A CLOUD OF DUST rose from the earth as Latchlon and his men pounded towards the northern villages near the Blood Forest. The horses hooves were like thunder on the sands and the cloaks of the soldiers billowed in the wind. A brilliant threatening blue.
Latchlon's eyes were full of fire under his helmet. His heart raged under his silver breastplate and his lips were stretched to a thin line. He looked behind to the forty men following him with equal zest. Their eyes mirrored the same thing.
Bloodlust.
The Blue Cloaks were a savage squad of men united for only one reason; their hatred for anything that seemed too glorifying than them. They recognized the Crown as their only head and felt everything else should be subject to them. In the past, the Blue Cloaks conquered great armies, massacred entire villages, burnt whole families, all because the people raised their voices to the men's injustice. The only army they had failed to conquer was their continental neighbor. The winter realms of Valkalon.
Latchlon hated that the Icelanders had something that Syveria did not have. The only way for Syveria to rise to the very best in Adramon was by conquering Valkalon. He vowed to do just that, but first he had to pluck out traitors from the kingdom, starting with the Barkeep. His father, a man arrogant as him always told him that wenches needed to know their place.
He pulled at the reins of his horse and the beast pounded powerfully towards the hamlets in the distance. He could feel the bulk of muscles heaving with every gallop. The brown dust rose up into the sky until the villagers could see it from their humble homes.
Fathers quickly bundled their daughters into the houses and shut the doors. Fair girl children were hidden away in dark closets, and young boy children of army age were pulled out to the front of the chalets. The men hoped the sight of young blood would save the families from the wrath of the soldiers.
Latchlon slowed his horse to a trot and moved across the village. His men followed from behind with hard expressions in their eyes. He could see the fear shine openly in the people's eyes and he loved it. Men ought to fear to learn, he mused.
The women shivered behind their husbands who struggled to hide their own trepidation at his entrance. The peons all stood in a line in front of their homes as he walked past, and whenever his eyes met someone, they quickly lowered their eyes. Latchlon was a vile man and took pleasure in their fear.
He stopped the horse in front of the tavern and climbed down. His battle sandals clashed heavily to the earth and some serving girls jolted at the sound. Latchlon stood at the tavern's entrance, tall and menacing. His blue cape breezed with the wind and pride shone in his gaze.
"Bring her out!" He thundered.
Four soldiers immediately strode into the drinking-house as the villagers watched with horrified eyes. There was a brief moment of silence. Then there was a crashing sound of wine jars being shoved to the ground. A loud scuffling was heard, then a deafening blow. A small scream peeled out of the pub and the villagers eyes turned wider. Latchlon just stood unmoving with dark eyes.
A beat later, the soldiers walked back out. In their middle was the buxom barkeep, her face a bloated shade of purple.
She struggled against their hold and one of the soldiers turned and slapped her again. She screamed in pain and his palm met again with her face. She continued screaming and he continued hitting her. She stopped when she finally knew that her screams only spurred him on. Latchlon smiled as he watched his men hit her. Soon enough, the woman fell silent. Good, he mused. She was learning her place.
Her face was now sticky with blood and a ruddy substance ran down her nose. Her lips were torn in the middle from the soldier's blows but they still trembled when Latchlon walked to her with wicked ease. His eyes were lit in something fierce and delightful, like he enjoyed punishing her.
The upper hem of her gown was pulled to the side and more than enough skin of her bosom spilled out. Latchlon looked at her in disgust.
"Do you know who I am?" His voice was the mildest whisper, so conflictful to the wrath she saw in his eyes.
The Barkeep opened her trembling lips.
"A man?"
A fist moved out of nowhere, sinking deep into her belly. She cried out at the soldier's blow but quickly stifled it down to a sob lest the man hit her again. The Blue Cloaks were sadistic pricks.
"Yes, I am a man," Latchlon said, "...howbeit, one who hates lies."
Her blood ran cold at his words. The Commander had discovered her. She knew very well who he was. Tales of Latchlon, the Wrathful had spread across all the summer lands. A beastly man who knew no love. The King's cock-sucking brother. A man who was meant to protect his people but loved seeing them cower under his banners.
She often wondered how he would fare when confronted with a real army and not poor farmers with only pitchforks who could not fight back.
"What is your name?" Latchlon rasped, his voice still a sinister whisper.
She kept silent and a fist lifted to strike again. She looked up at the soldier preparing the blow and quickly answered.
"Elrina..."
The blow descended, this time right on her jaw. She nearly blacked out from the searing pain but subdued it by biting down on her lips.
"Show some respect, lying witch," the soldier who hit her boomed in her ear.
"Elrina, Ser.." the Barkeep croaked.
Latchlon smiled evilly at her. The woman was a fast learner. A little pain could tame even the wildest roes.
"Good. Elrina," he said. "...Now, I want you to answer me with a simple truth and maybe you will see a dungeon rather than a fire."
Elrina gulped at the veracity of his words. The man really thought to burn her.
"...Where is the Wytcher?"
