The ship's wood hull creaked on through the glassy waters, and every splash hitting the boat sounded loudly in the silent night. Ecolier kept a sharp eye on Alistair, his eyes squinting and muttering to himself, "Let's see if you can cut it, boy."
Talthon sits next to Alistair, staring at the young man in silence as he eats his dinner—a bowl of rice, consumed by a wooden spoon. There is something odd about the old man's look that's a mix of pride and sorrowful glint. He speaks softly to break the silence, "How did you manage, Alistair? Tell me everything."
Alistair swallowed a mouthful of rice, then his eyes dimmed behind it. "I was headed home. Saw. something strange," he said with a touch of fear and anger. "People pulled some out. Then. people killed so many... I ran about all places for you; I couldn't find you." He paused and let his voice quiver. "I thought. that you were dead."
Talthon's grip on the shoulder of his son tightened. "Alistair," he whispered, as a pang of regret hit his chest.
The boy continued, "I cried a lot at first. But then something... something pushed me forward, like a voice urging me on to find that peaceful land the dream I saw. I couldn't stop; I had to keep moving."
Alistair steadied himself with a deep breath, recalling all of the hardships he had endured. "There was Dravean. He assisted me. Though something seemed off about him, he proved kind. And then. there was a tiger." Briefly, Alistair's eyes lit up with pride and fear. "It was the biggest creature I'd ever seen. No choice but to fight." Then Talthon could not keep his impulse inside anymore. He embraced his son and whispered through his ear, "You suffered so much, my son, but you lived.".
Leaning into his father's arms, relief poured over Alistair like some balm to cleanse the soul. Ecolier stood there, watching them from afar, gazing off into the horizon.
And then the wind rose up, carrying with it a little hint of sea and far land and sun smiting down the day over the waves. Alistair had eaten, faced around again, and stood gazing out across the blue toward infinite distances in calm. He released a tiny smile there, watching the sun dance the waves.
Reflection of the sea in his eyes and face, he smiled and smiled.
Ecolier approached Talthon, his voice a mere murmur. "I have a question, Talthon. I've heard of a place, a certain land. Care to tell me where it is? I don't quite. understand."
Talthon gazed at Ecolier, and his face said nothing. "I do not know what you speak of," he snapped. "And besides, it is no concern of yours."
The young pupil narrowed his eyes, tensing his fists, his face set, a muscle working in his jaw. "Ah," he muttered to himself, shaking his hands with pent-up frustration. "I knew he'd never tell me...
Untroubled by Ecolier's tension, Talthon walked over to Alistair. They looked at the sea and the vast, open sky under a blanket of clouds, white as cotton. He pointed now with an as-yet unfamiliar look of excitement on his face at seagulls gliding effortlessly over waves. It was a clear smile, unmarked by long years of unhappiness, and Talthon couldn't help himself; he smiled at the boy's pure radiance.
Ecolier then reclined unto the other side of the ship, himself gazing out toward the horizon. He walked up thus, shouting, "We are half way to our destination already. Speed up! I want us there by tomorrow afternoon before sunset!
"Aye! Master!!" The chorus of assent rose from the crew. With them sailed three other ships, and their holds were filled with soldiers. Others laughed and clinked mugs while others danced in the golden light of the sun that began sinking toward the horizon. The sky turned red and orange. And in this quiet of the evening, Alistair found a break. "Father… look! The sun is setting over the sea. It's… beautiful," he said, his face alight with wonder as, resting his hands on his cheeks, he gazed out with sparkling eyes.
Talthon strode across the room to follow the line of his son's eyes. Unfeigned at first glance, Talthon's instincts told him otherwise; seeing the young man radiate such happiness and vigor was enough to stir something deep inside Talthon's chest. "Happy to see you smile... keep smiling like this, he thought, warmth spreading through his chest as they both watched in silence for the sun to dip below the horizon, casting a soft, golden sheen on their skin.
Night fell heavily over the ship, and silence overwhelmed the vessel. Lamps placed at remote corners of the deck lit up faint wriggling lights accompanied by cold moonlight. The crew moved about—the sailors came to adjust the sails, while others literally steered the ship through the dark sea. They wore deep green armor, leather pants, and strong boots.
They moved with practiced ease, well aware of their roles, each action smooth and precise as they worked on the preservation of the integrity of the vessel's movement.
One figure he noticed was bent over into itself, mantled so that his face was not visible, his back turned to the others as he cared meticulously over a lantern stationed at the far end of the deck. Stepping forward, he struck the flame and showed only his steady hands but hid the rest of his face. Ecolier observed closely; without any noise, he circled the ship, incorporating everything into himself in silence, his face thoughtful as he registered what he saw the crews were doing.
