Acheval
05-05-2006, 03:00 PM
By George Heng
Osarian surveyed the landscape with grim satisfaction. Five days had passed since he engaged the foe across Morghan’s pass; five days of glorious battle, when time strode across the hills bathed in red haze. As both sides waged a merciless, brutal war, the likes of which have never been witnessed by mortal eyes, unbeknownst to most, the tapestry that held the destiny of fair Ashan had begun to unravel.
It was the time of reckoning.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, his blood spattered mail rising and falling slowly. The life liquid poured from scores of wounds on his person, yet he was undeterred and none the worse for wear. He drew the relic of power from his sash and raised it slowly with both hands, uttering syllables in a long-forgotten tongue.
Almost as if in a dark obeisance, black clouds appeared over the horizon and quickly engulfed the battlefield. With some uncertainty and indeed, reluctance, the multitude of dead that lay scattered across the pass groaned imperceptibly, sighing softly, and, to the horror of even Osarian’s stalwart personal guard, began to rise from the blood-soaked ground.
Their eyes, blank, their expression unchanged, etched in the final moments of their agonies, the undead army slowly reached for their fallen weapons and grasped them with steely resolve.
Osarian completed his incantation, opened his eyes and beheld his deathless, conscripted army. Friend and foe alike, mortal enemies in life, united in death, now comrades under his banner.
Carnage and irony of such a grand scale demanded respect, and deserved to be savored, a little at a time. But time was something the warrior-necromancer held no sway over.
“My lord!” A cohort of his troops approached, with a captive in tow.
“We found her hiding among the corpsesss…” they whispered in a sibilant hiss, followed by a cackle.
He turned to face her as they dragged her up the hill, wrists securely bound. His eyes recognized her at once, and he smiled. She raised her head slightly and glared at him.
“Well, well.” He moved closer, and spoke softly in her ear.
“It appears you’ve underestimated me, my dear.”
She looked at him and, mustering whatever strength she had left, lunged her head towards his face, but he was too quick for her. In a fluid movement, he drew his dagger and with a smooth stroke, pierced the side of her throat. The blade went through.
There was a gurgling sound, but instead of drawing his dagger free, Osarian left it embedded in her flesh. She would have fallen to the ground if not for two of his minions who held her by the arms.
He gazed into her eyes, and then lovingly brushed a trickle of blood away from her lips.
“Not quickly enough, mother.” He smiled again.
She made no sound, save the choking gurgle that escaped past her lips, but her eyes spoke eloquently.
“Yes, yes. You may curse me with your last breath, but know this: I alone shall bring glory to our House; I alone have the will and the power to unite our people. Fair Ashan awaits, with her rolling fields, glistening towers and keeps of stone. It is there for the taking!”
Destiny awaits. Isabel awaits.
He licked his lips slowly as his eyes shone with anticipation.
“We shall be reunited once more mother, if not in life, then at least in death.”
Osarian grasped the blade’s hilt, and pulled it from her throat. There was a slight hiss, her head went limp, as she bled out.
“My lord, shall we prepare her for entombment in the family crypt?”
“No.”
“I mean to keep her by my side, Farius.”
The two guardsmen looked at one another incredulously, and began to laugh, as they made their way down the hill.
Osarian slowly pulled the relic from his sash, as he cradled his mother’s lifeless body.
“Yes, mother. I will do you proud”.
Osarian surveyed the landscape with grim satisfaction. Five days had passed since he engaged the foe across Morghan’s pass; five days of glorious battle, when time strode across the hills bathed in red haze. As both sides waged a merciless, brutal war, the likes of which have never been witnessed by mortal eyes, unbeknownst to most, the tapestry that held the destiny of fair Ashan had begun to unravel.
It was the time of reckoning.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, his blood spattered mail rising and falling slowly. The life liquid poured from scores of wounds on his person, yet he was undeterred and none the worse for wear. He drew the relic of power from his sash and raised it slowly with both hands, uttering syllables in a long-forgotten tongue.
Almost as if in a dark obeisance, black clouds appeared over the horizon and quickly engulfed the battlefield. With some uncertainty and indeed, reluctance, the multitude of dead that lay scattered across the pass groaned imperceptibly, sighing softly, and, to the horror of even Osarian’s stalwart personal guard, began to rise from the blood-soaked ground.
Their eyes, blank, their expression unchanged, etched in the final moments of their agonies, the undead army slowly reached for their fallen weapons and grasped them with steely resolve.
Osarian completed his incantation, opened his eyes and beheld his deathless, conscripted army. Friend and foe alike, mortal enemies in life, united in death, now comrades under his banner.
Carnage and irony of such a grand scale demanded respect, and deserved to be savored, a little at a time. But time was something the warrior-necromancer held no sway over.
“My lord!” A cohort of his troops approached, with a captive in tow.
“We found her hiding among the corpsesss…” they whispered in a sibilant hiss, followed by a cackle.
He turned to face her as they dragged her up the hill, wrists securely bound. His eyes recognized her at once, and he smiled. She raised her head slightly and glared at him.
“Well, well.” He moved closer, and spoke softly in her ear.
“It appears you’ve underestimated me, my dear.”
She looked at him and, mustering whatever strength she had left, lunged her head towards his face, but he was too quick for her. In a fluid movement, he drew his dagger and with a smooth stroke, pierced the side of her throat. The blade went through.
There was a gurgling sound, but instead of drawing his dagger free, Osarian left it embedded in her flesh. She would have fallen to the ground if not for two of his minions who held her by the arms.
He gazed into her eyes, and then lovingly brushed a trickle of blood away from her lips.
“Not quickly enough, mother.” He smiled again.
She made no sound, save the choking gurgle that escaped past her lips, but her eyes spoke eloquently.
“Yes, yes. You may curse me with your last breath, but know this: I alone shall bring glory to our House; I alone have the will and the power to unite our people. Fair Ashan awaits, with her rolling fields, glistening towers and keeps of stone. It is there for the taking!”
Destiny awaits. Isabel awaits.
He licked his lips slowly as his eyes shone with anticipation.
“We shall be reunited once more mother, if not in life, then at least in death.”
Osarian grasped the blade’s hilt, and pulled it from her throat. There was a slight hiss, her head went limp, as she bled out.
“My lord, shall we prepare her for entombment in the family crypt?”
“No.”
“I mean to keep her by my side, Farius.”
The two guardsmen looked at one another incredulously, and began to laugh, as they made their way down the hill.
Osarian slowly pulled the relic from his sash, as he cradled his mother’s lifeless body.
“Yes, mother. I will do you proud”.