Calhosian Border Wars

Chapter 1

Darkness, darkness and an ache that penetrates my bones and howls within my skull. 

I try to move, twisting within the soft cold mass, senses returning I grasp one of the forms to shove it off me, realizing with horror in doing so it's the emaciated leg of an Elf. The limb twisting unnaturally as I jerk away and attempt to scream. The sound comes out as a rasping croak and coughing as I try to suck in foul copper scented air through clenched teeth. 

Scrambling backwards off the mound of corpses I lose what little footing I had, smashing my tender skull for what feels like can't be the first time today, and mercifully slipping into unconsciousness.

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Roused by a firm hand on my chest and the acrid stench of burning pitch in my nose, my head lolls to the side as I crack one eye open in apprehension and dread. 

"-faint but there. Bless the gods." The blurry figure says softly under his breath before setting down the lamp and placing a hand on my shoulder. "Easy lad, easy. You're in a real bad way, but you're still here. We intend to keep it that way, don't you worry." 

The nameless man shouts over his shoulder "We've got a live one here, let's get him up top." And I slump back into unconsciousness to the rhythmic thud of iron shod boots on stone.

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A soft bed and dappled light, groaning, I roll over. Startling a young woman who jumps up and runs out of the room shouting "Saerus! Saerus! Arandeir is awake!"

The hulking man who must be called Saerus shuffles in, ducking slightly so as to avoid hitting the door frame. His grimy face brightens upon noticing me. "It's good to see you return to the land of the living lad. To tell you the truth you had a rough go of it. How are you feeling? you were out for almost three whole days."

"I'm not sure." I say with a raspy voice that feels dry as ash. "I don't even remember..." I trail off, lost in the confused concussed torrent of my thoughts. 

A battle, running through a Zealot Legionnaire with my hafted blade, a blow to the chest by a two handed mace, the taste of blood, stripped of my armor, beaten, starved, and dragged behind the 8th Zealot Legion, arrival at this place, a hood over my head, screams and musty darkness, then this room. But nothing else.

"You remember what lad? Take your time, but let's start with your name at least, alright?"

"S-Saerus was it?" The man nods slightly. "I remember... I remember falling in battle, captivity, and other things of which I dare not speak, but beyond that not a damned thing, Divines help me."

Saerus's face softens as he speaks, "Easy then, You'll mend up fine we can hope. You had a nasty blow to the head, glancing though it was you're lucky to be still here, thank the Gods. The Zealot's battle priest must have pulled the blow at the last second when we rushed them. Still aren't sure how they made it into the catacombs, but that's something for later." 

"I was... We were, all hooded and drugged, things are still too hazy to remember even how many weeks ago I was captured."

"That's enough for now then." Saerus said with a sigh, "Now can I get you anything to eat or drink. I'll have Saelnoa bring you whatever you need."

"Food and water please, but first a question. She called me Arandeir, what does that mean?"

"Arandeir, that means 'Foundling' in her tongue, She's not of my blood, not that it matters much. The proper form of the word is Aranamiyron."

"Aran-Aranamiyron... just, you can call me Aran for now"

"Alright lad, err Aran, I'll have Saelona get you what you need. There's still business I need to take care of." Saerus said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

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The march from Staptonbeck to Arvendon had been brutal thus far. Discipline in the gutted Legion enforced at the point of a lance for any who broke ranks. 

The tall man with a worn face and a bandaged arm reflected on the losses since their retreat from Staptonbeck, for that's what it was in truth. Not the propagandistic orders from Saint General Sestirga, who commanded the southern Legions from Arvendon. "Leave the heretics to freeze and starve in their ruined hovels, burn their grain stores and return with all due haste. Losses from the disgraced units are no matter. Drive the men forward with the point of a lance if need be. Deserters are to be dealt with in the nature of heretics and apostates."

The first deserters to be bludgeoned to death by the Ormefael Acolytes kept the rest in line. Their crushed skulls set on pikes and their bodies left to rot in the sun served as a potent warning to those who defied their holy crusade.

"Unbreakable Lord" the runner said with a gasp, his chest heaving under the light chain hauberk he wore. Taking another heaving breath he continued, "You're needed at the front. A rider from Arvendon hails you." before snapping a crisp salute and returning to his post. 

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The rider was disheveled beyond words, he stood on shaking legs next to his nearly dead horse which lay in a heap in the ditch.

"Lord", he said with a half hearted attempt at a salute, his fist barely brushing his chest. "Your Legion is to decimate these lands in your march to Arvendon. Salt their fields, poison their wells, take as you wish of their kin and herds. May your vengeance be cast upon those of weak faith for their failure to turn from their false gods but at the point of a sword. May they know hell before their annihilation. May this mollify the loss of your heretic battle slaves." 

Garaven the Unbreakable, Lord of the 8th Zealot legion narrowed his eyes and glanced down the worn and muddy road. A small hamlet lay somewhat more than a few hours march, smoke from one of the chimneys still curled lazily into the sky. "Walk on then", he said with a smile. "You will get a new mount soon." Before plunging his lance into the neck of the rider's horse, grinning at the man's fear and shock.