Alistair sat, embracing a wooden bowl close, munching on his simple meal of rice. Across from him, Talthon ate too; his eyes glowed with a faint smile as he watched over his son. Already an overwhelming enough thing to take in all day seeing the sea, and with the ship steady beneath and now eating beneath a blanket of stars, Alistair took it all in with wonder, savoring the warmth of the food and the quiet all around.
"Dad, I have to tell you something," Alistair said, his voice half full of tears, half relief.
Talthon looked down at the young lad and said, "What is it, boy?
Alistair took a deep breath. "I ran out of the village without ever laying eyes on you. I wanted to find my way to you, but then I came upon King Thassalor. I didn't know how to fight; I mean, I can fight with that evil one; he was so strong. so I ran away. It was the only thing I could do." Talthon beamed warmly. "Good choice, son," he said, thumping Alistair on the shoulder. "I was worried for you, but I knew. You made the right decision."
Alistair felt a great deal of gratitude welled up in his heart because he had always looked up to his father and admired his courage and wisdom. Having his father understand and approve of his decision filled him with peace.
"Proud I am of you, Alistair," said Talthon proudly in his voice. "You've shown great gall and maturity."
Tears welled up in his eyes. He had never felt so loved and supported. Alistair knew he could stand anything coming his way—no matter how rough it might be—to know that his dad was there for him.
Talthon looks at Alistair after he's done his dinner. A glint of pride is now in his eyes. "You have come far," he says softly, "more than I ever expected. You liked today, and I am glad to find you too.".
Alistair looked his dad right in the eye, weighed on his face by the words, as he said, "Yes, dad, and now I don't want to lose you!!" His low-down sadness hung in every word.
Talthon nodded slowly, his face easing in the soft light. They sat there in comfortable silence in that fleeting moment of peace.
Meanwhile, some sailors huddled near the steps—the laughter and tales spinning among them. Someone produced a drum, and a few of them started dancing with loose bodies and complete freedom; lanterns swayed precariously overhead, casting an amber glow over the deck.
Laughter and rhythm filled the cool night air, contrasted by the rigorous journey they had undertaken for so long. Alistair sat there watching, wide-eyed as if beholding something for the very first time. He had never really seen such joy and freedom.
As the darkness deepened, the laughter died away, and one by one the crew sought their resting places. The lanterns around the ship burned low as the last candles flickered out. Alistair and Talthon, losing fight to the sleep, climbed down to the lower deck, where they lay on rough wool blankets. Cold night air seeped in through cracked breathings, and Alistair wrapped himself tightly in his shroud, feeling the chill as he drifted off.
Time was passing now, and when Alistair had slept, Talthon began to stir. Noiselessly, he rose and went back to the deck. The ship moved noiselessly through the inky water. The sea sprawled out endlessly beneath a star-filled sky. Delicate and slow, the snowflakes fell, blanketing the deck in white and white. Talthon stood up alone at the bow and watched silent snow.
He breathed deep of the night, feeling his soul soothed by an odd peace and stillness of the night. For that one fleeting instant, with the snow gently falling and the ship cutting through calm waters, the weight of his past seemed to lift, at least a little for him.
The sun was rising across the horizon, and its rays played briskly along the turbulent waves. Seagulls cried shrilly against the crisp sea air to break the stillness of dawn. Most of the crew members were strewn about the deck, dressed in their cloaks or leaning up against the barrels, fast asleep. The ship swayed gently, with creaking wood and the rhythm of the ocean combining.
"Up, up, lazy bums!" shouted Ecolier as he marched across the deck. His voice boomed out over the glassy waters, breaking into the stillness: "We have work to do! Prepare yourselves! We are near upon the field of battle!"
Groaning, the men rubbed sleep from their eyes and struggled to their feet. Talthon already stood at helm, wide-awake, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. He was a figure of discipline, tall, his very presence enough to silence any grumbling. His armor caught the sun shining upon it, faintly gleaming as he worked on sharpening his blade.
He stood across the railing of the ship, watching with nervous interest all the commotion that went on. His heart sank at the sight of soldiers strapping on weapons and mentally preparing themselves for battle ahead.
Just then, a voice pierced through the din.
"Land ahead!" shouted a seaman clinging up aloft to the masthead. He pointed offshore to the south, his voice roaring and yelling from up there over the deck like a gust of wind. "Land afar!".
The soldiers rushed forward at once, crowding near the bow of the ship and shoving their faces forward for a glimpse. Alistair waded through their backs, his eyes squinting with the sun shining bright. Along the horizon was a faint outline of land veiled by morning mist.
Yet Talthon sat there, silent and unmoved, his countenance a mask to what passed before him, turned back with eyes fixed steadfast upon the preparation for what was to be.
"Attention, men!" Talthon's voice was sharp and clear. "Units (Group) One to last, assemble yourselves here. Prepare to deploy!"
