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Lord Raven's Court

In the year 556 of the Runtallian Calendar, a war broke out in the eastern frontier of the Kingdom of Runtallia between the eastern overlord, Duke Gaverone Walruse of Regalia, and the barbarian chief-thane known as Dariun Drunzelle of the Shiradonii tribe, one of the Four Great Tribes of Norsmund, a nation that borders the Kingdom, deemed to be the land of brutes and savages. As the Duke of Regalia marches with his army to defend the disputed land of Kurlon, the barbarians have taken such an opportune moment to launch another incursion near the eastern border of Regalia near the town of Flendle, with the intention of dividing his army. However, despite accepting the town and the surrounding local lords' territories as lost cause in the war in favor of Kurlon– a newly discovered territory bountiful with veins of iron and other minerals– the Duke tasks his third son, Lord Velmund Walruse, along with his retinue, the Order of the Raven Knights, to fend off the attack. Now faced with the plight of defending the border town against a 5,000-strong Norsmundi army with his few yet skilled knights, along with an ill-equipped and undermanned militia, Lord Velmund has no choice but to fulfill his duty as a noble, relying upon his wits and his few but capable retainers to survive his first battle at the tender age of sixteen summers and winters. Contrary to his timid, youthful, and innocent appearance, however, lies his sly and scheming nature, evident by his fondness of dark magical arts specializing in illusion spells. Nevertheless, he himself has no idea of what he is capable of, and what he is destined to become. Meanwhile, further east at the frontier with Norsmund, a plot hatches to ensnare the Duke within the clutches of his treacherous vassals. Not only his life is threatened by these schemes, but his sons Theo and Varus as well. With this scheme put into motion, the Duke and Velmund's siblings, Varus and Theo, would taste fate's twisted humor, with the former meeting his demise in a blaze of glory amidst the field of battle, and the latter two vanishing in incidents shrouded by mysteries. With the death of the patriarch of Regalia and his heirs' disappearance, the young lord who was initially third in line for the succession of the ducal seat became its temporary occupant. And thus, the tale of him and his court begins… CHAPTER RELEASE: January 1st at 12:00 UTC

SlothfulChronicler · War
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177 Chs

Chapter IV: The Order of the Raven Knights [1]

THOUSANDS OF NORSMUNDI warriors surged passed the dismantled gate, swarming the town streets while burgling homes of the townsfolk in search of loots, overlooking the remaining town defenders who retreated above the wall to organize their last bastion of defense. The town's defenders had already dwindled a quarter of their initial force, while the horde still stood several thousands strong. The horde's vanguard were headed straight towards the heart of the town as the rearguard continued to battle the disheartened troops who lamented the breaching of the gate. Mounted atop a horse, the elder shaman grunted in displease from the pungent smell of sweat and blood nauseating him. At his side, Eldric rode in horseback, preceding the horsemen trailing his lead whilst scanning the desolate residence before him. Several minutes had passed and they reached the town square, the glade in the center of the forest of timber-framed and wattle walled houses, inns and taverns, with a few towering stone buildings reserved for the wealthy of the town denizens, yet not a soul cannot be seen loitering. 

"The place is deserted," Eldric said, gritting his teeth in annoyance. He then look atop a steep hill further ahead in the horizon, eyeing the local lord's manor. "Perhaps they were evacuated in the lord's estate? Or have they fled from the town already?"

"It matters not, the town is ours all the same," Elder Zerith scoffed, brushing the dust from his robe.

"That is where you are wrong, elder. It does matter. We must capture every Ironfolks that dwell in this town and let them suffer the same fate my sister endured."

"I concur with your sentiment, but you always lose your temper when it comes down with that sibling of yours."

"She was abducted and sold to slave traders. Bastards be damned, I'll make them pay!"

"Calm yourself, we still have a battle ahead us. Do not let your judgment be shrouded by rage."

"It will be over soon…" he said, his voice trailing off, bearing a look of perplexity. "Something is strange."

"Do tell what is?" the shaman asked, strangely bemused.

Eldric once again contemplated at the streets, his gaze moving to and fro. He silenced the shaman and the other riders to halt their mounts, disrupting the march. The red-haired warrior, despite his young age of twenty-three, was accustomed to the perils of battle. Due to his experience of countless skirmishes against numerous human and Demi-human tribes neighboring his father's dominion, always with at least hundreds of combatants at each side, he developed a keen sense for impending danger. His instinctive nature would always detect enemy traps and ambuscades right before him and his allies set foot on the terrain of a battlefield, thus avoiding being ensnared on such circumstances. During such times, it was neither fluke nor luck that guided him, but his instinct that had never failed him. The ever warring tribes of Norsmund allowed him a warmonger's way of life, honing this trait to benefit himself.

