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The Misfits of Dametreos IIChapter 7: Crushing Defeat
In the throne room of Hemlock, pandemonium ruled as Wolfpack and mercenary armies poured in from the river. The delta was lined with enemies. Inside, Radjar tried to quell the men about him. Commanders of Ninja, Dragon Master, and Slayer bands lined the hall.
“Good men! It is time we take arms for the sake of brotherhood!” he yelled, piercing the chaos.
“AYE!” resounded the men.
“The enemy is numbered 10,500 strong,” Radjar added. “And the King of Three Daggers is coming, charging me with the near-destruction of his lands. I have done what I have done in the memory of my fallen comrades. Let me never do such things again.”
The group nodded.
“Sir, we will have little time,” informed Lord Gerthmerg, the Dragon Master general. “Soon they will strike at us where it hurts the most. I should take my riders and attack first.”
“I will consider it, Gerthmerg.”
“No, sir, you will not. It is doomed to fail.” Vos stepped forward decked out in regalia.
“Hold your tongue, General Vos!” Radjar snapped.
“Sir, we do not know the forces engaged…"
“Know your enemy, and you have won half the battle.” supported Ninja Daimyo Mitsanume.
“No, both of you. We will strike first. Gethmerg, take your riders and ambush these meddlers. They will not dare siege the forces of the Light.”
Lord Gethmerg mounted his fierce some wardragon, as his red-clad men, sheathed in black armor, notched their bows and polished their weapons. Gereld stepped over to him.
“You may be right, perhaps you will prevail. But I am not sure.”
“The King may be young," replied Gerthmerg, “But he knows the Light. And though many Dragon Masters scorn it, I believe it as well.”
Gereld nodded at the soldier’s wise words. Gerthmerg saluted him.
“May the Light guide you,” he said.
With that, the riders leapt into the air and the dragons whizzed off. Moments passed. The delta came into view, and the tents of the armies stood undefended.
“Now my comrades! Strike swiftly!”
The dragons swooped down, spitting forth flames and fire and razing the tents. Arrows buzzed past Gerthmerg's head, and several of his men toppled to the ground, dead.
“Dismount!” he ordered.
The Dragon Masters, weapons in hands, jumped onto the dirt and clashed with the Wolfpack soldiers. Gerthmerg impaled a cavalryman, then threw his lance to the ground, leaping off his steed and drawing his battleaxe, and engaging in battle. Blood splashed him as he cleaved through a soldier and gutted another, blocking mace blows and rallying his men. His own soldiers were falling everywhere. It looked hopeless.
“Retreat! Back to your dragons! We have done enough!”
Judas rode out of his ranks and cut down the Dragon Master stragglers with his saber. Gerthmerg's remaining men grabbed their dragons and started to take off, but a salvo of arrows downed a few.
“For the Li…”
Gerthmerg was cut off, and an arrow thudded into his back and through his armor. The great warrior toppled from his steed and landed onto the brown dirt. The soldiers returned knowing they had failed.
Valus opened the creaking wooden door to his cozy, warm quarters. It was a relief to take a rest from the war, even if he was on the Wolfpack border. The rain trickled down his window outside, thunder struck. Gerthmerg’s assault had failed, and the man himself was dead. All of this happening so fast.
Not that he cared. Valus delighted in warfare. It was the only thing he found that he could excel at. His skills in battle were enormous, only bested by his own superior skills as a rogue. He came here intending to steal everything from the Dark Forest; he ended up fighting for it. Since his stationing in the remote Fell Isle to his service here in the mainland, he’d realized that Radjar was fighting for his honor and his life. With that, Valus slunk back into his chair, took a deep swig of brandy, and fell asleep.
A long brown column of Wolfpack soldiers trudged solemnly through the muddy forest ground as rays of light poked through the canopy above. At their head were eleven blue-clad Falcon mercenaries brandishing wickedly curved pikes. Leading the group of one hundred and eleven raiders, Judas Nightblacke and the Baron DeCanis trotted slowly atop their horses.
“I have heard your rightful king is returning,” said Nightblacke.
“He has no troops and no more loyalties within the entire kingdom. His visit will be short lived.”
“I fear that it will be longer than you expect,” Judas answered.
The company kept along until they reached the spot of a clear, sweet-watered creek that ran down a rocky hill and cut through the wood. A Wolfpack soldier threw down his sword to take a drink from the shining liquid. Others followed.
“We need to keep on the move.” Judas complained.
“My men need refreshing,” replied DeCanis, “Or else our raid will be a disaster.”
Judas nodded approvingly. Suddenly he hushed the company. His mercenaries paused to look about.
“A Forestmen brigade... a few hundred strong…”
Judas held his hand up to his ear.
“They’ve been tracking us... Rangers.”
“What will we do?” whispered DeCanis.
“Follow them...they are headed towards the river.”
Suddenly a stream of arrows whizzed about the company and a dozen men fell dead.
“Megabloks!” cursed DeCanis, unsheathing his flamberg and trying to recover his men.
Judas pointed with swift hand movements to a disturbance in the brush. The mercenaries launched into battle and leaped into the entanglement. Bloodcurdling screams could be heard, and the Mercenaries returned with the bloodied bodies of twelve Forestmen archers.
“I know who is behind this…” said Judas, “FRAUN JERLOCK!”
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