Ecolier was seeing them with his hand folded, and the crew at once fell into alignment. Boots on wood boomed through the deck as soldiers stacked their helmets in hand, faces set for grim purpose.
Behind, Alistair stood with his arms crossed across his chest, watching happenings unfold, getting sicker by the minute. Thoughts were a whirlpool churning beneath him in the waters.
"All of them are fools. rushing headlong to battle. And my father—why did he come here? Duty perhaps? Or something more? I do not know. But this. This feels wrong."
He gazed down at the water, reflecting on its sparkling surface, his mind wandering.
"Should I? Should I ask him why he joins this fight?" The question remained in his mind as he lost his resolve.
Alistair's eyes caught a glint of metal—his father's sword, polished and ready. Without thinking, he moved toward him. "Father!" he called out, his voice a mix of urgency and fear. "A sword... you're going to fight? To kill?"
Talthon looks forward and doesn't flick an eyelid. "Yes," he says brusquely. "You are staying on the ship.".
"No!!!" Alistair's voice rose to denial. "I want to come with you! I can fight."
"You will remain," Talthon cut in, his voice like a hard blade. "This is not your battle, Alistair."
In the curled fists, his lips quivered. "But—"
"Enough!" roared Talthon, silenced him. "You get your orders." Do as told.
Alistair turned to the side, gritting his chest as with pain and irritation. Almost inaudibly: "I just wanted to help..."
"Group One, to the water!" Talthon yelled, his voice booming across the deck. "Form positions as I briefed you. It is the hills and the jungle. Keep out of sight till the signal comes. Move. We're still outside their observation zone!"
All soldiers in Group One saluted uniformly, their faces tight and intent. One by one, all of them were preparing for the jump.
"See you on the other side, lads," spat out one soldier, punching his mate on the back.
Another was fixing his equipment and smiled. "Hope the water isn't so darn cold as last season.".
With that, the first man leapt into the air and tumbled into the water below. One by one, the others followed, their movements eerily silent. The ripples from the water spread outward as they disappeared beneath the surface, striking off toward the shadowed edge of the distant land.
On the other side of the beach, soldiers of Corovus Kein marched the shore. In their uniforms, there was the dark emblem of their master and ominous light cast off from their weapons.
There was a watchtower there, and from it a scout shouted, "Master! Ships on the horizon! Approaching!
Another soldier approached him. This man was peering through a spyglass. "They're coming, I see, because of the fog. I can't see them properly. But looks like an advanced unit—small but skilled.".
Inside a nearby tent, Corovus Kein's second-in-command—a man with a scarred face and eyes that could freeze the blood—listened intently. "How many?" he asked in a low, measured tone.
"Hard to tell," the scout admitted. "But they move to a purpose. This isn't a bluff."
The scarred commander smirked. "Good. Let them come. Inform the Master. We'll welcome them to our shores... with fire."
They looked at each other nervously as the import of the orders struck them. Outside, where the morning sun was blazing, the sea sparkled with a sparkle of playfulness, teasing the storm that would soon come in blood and steel.
He cut Alistair off, the tone hard but laced with worry. "You have suffered much, my son, but this isn't your battle. Not yet. Stay here where it's safe.".
Alistair clenched his fists, frustration seething. "Safe? You cannot just stand with me while you parade in a room full of danger! I've lost so much already—I won't lose you too!
Talthon's hand rested steady on Alistair's shoulder, his eyes gentling. "Listen to me, Alistair: sometimes the strongest action is not to fight but to wait—for the right time, the right reason. Trust me on this.".
Even before he could protest, a horn from one of the neighboring ships blew out to signal that land was coming. The soldiers stirred once again, preparing themselves now, tightening their armor and firmly grasping arms. Tension was already palpable; it was the calm before the storm.
Ecolier seemed to come out, commanding voice and sharp voice: "Get set. Prepare yourselves. Prepare yourselves. We are landing shortly. Remember, this is no ordinary skirmish. Stay alert; hesitation could be fatal."
Alistair backed away from the ship's railing, his eyes glued to the shore ahead. The mist was clearing now, and jagged cliffs and dark forests loomed over the coastline like specters of doom. An ancient knot of fear in his chest grew tighter.
Talthon turned to stand beside Ecolier, who looked up at him with a smile. "Your boy has fire in him. Reckless, maybe, but there's potential there. Join him, too".
Talthon didn't say a word; his eyes seemed far away. "He's strong, but he's not ready. He is only a little child. Not ready for this.".
Got little Anger gritted the teeth but kept his silence.
They steered into a small cove, where surging waves receded into relative stillness. The soldiers rushed ashore; the only noise was the crunch of their boots along the rocks because the air charged with saline and earth kept everyone rigid under the tension.
