roar of battle coalesced around him.
The screams of the dying and the vulgar taunts of the hell-spawn echoed through the pass. A brute twice as wide as a bull and half again as tall roared in defiance. Its grotesque face was a mix of bull and serpent. Its jaws slavered with green slime and its spittle flew from its mouth as it roared. Six arms sprouted from its torso. Gronwol turned his ax in an upswing. He felt the crushing bones of the demon as his ax severed limbs. It roared again and two massive arms clubbed the Bridgeguard-Master in the side of his head.
Ringing rose in his ears, and the din of battle grew quiet again. He could only hear the pulsating song that throbbed in his head. Gronwol’s vision blurred and he swung his ax violently at the approaching beast. He felt the metal bite into flesh and bone again. He stumbled back, off balance from the juggernaut’’s slug. The throbbing slowed. The sound of battle rose again.
“Hold the line!” Gronwol bellowed above the cries of the dying. “Bridgeguard! Hold the line!”
He leapt back into the fray. Demons surrounded him and he swung for all his life. The ax in his hands became an extension of his being. Blood splashed around his feet. Visions of demonic faces danced around him. He did not stop. Swiping the ax left and right, up and down, he slew them. Cries of anguish and roars of anger shook his thoughts. He could not focus on any one beast. The ax was his focus, the extension of his will.
“Bridgeguard!” he roared as the ax fell again. The sick crushing sound of flesh and bone tore through the blood lust. Gronwol saw red everywhere he looked. Demon blood, demon flesh, humans. “Bridgeguard!”
“Bridgeguard!” Gronwol heard the return cry of his warriors.
A dozen wounds bled across his abdomen and chest. A dozen more scored his back. He felt nothing, but the lust for battle. Still, he slowed. The ax grew heavier with each strike. He continued to roar his cry of battle and the soldiers continued to roar it back to him. Something clipped him in the chin, it felt like iron. A cool breeze surrounded him as he left his feet. He felt as if he were flying.
The ground rose up to meet his back as he landed with a breath-taking thud. He gasped for breath as his vision blacked. He tried to cry out, but it came as a pained wheeze. He could not feel the grip of the ax any longer. Deeper and deeper his vision grew until he lost the struggle to breathe. Darkness enclosed around him.
* * *
Riftland: Year 1100 AO
23 Torfer: Fraal - 6th Hour of Eralda
Darkwood
The dead littered the field as the exodus of men continued to the west. Bastion led them atop his horse with his ax hanging low at his side. He made sure to keep it clear of the mount, but he did not want to be caught unprepared. His shield lay in the field with his sword and Mason. The bloated dead face of his soldier floated in his vision and threatened to catapult him into despair. Instead, he focused his rage on the demon army that was beyond the small forest. The Darkwood lay between Bridgeguard Keep and the western most part of the Rift. Men claimed the forest was haunted, but after what he’d seen, Bastion did not care.
The land rolled before them. Slowly, the dots of tree stumps and thick grass came into view. Gradually, they entered the forest. Bastion held his head high and gave his soldiers a determined grim look. Then he nodded and wheeled his mount around and kicked its flanks. The beast whinnied as they entered the wood. The stench of death was palpable, it was as if the wood itself was the personification of death. The scent grew as the chill wind picked up and drafted across the army.
A distant cry echoed among the trees. Bastion looked back to the panicked faces of his men. He did not want to be here himself, but he put on a brave front. They had already fought through so much to ensure the survival of the Bridgeguard, of the world. He did not call to them, nor did he give them reason to pause. Bastion led his mount forward as dark descended on the woods.
“Stand strong,” he motioned with his ax. “Forward!” Bastion’s battle weary voice barked with determination.
The call went back through the remainder of the ranks and repeated. The force of it pushed back the chill and men began to sing. The song started low and baritone as the men echoed it to one another. It rose in a crescendo as it reached back to Bastion. His heart swelled with pride and he joined his voice to the army’s.
