Hope in the Shadows

by Umut Ersezer

  More riders flowed out of the forest like a torrent of water. Who are these horsemen?

  They wore full-bodied plate armour with large swords on their hilt. The horses they rode on were larger than any Volare had seen and wore their own plate armour on their chests, heads and flanks. Are they warhorses? What would they be doing here?

  Spearmen in lighter chainmail walked alongside the horse brigade. These men were an imposing group and didn’t look like the regular collectors that came through the village at week’s end.

  The horse rider at the front, who wore slightly different looking armour to the rest, started shouting to the working villagers. His armour seemed to be darker grey, almost black with gemstones of what Volare guessed to be huge diamonds, embedded into his gauntlets, boots, leg and breastplate. His cape was of deep red with the king’s insignia stitched into it; a symbol of a dragon-like creature.

  “Gather in the village square!” he bellowed commandingly.

  His subordinates fanned out and started ushering people into the village. There were so many of them, at least fifty. Volare felt a terrible dread of what this could mean for them all.

  ** Chapter 3 **

  The Gathering

  The villagers had gathered in the market square, barely large enough to contain them. They were packed in tightly with the guards surrounding them. It was an ominous setting, threatening even.

  “SILENCE!” the leading solder proclaimed. The crowd hushed into nervous quietness. Cal had approached from behind where Volare and his family were standing. He put his arms around them, holding them close to him. Looking up, Volare saw a look of seriousness across his face he hadn’t seen before.

  “I am High Commander Trajan, here in the service of the great King Hastam. He bids all of you wellness and good fortune. He wants all of you to know that you have served your kingdom loyally and that he is proud of his subjects. Your efforts have ensured our armies are well stocked to fight on your behalf.”

  This at least confirmed for Volare that there was indeed a war raging somewhere outside of his village. Why the secrecy, though? The previous wars raging on the lands of Kragea and beyond were well documented. It’s only when you go as far back as the devastations, deep into history where the stories begin to stray away from border disputes and more into fantastical stories with mythical beings and creators. But these were just stories.

  “King Hastam acknowledges the boons that this village has provided but must ask for more,” Trajan continued.

  “Impossible!” one man from the crowd shouted back.

  “We are already breaking our backs for this war! We cannot push anymore! There’s no more land to till or fish to catch!” another woman cried out.

  “What even is this war!? We don’t know anything about it!” another villager stepping in.

  The crowd was growing restless, becoming agitated by the high commander’s tone and words.

  “SILENCE!” again proclaimed Trajan. “I cannot reveal the details of the war for there may be spies of the enemy amongst you.”

  The crowd erupted into hushed whispers looking at each other with suspecting eyes.

  “Cragdung!” Faber retorted.

  There was aggression in his tone. He was staring directly at the high commander with his thick arms folded over his chest.

  The direct challenge gave the rest of the crowd more confidence spraying further shouts of defiance at the high commander. He was growing visibly annoyed at the lack of corporation from the villagers. He had feared this might happen for he knew the village had already been stretched to breaking point. It was the reason why he brought so many men with him.

  “Why did you bring these men with you to ask for more resources?” Cal asked with a loud, commanding voice.

  Volare reeled around to look at his father, still with the same stern expression of seriousness. He met the high commander’s gaze, willing him to answer his question.

  Trajan looked at him with a sigh and realised there was no more point delaying the real purpose of why he had come.

  “Indeed, that I am here for more resources, but it is not that which you have provided so far.”

  “What then?” Fidum called out, equalling Cal’s strength in voice.

  Trajan’s already black eyes seemed to darken. “The armies’ numbers need bolstering, I have come seeking the bravest and strongest among you, as I have a need for volunteers.”

  The crowd erupted with talk amongst themselves and shouted at Trajan. Their anger also being directed at the spearmen keeping them in the town square. Some villagers tried to walk off in disgust but were pushed back into place. Horsemen encircled the villagers as well now, the situation growing tense.

  “Are there any volunteers among you?” called out Trajan his voice projecting over the noise of the crowd.

  A small number of villagers raised their hands. Volare only knew their faces from passing them in the streets of the village.

  They were from the most impoverished families within the village who saw the recruitment of civilians as an opportunity rather than a burden. More villagers raised their hands. Twenty or so stepped forward and were ushered away from the crowd. Volare couldn’t see where they were being taken to; it was out of sight.

  There were still however some 1700 people gathered in the village square, at least 700 of which could be considered able-bodied fighting men.

  These were farmers and fishermen, however; they didn’t know of war. Why should they leave their families to fight for a king they have never seen or known. It was one thing to provide for the army; it was another to die fighting for something you know or care nothing about. But here was Trajan sitting proudly atop his pure black warhorse, demanding volunteers. He would not get them, at least not without explanation.

  “You have your volunteers, now go!” came shouts from the crowd.

  “It is not enough,” said Trajan with a chilling calmness in his voice.

  “What then!?” came another shout.

  “I will take half the men here.”