Alistair stood on the deck, his heart racing within him. How he wanted to run there after—to follow, to prove himself against his father's words, and to run that way, into danger. Yet something in Talthon's voice stayed with him—a gleam of trust, a hope that his father had a reason for keeping him away.
Talthon stepped into dry land, his boots sinking into the damp sand. Behind him, his men moved in disciplined ranks, their clinking with armor and a metallic sheen of spears flashing in the fading light of the afternoon. The archers at the rear moved with practiced stealth, bows pulled tight.
General Ecolier stepped by Talthon's side, his strides almost springlike. A wicked curve flopped upon his lips; his eyes glittered with a secret too great for words. Talthon caught the look but said nothing to it, his heart heavy with discomfort.
It was from the far side of the field that they came, those soldiers in darker, more worn armor, yet moving with a steadiness almost like precision. At the heart of their formation, Corovus Kein stood, his cold gaze fixed straight ahead.
Corovus walked slowly, his measured steps deliberate. His men flanked him, their faces expressionless as a force to swallow whatever came its way. His lips curved slightly as he caught Talthon within the reach of his sharp-eyed glance.
"Yes," thought Corovus, almost whispering into his own mind. "I remember him. Talthon, the man who built for peace even as he built destruction."
The two commanders closed the distance between their armies. Cold wind whipped across the field with an eerie silence. By then, the sun had climbed to a reasonable height above the horizon but was weak and pale, along with creeping fog that rolled over the ground like a ghost.
Talthon and Corovus stood, locked each other in their stares, with their army standing behind them. The wind nipped at Talthon's skin, but he still stood unmoving, his features set with an unyielding intent even as the storm of thoughts raged through his head.
Ecolier broke the silence, his voice loud and taunting. "I have come as you have challenged me. Now what?"
Talthon's jaws clenched shut. He hadn't volunteered for this; he'd been thrust into it. Ideas flashed through his mind. "I don't want this. I don't want bloodshed. Why does it always come to this?"
Ecolier leaned close into Talthon's chest. His voice is dropped into a menacing whisper. His breath was as cold as ice against Talthon's ear. "Think, Talthon. One false step, and your wife, your peace. your villagers. They'll all pay for it. Fight, or face ruin of everything you hold dear."
Talthon clenched his fists as he listened to the words. His heart was crying out for retreat, but Ecolier was not threatening that. His words were stinging with the weight of his own responsibility.
Ecolier smirks, steps back, and raises his voice for everyone to hear.
"Fight him! Show us your worth. or lose everything!"
The soldiers on either side stirred restlessly against this cold wind, which hooted through their ranks. Talthon took a great breath, narrowing his eyes to watch Corovus, whose gaze was unforgiving and cold as ice. He knew now he would have no respite from this battle.
"For their sake." Talthon muttered, grasping the hilt of his sword tightly in tight fists.
The jungle canopy whispered a soft rustle, for Talthon's Group 1 moved quietly with not a step softer than any of the others in precision, crunching the soft forest floor beneath their boots. Every man was on high alert; the eyes darted to every shadow and movement, but here instead of the dense fog of battle was the filtering dappled light that passed through the thick foliage.
One soldier nudged another softly, his voice near inaudible: ".
"See? The enemy archers—they're right there, just as Commander Talthon said! How does he do it?"
The other soldier laughed and readjusted his grip on the spear.
"That's why he's the commander, isn't it? The man sees things none of us do."
A third man crouched behind the tree and looked along the slope where his enemy archers lay waiting. There was a reverent quality to his voice.
"It's almost unfair. We've got them trapped now. They thought they had the high ground, but we're already in position to cut them down."
One of the younger soldiers, not a year beyond his first battle, leaned in close to his comrade.
"Do you think he planned this days ago?" he asked incredulously, his voice full of disbelief.
The older soldier to his left laughed as he kept staring at the target.
"Plotted it? He probably foresaw this before we even left the fort. That is Talthon for you."
On the tops of the hill, sword-wielding soldiers stood at attention in a queue. One of the soldiers scarred had a place running along his cheek and a hand that gripped tight onto the hilt of his blade. He could clearly figure it out and was scanning the scene below.
"They're just where he said they'd be," he comments. "How does he see through the fog of war like this? It's as if he knows the enemy better than they know themselves."
Another soldier stepped to his side, her voice low but full of conviction.
"It doesn't matter how he does it. What matters is that we're here, and they're as good as finished."
The archers below were going very slowly, bows drawn. Little did they know that they were already inside a trap.
"I cannot believe this," a soldier whispered while standing behind a boulder. "Look at them. They think they're on top."
A soldier looking through the bushes smiled.
"They're shooting fish in a barrel. Commander Talthon's a genius, even though we are the armies of thassalor, but this. Now all we have to do is wait for the signal."