Elrina went weak in the iron grips of the soldiers holding her. She knew exactly who the Commander wanted, but she had already made up her mind to never give him up.
Elrina had been tending to a group of rowdy drunk farmers when she first spied the Wytcher. He walked in with a cowl draped over his face but at once, the pub fell silent. Silvery runes seemed to glow from his dark robes and soft whisperings filled the air. The villages of northern Syveria had never seen a foreigner let alone a Valkalon Wytcher.
He moved across with his staff to a dark corner of the bar and the wood seemed to shiver with ancient mystics. He sat on a stool under the shadows and his hood fell away.
All the men that day in the tavern gasped at the sight. His hair was a luxurious silver, spun in braids that mirrored the frost. His eyes were so white he looked fearful. His beard was a fluffy mane that flowed down his jaw, and his skin was pale like a leper's but with a brilliant shine devoid of disease. The Wytcher was aged but he was beautiful.
His eyes were colorless but they held compassion in their depths. He just sat calmly on the bench with his strange moon eyes.
The people stared at him until the spittle filling their open mouths finally dropped to the floors. Only then did they look away. Elrina walked to him with a full cup of ale. When the man's eyes leveled pale on her, she knew she would never betray him.
The Wytcher did not look at her like the drunken farmers did. He did not look upon her with lust, or frown at her spilling bosom. He did not call her fat, or laugh at her round stature.
He just looked on her, like she assumed a god would, with sage eyes and a simple smile. That night, she never let his cup run dry. The man drank silently, alone in his dark corner. She moved her eyes away from him for a moment to attend to a patron. When she turned back, he was gone. Vanished away like the mists.
Later that evening, she found a purse filled with gold coins atop the bench on which he sat. When Elrina lifted it up, it was heavier than a full jug of ale.
"...WOMAN!!!" A loud voice boomed in her ears. Elrina was jolted from her thoughts and focused once more on the present. Latchlon still stood before her like an angry beast. She immediately remembered his question.
"I don't know," she droned in reply.
Latchlon frowned at her answer. The woman was going to make him torture her. He could still feel the villagers' eyes on them from behind. His men were going restless. They needed blood. When she said nothing else, Latchlon thundered so loud his armor rattled.
"You lie! You were seen with him.." the words barely left his mouth before his right fist smashed into her face. The villagers gasped behind and the women covered their misty eyes. When Latchlon lifted his fist away, blood ran freely down Elrina's face and her nose crooked at a strange angle.
Elrina lifted up her eyes to him and Latchlon growled. The woman was smiling at him, laughing to his face. Elrina smirked at him with a bloody face. She knew the Commander was just a big coward who hid behind the veil of a blue cloak, feigning strength as he preyed upon the weak. The Wytcher was the only man who showed her inner strength.
He showed her that a man did not need to be tall to be brave; he did not need to have golden hair, or wear a silver armor to be strong. All he needed was a pure inner conviction. All of which Latchlon lacked.
Elrina made up her mind to die before she let Latchlon murder another innocent man all because he feared his strength. Latchlon saw this clear in her bright eyes and growled under his breath.
"Take her to the stake!"
The soldiers gleefully dragged her away. The other officers quickly mounted up piles of wood and kindle, and before long, Elrina was secured to a wooden holdfast with large logs around her feet. When she saw the torch flaming bright in Latchlon's hand, her eyes for the first time lit in fear.
Latchlon beheld this and glared with a toothy grin.
~. ~. ~.
GRYTHER THE WHYTE watched the soldiers ride into the village from his place up in the branches of the massive Cypress tree. He had been sleeping on the tree for days. The fruitful boughs were his bed as he awaited the sign for him to begin his mission. Whenever he moved to leave the village, his staff rattled beside him, telling him to remain. He always obliged.
It was when he saw the angry red cloud of dust behind the riding cavalry that he understood the reason for his wait. He followed them with his eyes as their capes danced in the wind. Their horses drew closer and he immediately recognized them from the parchments he had read before embarking on his journey.
The soldiers on the horses were the Blue Cloaks: Officers of the Syverian Army.
He slowly climbed down the Cypress, following them from a distance until they stopped in front of the pub. His eyes went wide when he saw them drag out the Barkeep. Her face was soiled with dark blood and her hair glued to her cheeks.
"Elrina!" he whispered softly into the air.
The woman had been kind to him, offering him wine even when his kind were clearly known as the 'evil' from the summerland's children stories. She did not look upon him with hate, nor mockery at his uncanny eyes. He knew of the stories told about Wytchers in the summer lands; that they were pale-eyed bastards descended from a corrupted bloodline of Fae Princes. It was not untrue, yet Elrina never once glowered at him.
Gryther watched as the soldiers hurriedly built up a wooden pedestal. The men bundled up Elrina who wriggled in their grasp onto the top. They then bound her firmly to the wooden pillar. A tall man strode forward to the pile of wood. A Commander perhaps.
A soldier walked across and handed over a lighted torch. Gryther watched the tall man collect it. He slowly lifted it over Elrina tied to a stake. The man was going to burn her.
