The Age of Wolves

1. The Tides of War

War, war is the only force that is able to bring an entire nation of people together in one voice, one sword, one army.
But an army is only as good as its commander. They lead the voice, they strike fear into their enemies and hope in their soldiers. The weight of victory or defeat lies on the commander and the commander alone. For me however, it has only been glory. For I am Abaddon, and I breed war.
      For years I have led an unstoppable force of fire and conquest known as the Ironblade Legion throughout the land of Requiem. From coast to coast I have pillaged, raided, sieged, and destroyed any force that comes in my way, all in the name of creating Chaos. And it worked. Brothers pitted against brothers, fathers and sons brawling for land and food, women and children running in terror of the unknown. It has been this way for over three years now. And it has been beautiful.
      But lately the lords and ladies of Requiem have ceased their fighting, and instead have decided to take up arms against me in order to restore Peace in the realm. Calling themselves Clan Beastheart, their numbers are slowly growing. It feels as though every day they dismantle another part of the kingdom that I have spent so long molding and shaping in my own image. They have taken what I have given them and tossed it away like a child's doll. That is something I will not tolerate, I thought to myself as one of my faithful knights came bursting through the doors of my Throne Room, his deep purple and black armour flickering a dark orange and yellow under the light of the sconces that lit the room.
      He attempted to look brave as he took off his helmet and kneeled before me, but after seeing so many men and women and children die by my hands, I saw right through his façade, his arms were shaking in his chainmail and his eyes refused to meet mine as he waited for permission to speak. This man was truly afraid to simply be in my presence.
      After musing over my soldier's more-than-slight terror, I soon became curious of what was so urgent that he needed to leave his post. I stopped examining the gigantic map of Requiem that was laid on my table, the flags and fortresses of kingdoms signifying battles soon to come, and finally gave the scared welp a chance to speak freely.
      "A thousand p-pardons my Lad-d-dy," he spoke, his voice stuttering. "but-t Lieutenant Cross has arrived. He has asked f-f-or counsel with you, m-my Lady."
      What does that lug want? I asked myself, looking out one of the many windows into the starry night sky. Lieutenant Cross was my most trusted man, faithfully serving me since I started this campaign of plight. Built like a trebuchet and hot-tempered, the soldier could take down at least fifty men without sustaining a single injury. Even with all of that brawn, however, he is an excellent strategist. Without his insight, I would never would have taken Northanglia, a port town along the Upper-East coast that brings in textiles and metals from lands far off in the ocean. Yet Cross' temper often gets the better of him, he is too quick to attack and too willing to take two punches just to give back one, which usually ends with him getting a fair-share of new scars. I suppose that is why I lead, and he follows.
      "Well then send for him to come up here, and make sure you escort him, you aren't free to leave yet." I said, my lips upturning into a malicious smirk as the soldier headed out the door. I resumed scanning over the map table, absently thinking of previous battles and conquests. My eyes settled on the city of Northridge, a large sprawling town filled to the brim with tough and hardy men who were responsible for supplying more than half of the armour and weaponry for all of Requiem's cities. The Lord there was a monstrous warrior of pride and honour called Beowüld, and though he was a savage in battle, in times of Peace he was much happier with a belly full of mead rather than blood on his armour. I figured I should change that. We burned and destroyed nearly the entire town in only one night, slaughtering nearly the whole population except for those who were willing to swear loyalty to me. Unfortunately, Beowüld was too proud to bend his knee, and because of that the last thing he ever saw was my sword go through his chest.
That raid obliterated the economy in the North and caused weapon shortages throughout the whole realm. Since then Northridge has been scrambling and fighting in ruin, neighbor killing neighbor just for a single coin of silver. The thought of it gave me my own sense of pride.
Lost in my memories, I hadn't even noticed the scared soldier had returned and stood in the doorway. I called for him to enter, silently bemused at the size difference between him and my Lieutenant.
     Cross had seemingly gotten even larger since the last I saw him. A monolith of a man, he had to duck just to get through the doorway. Nearly two hundred pounds of hard muscle, the Lieutenant wore heavy plated armour that covered his entire body. His chest plate was thick black steel that wrapped around his torso, designed to have purple vines twisting and swirling in a mirrored pattern. The grieves were similar in design, covering his entire lower-half with the same colors. Even so, the main features were his helm and shoulders, which were ornately engraved into the shape of wolf heads. They really were a spectacle to behold, the jaws set in a permanent snarl and the colour of night, many ran at the mere sight of Cross riding into battle. Yet his helmet was open-faced, appearing as though the wolf was swallowing him, he said he preferred it this way, so he could stare down his enemies as he mowed them down like simple sheep. It's because of this philosophy and armour that has earned him the nickname of Cerberus, the three-headed guard dog of Hades in Ancient Greek mythology, on the battlefield, a name which he bears as a badge of honour.