As Talthon's men waited, the tension became electric with suspense. The enemy archers remained unaware of their presence; they kept their focus solely on the battlefield in hand.
A soldier was whispering, trying hard not to be heard, to his own group.
"This is it. The moment they realize their mistake. It'll be too late."
Another soldier thought to himself as he stood on the hill with his sword: "Talthon leads us to war, but he leads us to triumph. One move ahead of the entire world. Always."
They stood there in silence, gazing down upon the enemy. Every soldier there felt himself growing in awe for his commander. He needed only the signal to strike.
Talthon gripped his sword sharply and continued speaking steadily but emphatically.
"Corovus, I'm asking one last time—retreat. Spare your men, and let's end this without bloodshed."
Ecolier's sneer curved into a frown.
What, good Talthon, what's wrong with you? To fight, not to crave, art thou come?
Heaving himself past Ecolier, Talthon gazed intently at Corovus.
"I didn't come for this senseless violence, but I came here to put an end to it. Take your defeat, and it ends."
Corovus's eyes narrowed, his grip on the sword growing tighter. His thoughts churned inside his head. "He doesn't want to fight. He asks for my surrender? No, this is just mockery."
He stepped forward, the words clipped and cold.
"No! You will fight me here now. Or are you too afraid to stand in front of me?"
And Talthon came forward, his sword sparkling under the dressed light of a veiled afternoon sun. His face, once divided by conflicting thoughts, stood hard with determination. His voice cut through the winds, strong, sharp, and eager, just as the blade felt in his hand.
"If peace is not an option. Let the violence talk.".
Corovus smiled. His men were ready behind him. His hand lay on the hilt of his own sword, and a devilish determination grinned in his eyes.
"You finally came to reveal yourself, Talthon. Now, let's see if your sword speaks louder than your words."
The air is growing cold; the earth shudders at the coming clash. The soldiers clench their grips on the weapons as they shiver with each breath of cold in the fog.
Corovus curled his lips into sneers. His soldiers stepped back, crouching behind him. His hand rested on his own sword hilt. He narrowed his eyes to the figure before him.
"You finally let your true self show, Talthon. Let's hear if it's your sword that'll talk louder than you.
The cold air seemed to thicken into the atmosphere, as if earth herself were shuddering at the invading horde. A little tighter were the grips on weapons of both sides as breath smoked softly through the frosty mist.
Talthon stood firm, but his sword was shackled tightly in his grip because another batch of soldiers advanced toward him. His stance was cautious but relentless. These were no ordinary men; these were hardened warriors; dented armor scarred with marks from previous skirmishes. With every step forward, they calculated every move and measured him for the smallest of apertures.
A great tall man, with a jagged scar running down his cheek, led the charge of these reinforcements.
He swung the heavy axe down with all his might. Talthon sidestepped, and the axe crashed into the ground where he had stood moments before. Without pause, Talthon turned, using the momentum of his dodge to bring his sword upward. The blade met the haft of the axe with a great clang, forcing the scarred warrior to dance backward.
Another soldier, shorter of limb but quicker, came in on Talthon's right flank, two daggers flashing. He was lithe and quick, striking for Talthon's open spaces—under the arms, the joints of his armor. Talthon turned, his sword riposting at the quick jabs, sparks flying with every clashing bite. The smaller man leered, feinting left before darting for Talthon's open side.
But Talthon was prepared for the blow, bringing his mailed hand up to catch the wrist that held the dagger. Twisting sharply, he flung the man backward off his heel.
A third soldier—a brute carrying a spiked mace—raised a bellow as he charged forward, swinging his weapon in wide, destructive arcs. The ground shook with every step he took. Talthon stood there, his eyes narrowing as the brute closed in.
The first hit was low, intended to rip Talthon's legs from under him. He leapt forward in mid-air as the spikes tore into the earth just beyond where he would have stood. The second hit was at chest level. Talthon ducked, and he felt the rushing air as the mace passed over his head.
The brutes were overextended; Talthon took his chance. He stepped inside the brute's lead reach, jabbing the pommel of his sword into the man's chest. The brute groaned and reeled back, but not before Talthon brought his sword down on the chain of the mace and split it off with a single, delicate strike. The spiked head of the weapon thudded to the ground.
More men charging now—four, five, six all together. They came as one, their arms leveled, their shields raised to provide a barricade as they advanced. Talthon's glance shifted between them, his mind computing. The first blow came from the left—a spear-thrust aimed at his ribs. He twisted aside, the spearpoint only hooking into his side armor. Backswinging as the spearman lunged back, Talthon slashed down, cutting the spearshaft in half.
Talthon riposted this; the blades caught each other for a moment; then the soldier rushed in his fill, teeth gripped and bared in effort; but Talthon's strength was the greater. He wracked the lock with a sharp shove and spun, his sword cutting through the soldier's armor to strike the shoulder.
