“Through the bloodshed and ruin, Los Valles will live on! Fight men! To the very end!” bellowed King Trunno as he raised his sword, his voice echoing amidst the clashing of steel around him.
Fire and ash rained down as the last of the Arnenyan kingdoms, the kingdom of Los Valles slowly burned to the ground against the scourge of Nalgurin’s forces. However, amidst this great fire are the last of the warriors in the land. Mighty were the orcs and trolls through their overwhelming numbers, but the sheer will of the Los Vallian defenders did not give in. As buildings crumbled, bridges collapsed, and the castle plundered and burned, King Trunno dared not sheath his blade and flee the kingdom. While most kings will remain in their throne as their generals and their soldiers perish on the battlefield, King Trunno was the complete opposite.
“My Lord, more refugees are making their way to us from the northwest,” reported a nearby knight, eyeing a couple of survivors with their little caravan.
“Secure their escape! no orc, nor troll, not even the Northrel shall bring our people insufferable fates,” the king commanded to which a group of knights complied.
Since the beginning of the siege, King Trunno has graced the battlefield with his presence, sparking hope and lifting the spirits of those in dread. Even when the walls fell down and the orcs came storming the kingdom, the king fought for every inch of Los Vallian soil until he was backed to the very end of his own kingdom.
The southern gates were once the entry of trade coming from the southern part of the western continent, with merchants, adventurers, and travelers traversing through Los Valles which was the main welcoming kingdom of the southerners into Arnenya. What once were people of many races passing in and out of the kingdom is now groups of survivors fleeing with whatever they have from the destruction of their beloved kingdom.
While Los Valles was certainly not the greatest of kingdoms in Infinia, its grandeur comes from the beauty of the land that surrounds it, both flora and fauna that roam freely in the land, how it blends so perfectly with the design and construction of the kingdom. Everything beautiful within Los Valles is now ashes as the kingdom’s last stand is but a flickering candle waiting to burn out.
“You think we would fall so easily?!” the king asked whilst slashing down orcs one by one as they came to challenge his blade. “Los Valles is and will always be the jewel that shines in Arnenya! Your fires only make our glory shine brighter! Crimson is the jewel today, as we bleed, and as you die!”
As King Trunno fells down a dozen orcs, a large horde of orcs and some trolls came from the northwest completely blocking off the path. This horde was led by a high orc wearing a horned mask fashioned from the skull of a Kulgar, a species of formidable wild beasts found in the Northlands usually hunted for sport and taken down with no weapons.
The high orc roared and spoke aloud in orcish. All the scattered orcs fighting the Los Vallian knights quickly stopped fighting and regrouped behind this horde, most likely from the command of the masked high orc who then spoke a few words in common tongue, “Nalgurin claims this land. You, die!”
“Steel yourself men! FORMATION!” commanded King Trunno.
The command was given, every knight protecting the southern gates formed ranks behind their king, swords and shields at the ready, spears pointed forwards, bows ready for volley fire at the rear. Once everyone was in line, shield holders quickly took the first flank in an organized manner, locking their shields together with the king partaking in the formation with his own shield. Incredibly enough, their phalanx was wide enough to completely block the orc horde’s path.
The knights behind readied themselves, breathing steadily underneath their visors while their grip on their swords tightened. Looking beyond his shield, King Trunno watched as the masked high orc raised his hand, and for a brief moment there was silence as the fires burned around them until the masked high orc’s hand curled in a fist unleashing the bloodlust of his horde unto the knights of Los Valles.
Beneath the soldiers, the ground shook as a tidal wave of orcs came their way. Their attack was the stark contrast of the discipline and well-trained aspects of the knights’ defense, chaotic and brutish as they all charged with whatever weapon they had. Shields creaked under the pressure as the Los Vallian knights prepared to brace under the blood-soaked ground, some breathing shakily as they await the horde’s might against their shield.
“ALWE!” commanded King Trunno, to which his archers released a rain of arrows into the air, descending upon the orcish horde. Despite volley upon volley of arrows raining down on the innumerable number of orcs that charged, they were relentless in their assault. Like a thunderclap, maces and axes banged on the shields of the King Trunno’s phalanx. The knights behind them instantly sprang into action, their steel quickly finding their way into the bodies of their enemies.