  “No!” came uproars from the crowd. “You can’t!”

  “It is by right of King Hastam’s power that I High Commander Trajan, recruit half the adult men of this village. It is an honour to serve your country!” proclaimed Trajan

  “You haven’t told us who or why we are fighting!” came more shouts from the crowd.

  The truth is Trajan couldn’t tell the villagers what awaited them. He needed them desperately. The war was at the tipping point. He knew of the horrors that awaited the men, he had seen them himself.

  They couldn’t possibly fight against this enemy; they may have the will and courage but lack the skill to fight. There would be no glory for these men on the battlefield for they would be killed in seconds. No, they were needed for other purposes, reasons he couldn’t share with them. Trajan had to tell them something though, and thus decided to speak the lie he had prepared in case he couldn’t recruit enough volunteers.

  “To the west, beyond the Driturian borders, an army is seeking to conquer all of Kragea,” bellowed Trajan. “They gather as we speak, rallying their soldiers trying to gain purchase within our lands. We cannot let this happen!” Trajan said, now shouting and shaking his fist in the air.

  He was trying to incite some sense of patriotism amongst the people.

  “Cragdung!” Faber called out once again, still standing with his arms folded.

  “Very well, have it your way,” Trajan sighed, closing his eyes. “Seize them!”

  ** Chapter 4 **

  The Rise To Power

  2 Months Ago…

  “Commander! They come for us! We must retreat!” cried Gavlan.

  “Hold your ground damn it, soldier!” We fight, or we die! “That is the way of Driturians!” bellowed the commander.

  May the gods have mercy, thought Gavlan as he watched the horrors unfold in front of his eyes. He wasn’t ready for this.

  The enemy was spilling over the walls of H
onour Haven garrison under the glow of a full moon. The men were in a panic flailing their swords and fists trying to keep themselves free of being dragged to the ground and ripped apart.

  Gavlan braced himself, gripping his shield and sword more tightly while gritting his teeth. If this was his time, then he would die fighting for his country, his men and his family that he left back home in the capital of Erystin.

  “Forward men! We must hold this garrison at all cost, don’t let them through! shouted the commander.

  His fury was rising to match the ferocity of the battle unfolding within the walls of Honour Haven.

  Gavlan stepped forward with a passionate shout and determination, clanging his sword against his shield in a show of defiance and power.

  After years of training, he joined the commander’s army. Gavlan’s sword strokes took on their own rhythmic flow, so natural now that it seemed second nature to him. He cleaved the heads off his confronters with broad sweeps of his sword. Limbs were being carved off and thrown about into the air in the chaos of two armies clashing. Viscera was splayed at an alarming rate across the cold grey stones that made up the ground and walls of the garrison. His heavy breathing echoed in his plate helmet as he tried to keep up with the pace of combat.

  The armour was thick and provided protection against the enemy; it kept him alive, preventing bodily wounds by deflecting attacks that would otherwise tear his flesh apart. But it was starting to feel heavy. More and more of them piled over the wall in a never-ending flow of twisted bodies; savagery in their eyes. For what they lacked in hardened steel plate and sword they made up for in numbers, overwhelming the Driturian garrison.

  Where are they coming from? Blast it, what was even their purpose? Gavlan thought. There was no clear indication as to why this enemy had made a move into Driturian lands beyond the destruction of it. Could it be that simple? To wipe us out? But why?

  The situation was becoming desperate; they were being swarmed; they would lose this battle and lose their lives. This is not what Gavlan dreamed of. There was no glory in this muck; there were no accolades in this stench of death and waste. There was no rising to honourable ranks within the kingdom; there was just fear and tormented death.

  “Ahhh!” the commander cried. He was being swarmed; if he fell, all hope would be lost.

  He was their leader, the strongest of them all, wielding a firebrand sword he cut and scorched his way to victories before this battle. All fell who crossed his path, cleaved into pieces as streaks of fire and smoke trailed the swings of his sword. The heat of battle would enrage and fuel the commander, the more he fought, the stronger he would become.

  His energy and will, fusing with his gem powered black plate suit and sword. He had won his prized relics in the kingdoms warrior games back in Erystin, where the winner took with them a set of black plate armour, named for the darkening of the steel after being infused with the power of ancient gems. The condition for accepting such power, however, was a lifetime of service to the crown.

  Many dark-plated knights go on to become part of the king’s elite personal guard. The ancient gems that powered the suits of armour were the most and precious commodity in all the lands.

  Only a handful of master smiths in the entire kingdom had the knowledge and skill to use these gems, forging weapons and armour of unrivalled power. These smiths were nearly as precious a commodity as the gems themselves and were held in the highest of regard. But Gavlan didn’t know where these gems came from, nor how they worked.

  He could only marvel at its power and dream of owning a set himself. He had only seen three men in his life wear and wield infused black plate steel, all were high ranking, and all were deadly.

  The commander was enraged at this point, his eyes glowing a deep red, smoke trailing out from the seams between the plates of his armour, his sword burning nearly as bright as the sun.