The flanking attempt by the third and fourth soldiers was made, their swords coming in on both sides. Talthon dropped to one knee, letting their blades pass over his head, then surged upward with a sweeping strike. The edge of his sword caught one soldier's shield, shattering it into splinters. The other staggered back, momentarily off balance.
The fog grew denser, as though alive, swirling around the combatants. Talthon's movements became spectral so that his sword appeared a blur and his footfalls silent. And lastly, fear crept into the eyes of the soldiers.
"Is he even human?" one breathed, her voice trembling with awe.
"We can't hold him!" another screamed, his shield arm shaking.
Despite the fear, more came, and their numbers seemed endless. Talthon faced them all, striking with unrelenting blows. Every movement was precise and measured, as if he were a conductor and the battlefield his symphony.
One of the soldiers was more gallant than his fellows; he charged with his war hammer, swaying in a great circle. Talthon dove under that swing, his sword slashing upward to catch the soldier's arm. His warhammer fell from his grasp and clattered on the pavement.
Another soldier, who wielded a curved cresent moon like a scimitar, came at him from behind. He felt the movement and was in time to turn the attack with his own blade. He pushed the soldier back and used his free hand to snatch a dagger at his belt. Talthon gave a swift swipe of his arm, aimed precisely. The dagger caught the soldier's leg, and he crumpled to the ground.
Now the ground was littered with fallen weapons and groaning soldiers. And at this moment, those on their feet started staggering, as the morale broke at the impact of Talthon's skill.
And finally, Corovus stepped forward, his face stern. He drew up his sword, pointing it at Talthon.
"'Enough of all this. Take me, Talthon, if you will!"
Talthon wiped sweat from his brow, breathing steady as the two enemies fought relentlessly. His raised blades of steel showed through the fog.
"I've been waiting for this," he said, his voice calm but filled with resolve.
It became silent on the battlefield because tension was charged in the air as the two warriors started circling each other. Actually, the fight was about to begin.
The battlefield itself seemed to hold its breath, for Talthon and Corovus stood across from each other, their figures looming through the swirling fog. Every soldier kept his ground, transfixed by the confrontation. Even Ecolier's usual mockery faltered as he watched the tension thicken like a storm about to break.
He shifted his hold on his sword, its weight familiar and steady in his grip. He moved another slow pace forward, eyes never from the face of Corovus.
"This ends here," said Talthon, his voice low but firm.
Corovus smirked, his confidence unshaken. "You're skilled, Talthon, I'll admit. But skill won't be enough to stop me." He raised his sword high, its blackened steel catching the dim light.
They moved together, the cracking of blades and sparks flying as steel clashed in blinding light. Talthon plunged with sharp precision, but Corovus was almost unyielding; one movement—folding his arms to him—pushed him back a step. The force of their first exchange rippled out across the field.
Talthon steadied himself, breathing slowly out. He thought rapidly: He is strong; he shall be my strength against him.
No time was wasted; Corovus lunged forward with a fast horizontal slash. Talthon sidestepped; the blade grazed the side of his flank and then counterthrust upward toward the exposed side of Corovus. But Corovus twisted his body just in time, their blades scraping together with a screech.
The watching soldiers muttered their amazement, their whispers rustling across the air.
"Keeping up with Corovus?" someone asked softly.
"No one has ever lasted this long against him!"
Corovus drew back, eyeing Talthon with equal parts curiosity and irritation. More, by far, than he had thought, he mused, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. Louder, he sneered, "Let's see how long you last."
Talthon didn't move. He shifted his position, his movements dragging and deliberate as he measured out Corovus's stance. Then, to Corovus's complete amazement, he reached behind his back and drew a second blade from his back—a shorter, curved sword with some sort of strange design.
Corovus' eyes even flared in surprise as the crowd stirred.
"Two swords? This will be interesting, muttered Corovus, low in voice".
Talthon pressed on as both blades came into a storm of strikes; the shorter blade would prove as a complement defense as he wielded his heavier sword while the longer blade delivered sharp, precise attacks.
He grunted under the double blow; Talthon's thrusts made him defend himself. Sparks flew from one to the other with each clash, the rhythm of strikes like a deadly dance. The fluid movement of Talthon danced away from Corovus's reach.
At one point, Corovus swung with all his might for Talthon's head, trying to crush him under the blow. Talthon dove low to evade that blow but swept his leg out in a spinning kick. Corovus stumbled but regained himself speedily; his face clouded in anger.
"You fight like a shadow," snarled Corovus, tightening his grip on the sword.
Talthon smiled faintly. "It's not about being strong. Timing, precision. That's where the true power is."
It was a savage battle. Corovus prosecuted forward, doing no easing of his assault. Talthon's twin blades worked in concert: one parried, the other counted at breakneck speed. But raw power lay behind Corovus's strikes; each blow shook Talthon to his core.