Every once in a while, a knight within the phalanx would reach their blade out in an attempt to pierce through the attacking orcs. As the assault grew fiercer, the knights found themselves staggering against the brute force of axes and maces upon their shields.
On the rooftops of the surrounding buildings was also a battle of its own as orcish archers were face to face with Los Valles’ own bowmen. Thanks to their efforts the ground troops need not worry of poison tipped arrows coming from above. The knights were holding on, but their shields were slowly giving in.
“My Lord, I fear these shields won’t last long,” said the knight beside King Trunno worriedly.
“Trust in our rearguard, and hold the line,” replied the king confidently as he stabs an orc to death upon finding an opening.
If only he were here, yet even so, Los Valles can withstand this. We’ve been here before, we’ve seen battle beyond Arnenya, we’ve endured death in many fronts. In the east, in the Sillus Everen, and even in the seas of Neptunimis against a Northrel Knight.
One by one, the knights within the phalanx succumbed to the continuous bashing upon their shield to which a knight from the rear replaced the fallen knight’s place. The air riddled with the screams of pain and death smelled of fire and blood. Standing their ground as hard as they could, the phalanx was slowly being pushed back by the onslaught of orcs. Despite losing ground, despite men dying, despite all that has been lost, the phalanx endured, a testament to the unbreakable will of Los Valles. They need to hold on, they must. People are still desperate to escape behind them, Los Vallian men, women, and children’s lives were at stake.
As their shields were nearly broken, the archers from the rearguard fired arrows that sizzled as they struck their targets. Ignorant as they continued to attack, the arrows were attached to explosives that blew away the orcs away, shaking the battlefield. Some of the knights slightly staggered from the explosion but they knew this ultimately killed many of the orcs and deterred their assault as they ran around in confusion and disarray. Shrapnel shot in all directions, but the knights within the phalanx were protected by their shields.
Grabbing this opportunity was King Trunno, giving the command to break formation and unleash their counterattack against the orcs.
“NOW MEN! IRTE! Valla erwe fornostru!” bellowed King Trunno strongly as he jabbed his shield on an orc in front of him before abandoning it to wield Olimno with both hands.
The knights of the phalanx followed suit, abandoning their nearly broken shields, roaring and charging at the orcs lost in confusion after the explosions around them. They slowly gained ground against the high orc’s forces, tainting the ground with their blood as they slashed and pierced through orc flesh.
In the heat of battle, King Trunno was a monster of his own strength as he advanced deeper into enemy lines, slowly getting closer towards the high orc whose cunning expression did not waver. Directing a troll to deal with the king, the high orc smiled as his great tower of a soldier approached King Trunno who not once looked up to meet his opponent’s eyes. Instead, the king charged head on towards the troll without hesitation dodging its massive club as it struck the ground as if it were a felled tree.
In my prime I would have had an easier time with this lump of lard in front of me, alas their ferocity has never aged amidst the endless tides of time, nor has it wavered within their spirit despite fighting against the Unity in the Northlands for decades now. Such a pity, I cannot even use magic anymore and yet this beast’s strength still pales in comparison to mine!
“Is this what the Dark Lord has to offer me?!” taunted the king as he weaved his way between the troll’s legs before slashing in a circle-like motion.
The troll cried out in pain as King Trunno tortured it with an endless flurry of strikes on its legs. Dropping his club on the ground, the troll resorted to using his fists trying to punch the ground and stomp down only for his bare skin to meet the tip of the king’s blade. Having been stabbed multiple times, the troll bled so much that it collapsed on the ground, crushing an orc nearby with its immobilized body.
“You’re next, orc,” said King Trunno to the high orc, pointing his blade at him.
“Gar bol khanar!” exclaimed the high orc as it took out its axe, charging towards the king.
While King Trunno battled with the high orc, the orcish troops were slowly overwhelming the Los Vallian knights with their sheer numbers. Many knights tried calling out to the king but to no avail as the sound of fire, steel, and death drowned their voices. It turns out the archer spotters have sighted another horde inbound, and they were trying to relay the message to the king.
“DIE HALF-BREED!” the high orc scowled as it swung its axe against Olimno.
“Is that all the strength you can muster? ‘Tis pointless!” the king replied loudly as he manages to disarm the high orc with his sword.
