Warlords Of The Oaken Chalice

Akran: A Flight Of Arrows

"Get down!" he commanded, his voice already hoarse from a full day of battle spent leading his men against his mighty enemies, unrelenting in their brutal search for power. Yet another flight of arrows crashed upon his troops, and cries of agony erupted all around him. Where the hell had they found reinforcements? But he already knew the answer: his allies had betrayed him. The battle was so near over, but the Warlord had cheated defeat, stolen victory from the gods, and sacrificed the lives of the innocents to the demons he cherished.

Akran had fought valiantly, defending the honour of the gods, his sword their very will, through it their power wielded. Yet on that battlefield, on that day, the gods had failed him, betrayed his men, and allowed the demons to taste the blood of the worthy fallen.

Akran, The Gods' Chosen, lay hidden, pressed low into the muddy battlefield, his full-length iron shield covering him, protecting him from the sharpened arrowheads raining from the sky above. His arm felt wet and sticky, and he saw to his horror the blood of a close friend pooled deep, welling from a fatal wound to the neck. He was an old friend; named in life, nameless in death, faceless to the demons of war.

"Akran!" came the call behind him. "Akran!"

He turned to see his lieutenant crouching there, hiding under a shield already thrice pierced by the enemy arrows, trying desperately to crawl towards the Warlord.

"What is it, lieutenant?"

He heard the call of release from behind the enemy lines, and pulled the shield up to guard himself against the next volley of arrows. Soon, it wouldn't be enough. A shield couldn't protect him once his army had been defeated.

"Akran, do not lose hope!" shouted the lieutenant above the cries of pain encircling him. "You are The Gods' Chosen. The Oaken Chalice must be protected at all costs."

"The gods have betrayed us," cried Akran. "The Demon Knight has stood tall, and The Bloodbath reaps on the battlefield beside him."

"The Merciless is yet with us. She will not abandon us."

Akran was doubtful. The Warlord was a fearless woman, with no love for the gods or the demons, only for battle and the debt of blood. She herself had her eyes on the Oaken Chalice; how long before she turned her weapons of torture to Akran's back?

He searched the battlefield for The Merciless, and found her rallying her own mounted soldiers beyond the range of the falling arrows, the warhorses shuffling impatiently, bursts of steam erupting from their nostrils. He looked ahead, studying the arrays of the enemy soldiers. The Demon Knight's withered raiders were regrouping, rallying behind the Warlord himself, and The Bloodbath's bowmen were keeping the killing ground devoid of life. Akran could see the only path to victory open up before him, as if the gods had sent him the message.

"Lieutenant!" he called. "Rally the men, gather anyone with two legs still standing, we need to close the ground and challenge those bowmen. If we can get swords in there, we will open a path for The Merciless to charge behind us, to reach the enemy with fresh steel. Carry two shields each if you have to, but take your men and make sure to get across the killing ground."

The lieutenant nodded thoughtfully for a moment, his desperate gaze calculating the distance to the enemy fighters, considering the losses to be suffered in the charge. The look in his eye suggested he understood the risk, the sacrifice. His own sacrifice.

Akran signalled to The Merciless and her mounted warriors, hoping she would understand his strategy, his last desperate throw of the blade. He prayed the gods would hold her to her oath, force her to honour their alliance. Finally, he collected his own sword and shield as he prepared to rise.

"No, Akran," said the Lieutenant. "You must fall back, join with her. Protect the Oaken Chalice. This is my sacrifice."

There was no place for cowardice in the Warlord's heart. He merely shook his head as he prepared the charge. The soldiers surrounding him readied themselves, all of them understanding the stakes. To wait to die under the falling arrows, or to risk all in a glorious charge.

"I will not die a coward... and I will not die a hero," cried Akran to his men, his voice echoing through the ranks. "I will not die by sword nor arrow! I will not die today! I will not die any day until victory is assured. I am The Gods' Chosen; victory is ours to claim!"

Even as his men roared their support, he leapt into the air and began charging, aware that the number of soldiers supporting him was less than he had hoped, but still enough to form a wall of steel, enough to make the enemy feel the thunder in the ground. He held his shield before him and charged at full speed, his broken voice calling as loudly as he could manage, his feet stepping as rapidly as they could, careful not to trip on the fallen warriors littering the battlefield.

He heard the rush of wind as arrows flew past his helmet, the clang of iron arrowheads raining on armour and shields. He saw men falling to the ground to either side of him, agony in their cries or silent in their death, rapidly reinforced as more soldiers pushed their way to the front line.

It felt an age had passed before his shield finally crashed into The Bloodbath's archers struggling to fall behind The Demon Knight's axes and hatchets. Akran swung his sword and burst into flesh without a moment's pause, blood splashing through the air. Yanking the blade back and swinging wildly, he cut the life from many a surprised soldier, their eyes revealing the horror of that last moment; they never truly believed they would die.

"It's working!" yelled the lieutenant, an encouraging tone in his voice. Hope. The lieutenant had never lost hope, against all odds. Yet there he knelt, blood spewing from his chest, his hands hung limp at his waist. He nodded to Akran, a faint smile crept on his face. He fell back onto his rear, his strength fading. "It's working," he said, but weaker this time. "You are The Gods' Chosen. Victory is within your grasp."

The lieutenant fell over, limp. Dead. Akran searched around him for allies, their numbers dwindling rapidly, but no faster than those of The Demon Knight and The Bloodbath. The battlefield was drinking deep, the earth would be stained red long after the victors had left. Akran looked back to see The Merciless charging with her army, their numbers enough to turn the tables in their favour without doubt. She alone would escape the battlefield with minimal losses, the true victor.

But Akran had a sacred duty to the gods, to the Oaken Chalice. He couldn't let it fall into the hands of The Merciless. The Warlord would wield its power with terrible consequence, abusing the gift from the gods.

He tried to back away from the thick of battle, but his hesitance was infectious. Within moments his men began to flee. Weapons and shields were dropped, caught in the panic, a stampede of soldiers charged back towards The Merciless.

"No!" cried Akran in desperation, but it was in vain. The Merciless's orders rang through her ranks, and they switched formation. By the time Akran's men understood, it was too late. They were cut down, unarmed, screaming in fear as they came to learn their fate.

"No!" cried Akran once more as he stopped in the middle of the battlefield. He was surrounded, by the ranks of his enemies and once allies, and by the corpses of the men he had once called friends. The Merciless, still mounted, trotted to Akran as he stood alone. He raised his sword and called to her. "Dismount, and face me!"

She closed the gap, her horse slowing to a standstill in front of him. The battle had ceased, and a cold silence engulfed him. Her horse kicked up dirt and blood, her spear hanging low before her.

"You have left me with no choice, Akran," she said, shrugging. "The Oaken Chalice is mine now."

The Gods' Chosen dropped to his knees and begged, "Mercy!"

The mounted Warlord before him listened. She watched him beg; amused, but not impressed. Unswayed. Her heavy spear pierced steel and flesh, and Akran's life leaked slowly away, as he spent his last few moments still whimpering for mercy. From the gods, or from her, the Warlord couldn't tell, but Reliasse, The Merciless, as was known to all, knew no such thing.

"Reliasse," said Akran, his eyes showing a pained expression as he shook his head and drew his last breath. "Remember..."