Corovus feinted suddenly, swinging his sword low and twisting it upwards in a clumsy arc. Talthon barely blocked it; he slid back from the impact. He came down gasping on one knee, heaving for breath.
The soldiers watching gasped.
"He's down!" shouted one.
"Corovus has him now!"
Corovus laughed darkly, pushing forward. "Tired already, Talthon? I expected better."
But Talthon was not yet through. He tightened up his two swords and stood up now, eyes aflame with purpose.
"This ain't over," he said calmly, though he was spent.
And Corovus forward stepped; Talthon struck. He sent his shorter sword flying upward to the air, was caught for a half-breath, and launched himself with his longer sword into the kill. Corovus countered with his own weapon raised to block it, but Talthon's free hand grasped the falling blade and swept it wide in a blow completely without warning.
The blow struck across Corovus's shoulder, biting through armor and ripping open the flesh beneath. He snarled and fell back.
The watching soldiers were frozen in speechlessness.
"He mauled him! He really mauled Corovus!"
Corovus's face darkened as he grasped his shoulder. His eyes scoured over the dual swords of Talthon when, in his mind, a thought crept into him. "That second sword. Something is wrong with it. The design, the way it moves. Not normal."
He had seen how Ecolier's grinning wickedness seemed to say, "Corovus is finally taking him serious as he mouthed, though a flicker of unease passed over his face.".
The battle continued, every blow heavier than the last. The movements of Talthon became sharper, and his wielding of double blades kept Corovus on edge. But Corovus, for all his size and strength, started to adjust; his strikes came more calculated.
There was another fake attack wherein Corovus feigned shooting the spear at Talthon's chest but changed it into a sweeping kick. Talthon pulled himself back and rolled aside to evade the second slash and sprang up quickly.
The two fighters strained to the very limit in this battle, and around them, the mist seemed to throb with energy in their battle as if that earth itself was quivering beneath their feet. And with them spinning about each other once more, dog-tired and winded, Corovus couldn't help but smile.
"You are a good opponent, Talthon. But this ends here." He stood up, raising his blades as he spoke, "If it's to end, that's when I decide it is." The battle was silent for a long moment, it seemed; Talthon and Corovus faced each other for the second time. Scratches decorated their armor; chips scarred their blades and smeared them with blood. The mist clung close, and the soldier's held its collective breath. Alistair stood off in the vessel, holding onto the railing with a deathly grip. His chest was moving up and down quickly; his heart beat inside his ears. "Father," he thought, his eyes fixed on the fray.
He could see weariness in Talthon's movements but saw still the relentless blaze in his eyes. Corovus lapped at the blood on his lip, his eyes, inkwell black, gleaming now with a cold calculation. "Raw power will not suffice here," he thought to himself. "I must break him down, piece by piece." He stepped ahead quickly, his double-bladed swords cutting through the air; each edge honed to fine precision. Corovus dodged the first blade, using his own to deflect it, just evading the second. In a lightning-fast return, he thrust his sword towards Talthon's rib.
Turning his torso, Talthon avoided the thrust, and Corovus edged into his guard, pounding his armored elbow into Talthon's side. Talthon stumbled, the impact of the blow stealing the wind from his body. Corovus pressed the advantage, feigning a high one before sweeping low with his blade. Talthon leaped back just in time to avoid a fatal blow but lost his footing on the rough ground. As Alistair watched from the ship, his heart cramped at the sight of his father stumbling.
"No. Get up!" he whispered, whitening his knuckles against the railing. Corovus smirked, circling Talthon like a predator. "You're slowing down, old man," he taunted. "Is this all the great Talthon has to offer?" Talthon's ragged breathing did not give, but his lips curled with a snarl as he found his footing, his grip on the swords tight.
"Not yet," he growled. This time, Talthon reversed his strategy. Instead of letting Corovus come at him, he waited, watching Corovus closely. When Corovus came at Talthon, trying to graze his shoulder, Talthon spun, parrying with one blade and slashing upward with the other. The edge of his sword bit through armor and into Corovus's arm, slicing through armor and drawing blood. Corovus hissed, backing away. "Crafty," he said, working the injured arm. And his victory was short-lived.
For Corovus feigned retreat, feigning to run and run while secretly betraying him into a forward thrust. On the precise instant that Talthon moved, Corovus spun sharply round, swinging his blade on a wide arc. It struck Talthon's raised swords with such force that he was flung, crashing to the ground. From the ship, Alistair's eyes grew wide.
"Get up, Father!" he shouted in his mind, his fear and worry almost overpowering him.