Taking his advantage, King Trunno thrusted Olimno into the high orc who tried evading the strike, but failed at the last moment as the king’s blade finds its mark on its shoulder. The high orc did not flinch, nor did he cry in pain despite a good portion of Olimno being inside his body.
“Foolish half-elven king,” it said in a low voice as he clutched onto Olimno’s blade in front of him. Gripping it tighter, a dark flame began to emanate from his hand. The high orc stared into the king’s eyes full of malice.
He was not going to let this blade leave the high orc’s body, instead King Trunno forced Olimno down the high orc’s body. Despite being mortally wounded, the high orc’s strength held on, refusing the blade its wish to cut him down where he stood. It was not long before cracks started forming on the king’s blade where the high orc was holding on to.
Realizing what the high orc was trying to accomplish, the king, with all his might kicked the high orc on its abdomen pushing his body away and allowing Olimno to escape.
“Dark magic,” said King Trunno, “Such a foul power you brought into Arnenya.”
“Karghal buzaknag,” replied the high orc, saying that it will be the power to which King Trunno will die from.
Once more, they clashed against one another, unyielding regardless of their injuries, persisting despite fighting long and hard beyond their bodies’ capacity. The king was willing to place his faith in hope even when there is none, for he believes that in a battle with no hope, one may either fall into obscurity or rise and embody hope itself. King Trunno chose the latter.
“Muzda derka varakhir!” chanted the high orc, manipulating dark flames that struck the king as he blocked its axe.
“I shall just strike you harder and slash down your flames of darkness!” exclaimed the king, charging in once more.
Swinging his blade down, King Trunno let out an elvish battle cry, putting all his strength into this one singular strike, hoping to shatter his opponent’s axe and emerge victorious. As powerful as the attack was, it was too much for the already damaged Olimno to handle, shattering into two as its body struck the axe.
Awestruck by what just happened, the high orc took his opportunity, striking the king with a fist burning with dark flames. King Trunno blocking with his arm suddenly felt an indescribable pain as the force of the magic imbued fist struck him. Gritting his teeth, he tried to fight back but was met with the high orc’s axe which struck his side.
Fortunately for the king, the axe was not imbued with these flames, but he was indeed mortally wounded even with his armor on. In a brief moment, King Trunno grabbed the axe’s handle and pulled the high orc towards him to land a headbutt and an uppercut, grinning at the orc as he coughed up blood. There was no trace of desperation in the king’s actions, only his unwavering resolve.
After staggering from King Trunno’s unexpected counterattack, the high orc spat down as its lips bled from the impact. Feeling insulted by the king, the high orc concentrated his dark magic on his left hand and initiated a brutal fistfight with the king. While he kept up for a bit, King Trunno was definitely more wounded than the high orc was, but not once did he curse his inability to wield his magic, nor did he regret not being in his prime fighting prowess anymore, all he needed was more time, more time for more half-elves to escape.
He could hear them, running, fleeing, fighting, dying, he could feel their pain, he could sense their anguish, and that was more excruciating than the dark flames that burnt his skin as he fought with the high orc. The more King Trunno fought, the greater the knights’ hopes came to be, and so they rallied on, slowly gaining ground again.
“This ends now, half-breed,” said the high orc as he grabbed King Trunno’s face and pushed his head onto the ground with great force.
Was this all I could do? The king asked himself. He was in disbelief, this should not be how he falls, dying surrounded by his foes as his soldiers struggled to fight behind him.
Beneath the voice of the high orc that spoke was the beating of hooves from a distance. It grew louder, and louder, and as it did the high orc paid no heed as he reveled in the glory of finally killing the king of Los Valles. Only when the beating was accompanied by the battle cries of a woman did the high orc decide to take his eyes off the king.
By the time the high orc glanced over, he was met by the blitzing speed of Princess Ariabelle with Jeyan on horseback, her shield colliding with the high orc’s head causing him to drop his axe.
“You shouldn’t have taken your eyes off me, orc!” the king shouted as he stabbed the orc in the back with what remained of Olimno. Before the high orc could react, King Trunno already grabbed its axe, swinging it mightily despite being injured and finally taking down the high orc as he aims for its head, chopping it clean off.