A cold sweat trickled upon his nape, like it did when the shaman who rode alongside him spoke directly upon his mind. Back then, he had sensed the potent presence of the magic caster, even when he himself can neither wield nor discern magic or mana. Danger is imminent, he thought. Eldric summoned the aid of his senses, his eyes peering through the premises that saw no more than untenanted establishments, ears protruding to pick up the softest hints of noise, and nose searching the scent of menace through the wind. Whilst he concentrated upon this task, a thought suddenly crossed mind. He remembered the brief encounter he shared with the noblemen garbed in dark clothing. The chilling sensation he felt when their gaze met was unquestionably frightening, that much he realized. It was as if peering through a bottomless pit of utter darkness. The dread he felt still lingered, and strangely felt of obscurity. His intuition was screaming akin to what the chill he had, only stronger. No warrior save the despised Knight Reaper ever made him feel this way, like he was standing on death's threshold.

"Something appears to be unnatural in this place, elder," Eldric worriedly whispered. "We might be endangered here. Let us proceed with caution."

"Nonsense," the shaman replied, jerking his head in disapproval. "If you fear an ambush, I fear that your fretting is for naught. The enemy soldiers are all situated upon that wall, standing more or less half a thousand strong. Right as we speak, four times of that number are our warriors cornering them at the rear. All that remains for us to do is to capture and round up the civilians for them surrender, or perhaps be slaughtered should they be nuisance for us further. I have also dispatched our warriors to search every nook and canny for remaining enemies. That alone should suffice. I have said to sharpen your judgment for the battle, yet I would also advise you to avoid beating a dead horse."

Anger swelled about Eldric as he saw the complacency upon the shaman's face and the carelessness of his men doing much as they please with the besieged town. "With all due respect, elder, if you mean plundering and looting those houses would he–"

"Look above!" shouted a man, interrupting his reproach.

The man pointed at the sky. As Eldric looked, the anger he felt was replaced by consternation. His earlier trepidation coincided with reality. Once again, his instinct was ever faithful and unfailing. Staring aloft, he was dumbfounded at the surreal sight appearing before him. He knew he was right, yet was unable to prevent anything. For that, he would eagerly chastise himself. He did not know what was it he was seeing, nor comprehend what was transpiring. Could our enemies be behind such monstrosity? Eldric thought, asking himself incredulously.

"Curses, what in Gushpard's name could that be?!" a mounted warrior gasped.

"Shush, it might notice us," another man carefully muttered.

Several of the tribesmen started to notice and was beginning to panic, jaws dropped and eyes bulging. Swirling in great altitude above was an outlandish entity never had the warriors of Norsmund laid their eyes upon, men who had seen countless of Demi-human races from the smaller goblins to the bigger beastmen and orcs. Even the elusive and mighty trolls would pale in comparison to the emerging figure atop them. It was an enormous creature wrapped in red scales with half a dozen limbs and sharp darkened talons that continued to circle them in a spiral. The Ill-spawn possessed a couple of bat-like wings and an elongated barbed tail, paired with a large serpentine body that blocked the sun's radiance which casted shadows beneath.

"S-Such being… w-what is this?" Eldric stammered at the shaman, pointing his index finger towards the source of his disbelief.

"This cannot be!" the elder replied in voice hoarsened and strangled by fear. "Those beasts were supposedly wiped out in extinction ages ago, so what one could be doing in such a place?"

"Do tell, what is that thing?" Eldric persisted, drawing near upon the old man to clutch both of his shoulders.

"An Ill-spawn of the olden times when the empires of antiquity still reigned. A relic of the past that brings forth malice and destruction! A dragon, I say… a dragon that can easily decimate ten chiliads of brave souls with its vile breath, wicked claws and its raw strength that even the earth shudders! The war host of five thousand men we have can hardly match its unworldly might and prowess. You are certainly right when you spoke earlier, shameful am I to admit. Hence, we must make haste and retreat at once!"

"Cannot your magic stop that Ill-spawn?!"

"Did you not hear what I said? It will at least take a hundred magic casters such as myself to slay such beast. We must run!"

At that word spoken to Eldric, a gush of fire burst from the beast's muzzle. Its jaws roared ablaze as it released the massive ball of fire. It made contact to an abode made of wood, housing a score of pillaging warriors still unaware of the beast's forthcoming attack. "You damn fools, get out of there at once!" Eldric bellowed in futility. The flame from the dragon burned the house's thatched roof, and it was not too long until it incinerated the entire residence. The cries of men buried in flames grew louder along with the high-pitched neighs of horses moaning in terror as they grew uncontrolled raising in their front hind legs, knocking their riders out of their saddles and reins whilst the dragon swirled and puffed out its fiery breath. Before Eldric could shout at his friends and comrades, the town around them was already engulfed in hellish flames.

"Eldric! Order the retreat!" the shaman yelled, mustering his loudest voice.