Gryther watched the torch descend in slow motion and his eyes turned silver with fury. The orbs shined powerfully and he released his sorcery.
His staff rattled by his side and lightning flashed in the sky...
~. ~. ~.
COMMANDER LATCHLON PIERRAN had never seen a single thunderstorm in Syveria. There were certainly wet days of mild rain but a storm had never been heard of in the summerlands, not even in the Legends. Yet before his very eyes, the sky went dark as peat.
Gloomy ash clouds rolled over the once bright sky and a cold wind blew over the entire village. The sands stirred on the earth and dry leaves danced in the wind. The villagers clutched their robes tighter to their bodies, looking around with wide searching eyes as chills began to dot their arms. Latchlon was stunned at the sudden change in the weather. The sky above was black as a crow's feather and the icy wind seeped under his armor. It was a frigidness never once experienced in the summer lands.
He had dropped the flaming torch to the kindle at the foot of the stake to burn the witch but at once, a whipping breeze, colder than normal winked out the flames before it could catch the tinder.
"Pick it up!" He growled at a nearby soldier.
The man picked up the torch once more and lit it again. The fires were instantly smoked out by the cold wind. The wind was now a freezing turbulence that washed over the village. The soldiers eyes' lost their bravery and the folk huddled together. His blue cloak ascended high in the air with the force of the blast and dust rose rushed into his eyes.
Latchlon blinked it out and looked to Elrina secured to the wooden post. Her eyes also reflected shock. She was not causing the storm.
Suddenly, a force racked the earth like the thud of a giant's feet and the ground shivered. Women screamed and hurried to their homes. The icy mists rising from the earth cleared away and Latchlon saw a man in the blurry horizon.
He could make out the shape of a dark shawl breezing with the wind and a hand clutching a staff. The figure's cowl fell away to the breeze and the soldiers gasped beside him.
The shape was a man with terrible silver eyes that shined with magic. His hair glinted in the same silver halo and his fingers controlled the storm. His hushed words commanded the winds and his thoughts made the frost. Latchlon gulped.
It was the Wytcher.
"Kill him!" Latchlon thundered into the air.
His soldiers unsheathed their swords and rushed out across the earth. The ground pounded with the hooves of the horses. Latchlon watched them ride furiously to the Wytcher. The man lifted up his staff, held it up for a moment, then smashed it to the earth. The ground shivered again with a jolting thud. All his soldiers and their horses instantly fell to the earth. A white mist rose and covered his fallen officers.
Latchlon could hear ominous whisperings in the air and the breaking clash of swords but could see nothing in the ghostly aura that had fallen over the land.
When the mists cleared and Latchlon peered once more into the eerie fog, his heart nearly gave in his chest.
He spied his soldiers, slain with their own swords, dead and bleeding on the earth. They had been confused in the mist and killed one another. All forty of them.
"Come at me, you cold fucker!" Latchlon shouted. His voice shivered with fear and his skin was dotted with gooseflesh under his armor. His eyes shrank with the cold. He was scared. Really scared.
He looked behind and saw Elrina still glued to the post.
A flitting evil thought immediately filled his mind.
He drew out his sword and rushed across to her. He lifted it high in the air to strike her down when lightning flashed in the dark sky. The brilliance discomfited him and he lost his footing. The sword fell from his hands and the answering rumble of thunder sent him to his arse. He landed on the hard earth with a painful thud and his armor dug into his flesh. He looked up and spotted Elrina unhurt by his sword.
Before his very eyes, a crackling ice began to slowly crawl up the wood and tinder. It moved up the woodpost and his sword clattered on the ground. It froze completely the metal until it broke from the ice, shattering to multiple shards. Latchlon paled. What sorcery could rend apart the Seers' steel? They were the best forgery in the land.
The ice crawled across the ropes binding Elrina. It froze and withered away and she broke free. She walked down the wooden platform, stopping before Latchlon sprawled on the earth. Her palm rose and a deafening crack landed on his cheek. He gritted his teeth at the hit, wincing more in fury than actual pain.
Without another word, Elrina turned and walked off into the mists. Latchlon could vaguely make out the shape of the Wytcher in the cold. Elrina stopped beside him and they both vanished into the fog.
At their disappearance, the sky cleared once more. The clouds moved away and the eerie darkness dissolved over the land. Amber rays of the sun spilled out once more warming up the air, and Latchlon had never been more thankful for the heat of the sun.
Shivers still moved over his flesh as the villagers peered out once more from open windows. They instantly covered their mouths at the lurid sight.
Forty men lay dead on the earth. Their broken bleeding bodies gleamed pale before the stakes. In the midst of all the mangled limbs was their Commander, Latchlon of House Pierran. He stared at the gore all around him with a shaken expression.
His soldiers were all dead. His mighty sword was broken. Elrina had disappeared into thin air with the Wytcher. Still sitted on the soft earth, he began to contemplate his quest to cross the Blood Forest. Maybe Eracuse was better off uncrossed.
Who knew what an army of such powerful sorcerers could do to an entire city if one of them killed forty trained Blue Cloaks without so much as a word.