As the high orc’s body fell, King Trunno turned around to face his daughter, a warm smile on their faces as they finally meet once again after many perilous battles in the siege of Los Valles. Finally, seeing his gaze, Ariabelle directed her horse slowly towards her father. As her horse trotted closer to King Trunno, dozens of knights on horseback charged past them and joined the fray, collapsing on all the orcs and the trolls in the middle of the battlefield.
“Ariabelle,” King Trunno called out, “I never doubted you for a second, I knew you would soon come; however I am questioning your decision on bringing a child with you.”
“I apologize father, but I now bear the responsibility of protecting little Jeyan here, she has lost so much,” replied Ariabelle in a somber tone.
“There is more to be done Ariabelle, you should take the child over to the last departing caravan, both of you will be safe there,” said the king.
“Both of us? But father, I cannot leave you alone in defense of the kingdom,” argued Ariabelle.
“Look around you my daughter, nothing but destruction surrounds us,” replied King Trunno, “The kingdom may be in ruins, but Los Valles lives on, fleeing from this battle into a new tomorrow.”
“You must depart, for the people still need you,” he added, “This young child needs you.”
“A-as you command, father,” replied Ariabelle hesitantly as she rode away with Jeyan who was still ever so silent.
I cannot simply leave father to face martyrdom with the knights, but I cannot leave Jeyan on her own. Should there be a different choice than fleeing, may The One enlighten me with the right course of action. Why must the sacrifices we make be so daunting? Why must one sacrifice oneself when there is a will to live that cries out in every soul? Why? Why must people give up their own when they can push onwards and live altogether?
“I sense that she will be doing something very rash,” the king whispered to himself as he turned around once again only to see another horde of orcs ready for battle, “Such persistent foes.”
“My King,” called Pellandir, “With the aid of us horsemen, we have quelled the last of the horde you have faced.”
“Good,” replied the king as he stared onto the oncoming horde, “Rally the men once more, The One has offered us the chance to show the orcs the might of Los Valles.”
“As you command, My King,” responded Pellandir. “Knights of Los Valles! The order is given, form ranks!”
With Pellandir’s command at the behest of King Trunno, the cavalrymen and all the other knights started rallying together. Broken their armor may be, rent their shields may be, bloodied and fractured their bodies may be, this was their duty, it was them for Los Valles. Tightening the cloths around their wounds, throwing down their damaged armor, the knights did all they could to prepare themselves for the last clashing of half-elves and orcs.
Disgusted by the battle axe he held, King Trunno threw it down, arming himself with the broken Olimno. There was no fear, nor did he feel heavy at heart for what was to come, only overwhelming resolve and willpower to do what must be done for the people.
“Your people have done terribly well, Trunno Lux Valla,” said aloud by a voice among the orcish horde, “Your kingdom has been razed to the ground, the men, women, and children you hold dear are carcasses for the wolves, and your knights have fallen in vain.”
The king remained silent, and so did his troops. He will not be mocked, and neither shall the knights allow their dignities to be tarnished by an orc who knows not the values of loyalty, faith, brotherhood, kinship, and love are.
“Surrender now, and we shall give your petty survivors some time to hide in the woods before we spark the flames of destruction upon the forests and them along with it,” said the voice again to provoke the king further.
“Very well then,” spoke the voice in response to the silence the king has left him.
Without any command or signal, the orcs and trolls immediately charged at the King’s remaining forces. Once more, the ground beneath the knights trembled as the horde approached them, but this time they had no shield wall to hold onto, just their blades and their wits to fight. A few of them trembled in fear, some beginning to feel hopeless, some whispering their final words to themselves, and some just stayed silent. Knights they were indeed, but mortals they still are, and fear and anxiousness are mere products that mortality offers. But no matter how great the weight of their emotions dare to crush their spirit, they remained resilient, standing strong, standing together, without any thought of retreat nor surrender.
“The Jewel’s dawn is ahead of us, but it’s light will still shine on, scattered throughout Arnenya!” shouted King Trunno, breaking his silence as he raises the broken Olimno in the air. “As graceful as elves and as mighty as men, kin to none but to each other. Struggles upon struggles, perils upon perils, till at long last our bonds gave rise to the Jewel our home, and we shall settle in this home even in death!”