RAH!
Take my blood!
RAH!
Take my name!
RAH!
Take my wealth!
RAH!
RAH!
Give me pain!
RAH!
Cut my limbs!
RAH!
Take your aim!
RAH!
For if you don't, RAH!
I strike!
RAH!
Take your blood!
RAH!
Take your name!
RAH!
Take your wealth!
RAH!
Take your life, at my Blade! RAH!
The sound echoed through the woods and the men stood proud and tall. Beneath the raucous cries of the army there was a cracking twisting sound. Bastion heard it, but only barely. He scanned the area looking for the cause. He saw it. One of the massive deadwood’s shifted. He didn’’t know how else to explain it other than it appeared to move bending toward the army. One who lived near the Rift was keen to sudden changes in reality. A squirrel that had rapid red eyes or a river that flowed in the wrong direction. A tree that moved against the wind.
“To arms!” Bastion cried as he leapt from the back of his horse.
His instinct to leap from the beast proved to his benefit, for a moment later a wicked tree branch struck out and impaled the animal. Blood sprayed as the horse howled in agony. The tree seemed to surge as the animal grew thin. The howling cry of the horse died into a death rattle. With his ax drawn and at the ready, Bastion swung with all his might. The curved blade struck the branch a foot above the horse’’s dying body. The ax splintered the wood. Viscous fluids sprayed in every direction. Blood and tree sap oozed from where the tree had been wounded.
“By Bhaskar’s blood!” one of the Bridgeguard soldiers cursed. “It was eating that horse like a blood fly!”
Bastion turned to the soldier with obvious surprise on his face. He heard the creaking clearly this time and he pushed the soldier down. Another branch struck where the man had been standing. Bastion chopped down on the branch with his ax as a cry came from the back of the ranks. The ax cut through the branch and tree sap oozed from it. The cry of the man behind them was cut off. Bastion could see the top of another massive tree moving where he’’d heard the cry.
“Through the woods! Keep moving. Take whatever attacks of opportunity you have, but do not get caught fighting them. Through the woods!” Bastion cried as he began to jaunt forward. His muscled legs ached with the extra exertion after so much fighting. His blood pumped. It was thunder in his ears again, but still he listened for the creaks.
* * *
Riftland: Year 1100 AO
23 Torfer: Fraal - 6th Hour of Eralda
Maker’s Pass
Bridgeguard-Master Gronwol ached. He sat up slowly as his bones cracked and popped. He knew he was getting too old to be fighting on the front lines, but his fam
ily had been sworn protectors of the Riftlands and beyond for centuries. Gronwol would die fighting. He knew it and he hoped for it. The prospect of an easy retirement did not sit well with him. He had taken no wife and bore no sons to succeed him. Gronwol’s life had been given to the service of the Bridgeguard. He would see that duty to the end.
As he contemplated his surroundings he realized that he was still in Maker’s Pass. The ravine carried the stench of death and sulfur. Gronwol stood and stretched. His old bones creaked and cracked. Several of his men turned to look at him, but they said nothing.
“What’s the situation then?” he growled.
“We’re pinned down,” Bridgeguard-Captain Mackland saluted.
“Stop it,” Gronwol said. “There is no time for formality. Where are we?”
“We’ve taken position behind the fallen rocks from above. It is a sheltered alcove, but we can’t hold it forever. Eventually, the demons will recoup.”
“Recoup?” Gronwol barked. “You let them get away to recoup their losses and regroup?”
The soldier looked at Gronwol and then stammered, “You were injured. We ha--”
Gronwol stepped to the man, “Shut the fuck up. You should have let me die. How grave is it? Have they regrouped?”
“No,” Mackland replied. “They’ve withdrawn some, but they haven’t had a chance to regroup.”
“Then we attack now. How many men are left?”
“A third of our force is slain. Half of the remaining two thirds are injured,” Mackland reported.
