Captain Pasgar Selmor surveyed the carnage before him with cold satisfaction. The native king’s army was trapped—hemmed in between his own advancing troops and the rebels entrenched within the vast stone fort.
He had seized the watchtower fortress a few days ago, with survivors from the last battle and reinforcements that had arrived over the mountains. His men had tortured the few native captives, and through his translators, he learned that this land—this so-called kingdom of Drakhalor—was at war with itself. That was why no reinforcements had answered the green smoke signal the watchers had ignited before dying. Pasgar had waited at the fort, expecting retaliation, ready for an assault—but none came.
The revelation had delighted him. The king’s own brother—the same one who had pushed him back in the marshes—had risen in rebellion and now held the city they had glimpsed from the mountain pass: a city rich and proud, girded by walls no sword or spear could breach. But cannons could.
He would use this civil strife to carve his first dominion on this savage continent. This city, Kuretsen, would be the first to bear the banner of Mother Andrasia. From here, the conquest of the entire land would begin.
As he marched, his advance scouts had warned him of the king’s army encamped between his column and the city—waiting in stalemate, too wary to strike their own kin behind those walls. But he could not afford to wait. The fall of the watchtower fortress would not remain a secret forever. Once word reached the native king Zaekharan, retribution would come. He needed Kuretsen now—its walls, its granaries, its defensible heights. The fort might be impregnable to blades, but it would crumble beneath his guns.
Once he defeated this army, he told himself, watching the natives fall before the firepower of his men.
One victory at a time, he thought, smiling thinly.
Now, as the sun sank below the horizon, Pasgar almost laughed aloud when the rebel prince upon the walls loosed his arrows not on his men, but upon his own countrymen below—Drakhalori killing Drakhalori. The king’s soldiers, trapped between the volleys of arrows and the thunder of his muskets, scattered in terror.
“They run like hens in a rainstorm,” Pasgar muttered, raising his looking glass. Through the smoky haze he made out the silhouette of a man upon the ramparts—broad-shouldered, regal even at a distance—issuing orders to another who bowed after each command.
The king’s brother. The rebel prince, no doubt.
Pasgar’s smile widened. “Soon enough,” he whispered, “you will learn about us.”
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Rulahn looked around him. The battlefield was chaos—screams, smoke, and the stench of blood filling the air. His comrades, once proud and disciplined, were now scattered and terrified, their formation shattered by the thunder of the foreigners’ fire-weapons and the arrows of their own former compatriots.
Where was General Keiral? Rulahn scanned the madness for the gleam of his commander’s armor, but saw none. Had he fallen—struck by an arrow or one of those terrible bursts of flame and smoke?
For a moment, despair clawed at his chest. He had imagined death before—often, in the silent watches of the night. But not like this. Not crushed beneath smoke and panic. He had dreamed of dying with a sword in hand, six enemies around him, his blade red and bright, falling like his father had—glorious and unbowed.
No, he thought. I won’t die like this.
He saw a riderless horse charging aimlessly through the confusion and seized his chance. He ran toward it, vaulted into the saddle, and raised his sword.
“For Drakhalor!” he roared, his voice raw and furious.
He spurred the horse forward.
A crack split the air—a fiery hiss past his ear—and he felt the wind of death graze his cheek. He did not falter. Ahead of him loomed the pale invaders, their strange helmets glinting, their weapons belching smoke. He plunged into them like a storm.
His sword met flesh. One man fell, clutching his chest, blood spurting between his fingers. Another came at him, and Rulahn cut him down. A third, then a fourth. The fire-weapons cracked again and again, deafening, but somehow they missed him—perhaps fate had stayed their aim for a moment longer. The world was a blur of smoke, blood, and motion; he could hear nothing but the pounding of his heart, the rasp of his breath, the wild rush of blood in his ears.
Then something hot tore through his shoulder and burst deep into his chest.
Rulahn gasped—the world spun—and he nearly fell from the saddle, blood spilling down his side. But a hand caught him from behind, easing his fall—one of his comrades, fighting along side him. He looked around, surprised, there were others who had joined him—brave fools, refusing to die quietly.
They fought like cornered wolves, slashing and stabbing amid the smoke, though the tide was against them.
Rulahn collapsed to his knees, coughing violently. Warm blood filled his mouth. His vision swam crimson. He could barely hold his sword now; it slipped from his fingers and struck the ground beside him with a dull thud.
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An invader strode toward him, weapon raised. Rulahn closed his eyes and thought of his father—of the fight he’d always longed for, of the glory he’d never earn.
He closed his eyes. Father… forgive me. I have not earned your death.
Then the earth shook.
A deep, rolling tremor ran through the ground beneath him, followed by a sound—low, growing, like thunder. The invader before him froze, glancing over his shoulder.
Rulahn opened his eyes.
From beyond the smoke came cries—fierce, triumphant—and the unmistakable blare of war-horns. Not the invaders’ horns. Drakhalori horns.
He blinked through the haze, and there—rising through the dust and fire—was the lion banner, its edges snapping in the wind like flame.
King Zaekharan’s banner.
Rulahn laughed weakly, blood filling his mouth.