While King Trunno spoke aloud amidst the charge of the orcs ahead of them, the frailties of mortality fled the bodies of the knights, freeing them of fear, freeing them of the pain that held them back. It was otherworldly, this sensation of empowerment they felt, almost as if something was strengthening them, sharpening their senses, hastening their movements, and making their bodies feel as light as a feather.
There was no mistaking it, there was something at work behind the gallant words of the king and he himself knew it right from the very start. This was not merely inspiration, nor a god-ordained miracle, this was something far more ethereal. The power of the sacred Blade Blessing was upon them. Leaving Jeyan with the other young half-elves in the caravan, the one and only princess of Los Valles, Ariabelle Lux Valla arrives at the battlefield on horseback, her blade raised by her chest, chanting the sacred spell empowering the knights whilst her horse slowly trotted forwards, cutting through the ranks.
Headstrong was her decision, but it was a decision out of pure love for her people. If there was a chance, a glimmer of hope to rally against the orcs and reclaim Los Valles, seek justice for those who have fallen, and rid the evil that plagues their land, then why not take it? This was not an abandonment of Ariabelle’s responsibility, this was her way of demonstrating her commitment to it. Jeyan’s mother did not die to become part of a desecrated land, not a single half-elf deserves to wither away in the darkness of Nalgurin’s evil.
How naïve, irresponsible, and reckless, child… King Trunno watched as Ariabelle rode forward, her voice weaving ancient and mystic power into him and all the knights. ‘Tis folly enough to abandon the child, and now you appear before the battlefield in a desperate attempt to turn the tides of our martyrdom with a technique you barely have any mastery of.
His grip around the broken Olimno tightened with a frustration tempered by the inability to deter his daughter’s brave act of defiance. Your stubbornness has never changed since that day. It seems not even spells nor wisdom erodes some things you gain despite what you have lost
“Hear my voice, matriarchs of old, queens long past. Of Rivenon, of Eloria, of Seralis, of all lands known and unknown. Endow upon my legion the strength of thine armies. Bestow upon my knights the grace of the sword, the beauty of its art, the elegance of the Will of Battle, and transform us into a tempest of war…”
Forgive me, father, for this is the answer I have come to realize. You have chosen martyrdom, but I choose to take every opportunity at salvation as long as my body lives and breathes. I refuse to abandon you and our men when we have a fighting chance at escaping these flames victorious.
“Elwendi, Queen of the United Fiefdoms, I invoke thy name. Hirako, Empress of the Hidden Lands, I invoke thy name. Lumeria, Deity of Light, I invoke thy name. Let your wills and your desires flow upon me like the rushing essence of The One’s endless gift he imparts upon this world…”
Mastery? I believe this sacred power listens not to one’s prowess, but one’s desire to fight and protect everything one holds dearest. I believe that power stems from the unconditional love borne of memories and bonds. Power was not meant for war, as war was not meant for destruction, but to uphold justice and create peace.
The charging orcs paid no heed to Ariabelle’s sacred spell flowing through the knights as they glow with a radiating light that shone through the thick haze from the fires that surround them. All who stood with Ariabelle became invigorated and void of pain from the injuries they had suffered from the siege as if those injuries never existed.
Even with no shield, nor a full set of armor, nor allies to aid them, mages to use magic, and arrows to fire every single one of the Los Vallian knights stood their ground confidently as they were filled to the brim with this newfound power. Hope had taken over the spirits from the grasp of despair and defeat.
Having completed her chant, Ariabelle went into her battle stance, fierceness in her eyes while she firmly held her blade by her side. King Trunno gave a tiny smirk as he wielded the remains of Olimno, his disappointment fading along with the smoke rising into the air. It was at that moment he had placed his faith along with his fate in the hands of his daughter who tore through the veil of martyrdom he so desperately awaited.
For the last time, in the fallen kingdom of Los Valles, blades clashed with one another and blood was spilled once more. The Los Vallian knights covered in a veil of light fought in the image of the legions of the matriarchs of old. Whether it was in physical prowess or their swordsmanship, the knights were empowered in ways they had never experienced. They felt every swing, every thrust, parry, and guard with their entire bodies and reacted as if they foresaw the future of the battle.