  He took a great step forward with his left leg, thrust his left palm ahead of him pointing at the on comers, vast jets of fire spiralled out of his gauntlet, the huge rubies embedded into them glowing red hot. He seared, burned and charred the enemy as they recoiled at the intense heat and light.

  The commander waved his palm left to right bathing the upper walls of the garrison in a fire that lingered unnaturally long, stemming the flow of the onslaught. It was just the break the men needed.

  “Push forward, push them back!” the commander yelled.

  The men obeyed, spurred by new confidence and energy as they watched the enemy retreat. They once again took their place along the walls where the fire was dying down. Bowmen started firing volleys beyond the wall, blotting out the dim glow of the moon. Driturian archers along with the steel-plated swordsmen knights were highly trained. Even in the most desperate of situations, Driturian and Terram soldiers were deadly, trained to never give up, to fight to the death.

  They were indeed a force to be reckoned with, especially when riding on the backs of the kingdoms warhorses as part of a cavalry, bred to be massive, powerful beasts that could mow down entire platoons. They were supported by newly recruited foot soldiers with spears and halberds, less trained or talented but could be just as deadly with the correct battle strategy.

  As suddenly as they had charged, the swarm turned around in retreat. The men unanimously raised their swords and cheered passionately as they watched the enemy retreat with haste, another Driturian victory secured.

  They were exuberant; it was the third onslaught they had repelled in as many weeks. This one had been the most intense, the enemy somehow only growing their numbers, no matter how many the men killed. Gavlan looked around, taking in the horror, how could he keep this up? He felt exhausted, fear chilling him to the bone.

  The men began removing their helmets, slumping to the floor trying to catch their breath and rest. Water porters rushed out from within the barracks to help quench the thirst of the soldiers.

  The slaves that helped the soldiers sometimes had it much worse than the soldiers themselves. They were tasked with cleaning duties of not only latrines but the chaos of war itself. Someone needed to haul bodies and limbs off to be burned, blood and viscera to be cleaned. It was often the poorest of the populace, people who were deeply in debt trying to pay it back, criminals of both severe and petty crimes that become slaves. They were sold into service of the kingdom without knowing what they would be confronted with, without knowing what they would be cleaning.

  Everyone had to do their part to win, to survive, that was the only way.

  **

  Later that night, general Brite arrived at the garrison to assess the situation and report back to the king. He was a seasoned veteran and held a deep understanding of the intricacies of warfare.

  His silvery grey hair, face marked with many wrinkled lines and scars, visible proof of his time spent defending and advancing the kingdom. His eyes were fading with age, but his mind and body remained resolute. He was made for war, he breathed it, he fed off it, and it gave him energy.

  The humans had been on a campaign to expand their territory into the west for over ten years now. It was the territory of both the eshin and dwarves that they were expanding into. Decades before that, humans had invaded Kragea, first landing on the shores of Dritura, cleaving their own country into the land and driving out the native eshin.

  Human numbers were swelling, growing at a pace that demanded more land with each passing year, but the eshin would not give it up easy, and thus skirmishes would break out as the humans inched their way westward.

  Eventually, the eshin capitulated, unpractised in the ways of war, they could not withstand the continued onslaught and so, stopped sending their troops to thwart the advancement, allowing the Terrams to advance ever deeper westward. Finally, real war has come, the enemy from the west pushes back against the humans in untold numbers.

  What is still a mystery, however, is that they fight not eshin or dwarves but something entirely different. Something unexpected. The commander was in conversat
ion with the general within his personal barracks. It was well appointed, neat and tidy with slave attendants paying careful attention to make sure there was always fresh food and drink available for the commander.

  The fire roared in the pit warming the chill air of the night, casting ghostly shadows around the room. The men sat by the fire around a grand oak table where many strategies had been discussed, argued and employed over the past year.

  “Sir, this time it was too close, we must seek reinforcements.”

  “I know commander, but where would we get them from, the army is already stretched just trying to hold our lands. We need to look to the lands in the east off our shores, back in our motherland to recruit more battle-hardened, trained soldiers. The king has already sent generals to organise this option,” the general said. “You fought well today, holding them back, your men speak of you with great admiration. You grow more powerful with every battle,” remarked general Brite with a proud tone in his voice.

  “Thank you, sir, I only wish I could do more.”

  “Maybe you can,” came the general’s response, holding his chin and looking thoughtful.

  “Anything general, if it is within my power, I will accomplish it.”

  “You take your duty seriously young commander, you are honest and honourable. I have sought the guidance of our king, and he has given blessing to taking, more actionable steps in bolstering the army through unconventional means.”

  The commander gave the general a querying look, raising his eyebrows waiting for more.

  “The king wishes to employ your skills across the rest of his armies. He wishes to bring an end to this war and crush the enemy in a decisive assault. It will require many more…bodies to be thrown into the fray.”

  “I see,” replied the commander.