Through blurred vision he saw them—riders thundering in from the east, cutting into the invaders’ ranks like a blade through cloth. Arrows rained, swords flashed, the pale men broke and fell screaming. At their head rode the King himself, his armor black as night, his sword a streak of silver fire.
Rulahn smiled through the red mist that swallowed his sight.
The last thing he saw was the King’s figure, arm raised high amid the storm of battle, before darkness claimed him at last.
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Captain Pasgar Selmor cursed as the thunder of hooves reached his ears. He snatched the looking glass from his belt and scanned the eastern plain. Through the drifting smoke, banners of the lion rippled above a storm of riders.
The Drakhalori king’s army.
His skin went cold despite the heat of the burning field. He had posted scouts along the road to guard against ambush, but this army had come by another path—one he hadn’t known of. Clever. Ruthless.
He felt the tide turning. The Drakhalori trapped near Kuretsen’s walls—who had been breaking and fleeing moments ago—now surged forward, renewed by the sight of the fresh army. War-horns bellowed. Arrows arced toward his men. They charged with swords raised high, unafraid of his fire. What had been a rout was now becoming a counterattack.
His men were panicking. The discipline of Andrasia’s proud soldiers—his pride—was collapsing. Trapped between the Drakhalori from the walls and the newly arrived forces, his men faltered.
He heard cries of “Zaekharan!” and “Drakhalor!” mixed with other guttural words in the native tongue.
So—Zaekharan himself was here?
Through the haze, he saw a broad-shouldered man at the head of the charge. That had to be the Drakhalori king.
The king’s cavalry was hitting his rear like wolves among sheep. Men screamed. Muskets fired wildly. Smoke and terror choked the air.
Victory now felt impossible. It had been snatched from his jaws by Zaekharan and his men. Survival was all that mattered today.
Victory would come soon—he promised himself that much.
Pasgar barked orders, voice raw. “Hold formation! Pivot west! Bring the guns around!”
His officers scrambled, dragging cannons through mud and blood.
“Form ranks!” he roared, spurring his horse through the chaos. “Fire the cannons forward! Cut a gap open! To the marsh road—to the fortress!”
If he could reach the watchtower at the marsh’s edge, he would have walls, guns, and high ground. Reinforcements were on their way—he had sent word to General Cuperanz.
The cannons roared. Horses screamed. Men fell. In that instant, a gap opened through the Drakhalori riders. Pasgar saw his chance.
“Forward! Through them!”
He drove his sword high and plunged into the gap. His men followed in a desperate surge.
He had lost the field—but not the war.
Not yet.
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Zaekharan rode at the head of his men, his banners snapping in the wind. The field ahead was a maelstrom of smoke, steel, and chaos. His soldiers surged forward, and those trapped near Kuretsen—men who moments ago had seemed broken—were now charging the foreigners with newfound fury, unmindful of the fire bursting from the enemy’s strange weapons.
He had never seen such weapons before, but even at a glance he understood their terrible power. The enemy’s “fire weapons” gave them a deadly advantage. These were weapons that could kill from afar, that made courage itself seem useless—yet now, under his onslaught, the foreigners were panicking, their commander shouting harsh orders in a strange tongue.
Earlier on the road, fortune had sent him a survivor from the watchtower fort—a bloodied soldier who had stumbled from the forests, breath ragged, eyes wild. The man had told him of the fort’s fall to the pale-skinned foreigners wielding thunder and flame. Learning that they had marched upon Kuretsen, Zaekharan had chosen the narrow forest trail—treacherous but swift—to strike from an unexpected direction.
The gamble had worked. The foreigners were trapped. Victory seemed within reach.
Then he saw it—something massive being rolled forward by the enemy. A monstrous version of their hand weapons.
Fire erupted from its gaping mouth with a sound like the heavens splitting open. The ground trembled. A roar of smoke and flame tore across the field, shredding men and horses in an instant.
Zaekharan stared, stunned, as bodies crumpled amid smoke and flying earth.
Arrows, swords, and horses—none of them meant anything before such power.
His heart hammered. He had been warned that the foreigners were well-armed, but this… this was beyond imagination.
As the smoke thinned, he saw them—foreign riders regrouping, spurring their mounts toward a widening gap in the melee. They were trying to escape.
Not today.
“Close the gap!” Zaekharan roared. “Do not let them through!”
He dug his heels into his horse and surged forward. The wind tore past his ears as he led the charge himself, his men thundering behind him, fearless.
The invaders fired wildly as they fled. Smoke and flame burst from their weapons in flashes of orange and white. A burning stench filled the air.
“Loose!” he shouted. “Finish them today!”
Arrows hissed in reply, slicing through the smoke. Men fell on both sides, horses screamed, and the ground shook beneath the fury of pursuit.
They were almost upon the fleeing enemy when a single flash of fire burst ahead of him.
Zaekharan felt a violent impact in his chest—a searing punch that threw him backward in the saddle. Pain exploded through his ribs and shoulder. His horse reared, whinnying in terror.
He clutched at the reins, gasping. Around him, his riders were slowing, turning toward him.
“No…” he groaned, voice hoarse. “Stop them…”
But the world was spinning. He slid from his horse, the ground rushing up to meet him. His head struck the earth with a dull thud—and darkness swallowed him whole.
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That's the end of Chapter 22. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Drop a like if you enjoyed reading it.
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