      He approached me and took off his helmet, his shaggy blond hair and thick beard contrasting the long scar that bolted across his chin and nose. Placing the wolf-helm on the map table, he spoke in his gruff, low rumble of a voice.
      "Lady Abaddon, it's been much too long."
      "That it has, Lieutenant," I replied, taking a chair seated at the table, "what brings the guard dog of the Underworld back to my doorstep?"
      "It's Stonehold. The Beasthearts have made a deal with Lord Oscar to command over a dozen warships, my guess is that they are headed straight for us." He pointed to the East coast, trailing his finger closer to the very stronghold we were currently resided in. "If they land with those ships on the coast, they just need to cross the Black Marsh and the Troll's Pass and they'll be right on top of us."
I stared at the land of Requiem on the table. I have come too far to lose what I've accomplished, I thought, my blood beginning to boil, I am Abaddon, Warlord of the Ironblade Legion, and I have accomplished more than any lord ever has with armies twice as small. I refuse to fall to a damn rebellion.
"Send scouts up to the East shore, if they so much as even smell a ship, I want to hear about it. Understand, Cross?" I said sharply to my Lieutenant.
"Of course, my lady. It will be done before the next dawn." He picked up his helmet and was walking out the door when I noticed the knight still standing in the doorway, near pissing himself no doubt. Cross grabbed his shoulder, "Gods give you luck, boy." he said as he left to go fulfill my orders.
"What is your name, child?" He seemed like he'd hardly seen his fifteenth winter, not even a man yet. You could see the beginning traces of muscle in his frame, so he must've just recently joined in my ranks. He was most likely put on the gate duty just because he was so new and young.
"Arthur, my lady, of Riverstead." He spoke meekly, as if he was afraid his answer was somehow incorrect.
"Ah, Riverstead," I replied, knowing the same village well, "does Heigä still have a tavern by the inn?"
"Yes, she does, though with the famine she's had trouble keeping stocked on mead and the like."
"What a shame," I began to walk closer to the knight, the fear apparent in his eyes. "I rather enjoyed that tavern. Tell me Arthur, have you ever taken another man's life?"
"No, my liege. I just joined your ranks hardly a few moons ago. Before then I was a farmer for my father." His knees began to tremble as I approached even closer.
"A farmer's son? Then you must know well about sheep and the wolves who hunt them. Listen well Arthur, I was born into Requiem just like you, just like Cross, just like your father and just like sweet Heigä. But where they saw peace, I saw weakness. I realized I was a wolf born into a world of sheep, and I refused to be herded around like the rest of Requiem. I decided that I was going to be the wolf that fed on them, I would be the one to control them. And so I did.
"I campaigned across the land and set it ablaze just to weed out the sheep from the wolves, the weak and feeble from the strong and mighty. I raised the strongest and most fearless army ever known, and when I did I made sure to only have wolves serving in my army. Yet here I see a boy, not even of manhood, practically shaking in front of me? I hardly think that is something characteristic of a wolf." I was so close now that I could hear his quick, shaky breaths escaping his lungs.
"I am a wolf, my lady, I will be whatever you ask me to be, I am apart of this Legion, I am an Ironbla-." He would never get to finish his sentence, the large dagger that hangs on my belt buried hilt-deep into his sternum.
He began to cough blood up as both his hands reached for the knife, grabbing it weakly in attempt to pull it free, but he simply no longer had the strength to do so. He dropped to knees suddenly, metal colliding with the wooden floor, making a satisfying tink as he fell. He began sputtering nonsense, choking on his own blood now as his life fled from his soon to be corpse. I leant down to his dying body and grabbed hold of the blade, wrenching it quickly from his chest. Immediately blood spurted out, soaking his chainmail and taking away the last bit of fight he had left in his soul. His body crashed to the floor, blood soaked chest to the sky, and in his last waking moments, as he laid there dying, I saw the fear finally leave his eyes.