That's when Corovus drew his sword, preparing to deliver the final blow. "You fought well," he said, his voice almost respectful. "But this is the end." Summoning every last vestige of strength, Talthon scooped up a handful of dirt and flung it into Corovus's face. Corovus recoiled, blinded, and Talthon rolled away, rising unsteadily to his feet. Here were two warriors, battered and bruised, their ragged breathing, each one taking for granted. Talthon's left arm hung limply from the deep gash running down his side, but his eyes still gleamed with determination. Corovus wiped the dirt from his face and smirked through the wounds.
"You are stubborn," Corovus said, clutching his sword tighter. "But even the stubborn eventually drop." Steeling himself, Talthon brushed aside the pain that shot through his body. "I will fall," he declared, steady. "But not before I show you what this battle has cost." The battlefield was silent, the low, eerie hum of horn cutting through hills with some deep timbre that made every spine shiver. And from the far jungle, a faint rustling swelled into chaos. Talthon's soldiers, hidden in the dense undergrowth, burst forth, their arrows flying true and cutting down the concealed troops of Corovus.
The air was filled with screams of Corovus's soldiers: anguished shrieks of ambush and despair. The men scrambled, dazed and disoriented. Above it all, Corovus's wild eyes scanned the battlefield and Talthon alike, his jaw clenched into a hard, tight line. Then he resigned himself, thinking, "How. He must have known my soldiers were there.". He gnashed his teeth and growled, "Talthon, more than I thought. A warrior and a strategist... I underrated you."
Talthon said nothing in dark silence as he pushed forward. Their blades met once again, and this time the blows were harder than ever before. Corovus dived forward, but before his sword could strike with the killing blow, Talthon picked up and intercepted the strike. The clanging of steel rang out as Corovus's blade shattered into jagged fragments, sending them scattering across the dirt. Corovus stared at the broken sword, unbelieving. Talthon's primary sword told its own story of battle in chips and cracks, but the other sword he used to fight with—long, lean, mysterious, unforgiving—was intact.
Talthon brushed Corovus's arm quickly; the blade cut deep enough to bleed. Corovus recoiled, clutching his hurt arm tight, snarling as pain seared through him. Talthon steps nearer; over the scalp of Corovus, his sword glistens. "Claim your victory," Talthon said steadily. His voice was firm. "My work is done." But Corovus, pride burning less hot than pain, spat through gritted teeth, "Never.".
Then another horn was blown. Louder and deeper, it was as if it showed them an evil augur reverberating through the air. All soldiers stood frozen toward the sea. From the horizon, four giant vessels grew larger. Their blackened sails were printed with that dreadful sign of a skull. The middle vessel was monstrous, and its design was alien compared to the others.
The hull was reinforced with jagged iron, its deck bristling with armor; it had a sharp, cruel prow that jutted forward like a spear poised to pierce the earth itself. The sun plunged into the sea, coloring the scene in hues of blood orange, its long rays stretching shadows over the incoming fleet. And on that main deck of the greatest ship, a towering throne gleamed like ivory and was worked with fantastic detail. It is here that a figure sits, sometimes hidden by an otherworldly cloak, sometimes revealed as a featureless mask obscures the face. In his hand rested a long white staff, the tip faintly aglow with a menacing aura. The sea was teeming with little boats that swarmed like a forest of predators around the ships. The men inside were not men. They were gigantic, their bodies grotesquely large, with jagged armor like one with flesh, and the rest were normal size but sure to give an aura of menace in their movements. The shore troops were in fear, the voice of them quivering.
"Yay!! They're here?" one whispered. "Is it the end?" the other of them inquired palely. Even Corovus's defiance cracked, his jaw-dropping as he gaped upon the approaching armada. "They're here. Well, why? What's all this for?" he muttered to himself. Talthon's response was even more revealing. His usually impassive face cracked apart, and his eyes went wide in disbelief. "No. How? Why now?" he repeated, his voice low but quivering with fear and anger.
"This can't be happening," Alistair says, standing frozen on the ship, his heart beating painfully in his chest as he contemplates the monstrous fleet spread out before him. The silhouettes on board had seemed ominous enough themselves, but that giant throne and the masked figure itself were like a living nightmare of reality, hairs visible in waving air. The horn fell silent, and an unearthly quiet came over the field. The middle ship cast a great shadow upon the shore as it closed in ever nearer.
The masked figure didn't stir; its presence alone strangled the air, filling every heart with awful fear. The remaining sunlight flicked off the jagged weapons of the soldiers who stood at attention like statues of death; they seemed to be long and carried swords. A soldier in front of Talthon, his voice quivering, whispered, "This. This is the end." The ships crept closer still, the waters rippling ominously in the growing darkness of the scene. And the battlefield, where once the clash of swords and cries of war filled the air, lay silent; every eye focused on the horror that was approaching. The air grew thick and heavy with tension, and the world seemed to shift within its very breath for what next was to come. ~~~~~