Consumed by the battle around them, King Trunno and Ariabelle slowly distanced themselves further from each other, leading the knights onwards against the endless tidal wave of orcs. Even with a broken blade, King Trunno demolished orcs left, right, and center, even getting grazed by the enemy’s blades or struck by their clubs. Meanwhile, Ariabelle fought gracefully like the queens of bygone days, each strike imbued with power yet quick and agilely executed. None matched her unique swordsmanship, it was as if she was an angel dancing with a blade, cutting down her foes whichever direction they may be.
The rearguard of the orcs was in a state of panic as the knights steadily made their way across the battlefield, ready to seize back what they had so easily taken away from them. Yet even with such fear, they dared not retreat for the dark will of Nalgurin compelled them to do their duties to spread darkness and ruin.
Just as Ariabelle was getting further and further away as she fought with all her might, she caught sight of an orc that she instantly recognized, not looking much more refined than its comrades but for an act of evil that she can never forget. This was the orc responsible for firing the arrow that ended the life of Jeyan’s mother.
Sensing Ariabelle’s gaze, the orc retreated into the ensuing battle, escaping from her sight. This time, Ariabelle was the one who felt watched while she swung her sword against her enemies, and it was this unescapable watchfulness that made her sure that this orc was no mere foot soldier. Indeed, this was the case for every action she made, every twist and turn, evasion and strikes she made felt like it was being studied by a predator lurking in the shadows, biding its time, finding the optimum way to attack its prey.
“You should’ve escaped with the child little princess,” said the orc, well-hidden behind the crumbling wall of a burned down house. “Instead, you come right back just to see more death.”
Pulling out an arrow from his quiver, the orc aimed his bow with deadly precision towards Ariabelle as she fought fiercely. I shall let you witness the flaws of your convictions, and that alone will end your life in this battle.
“Reveal yourself, murderer within the shadows!” called out Ariabelle, “Or are you a coward unlike your comrades whom my very blade reaps like wheat on a bountiful harvest?”
“Cowardice, hm?” murmured the orc to himself, averting his aim from Ariabelle, slowly shifting it towards his left until King Trunno is perfectly visible.
Not firing your arrow? What might your intention be foul one? Is it not enough to satiate your bloodlust by robbing a child of his mother? Ariabelle immediately stopped her advance, vigilant as a sparrow observing the battlefield around her all while defending herself from orcs that attacked her.
Unless of course, your intention is not to harm me but to break me. Without any hesitation, she immediately ran the opposite direction towards her father who was locked in combat against two trolls with nothing but a broken blade and his fist. Even with the grace of the Blade Blessing, the speed of the arrow that this orc fires are of the descent of a searing star.
Fighting for their lives, the forces of Los Valles were unaware that the orcs’ reinforcements had arrived, and they were not prepared for what was to come. Through sheer numbers alone, the orcs have managed to encircle the valiant knights, whom despite receiving the Blade Blessing now struggled to brave the endless waves of orcs that fought tooth and nail against their blades.
Among the reinforcements of the orcs were a group of cloaked individuals, wrought in runes of sacrilege and symbols of heresy. They were Grenwraiths, black mages and adept sorcerers of dark magic who studied forbidden techniques and manipulation of etheren. Their power was as mysterious as their cloaked appearances. Void of eyes they were for sight was of no use to them, and all that was required of them was to speak the words of the Dark One and his spells of malice.
Their arrival was silent, and their presence veiled, but the orcish archer aiming at King Trunno was quick to realize that their coming into the battlefield only meant one thing and that was they intend to finally finish this siege. Even this merciless orc knew danger, quickly fleeing his cover and running as far as he can.
“Father!” yelled Ariabelle from a distance, quickly rushing to his father’s side, remaining vigilant of the potential angles their assailant may fire his arrow.
“Ariabelle?” King Trunno replied, his strength slowly being sapped from such battle of great lengths. Luckily enough, when Ariabelle got to him, he had already defeated the two trolls, however he did not go unscathed, for his earlier wound worsened, and new injuries were visible as a result of the trolls.
“Someone is hunting you father, an archer who has already caused me pain,” said Ariabelle firmly, her blade drawn, ready to strike the arrow in half if The One wills her the foresight and ability to do so.
“You worry too much for a dying old man, for long have I known that my fate lies here,” replied King Trunno. “Even with—”
Before the king could finish his sentence, multiple pentacles appeared on the ground beneath them as the crooked and withering hands of the Black Mages stretched forwards, chanting in dark speech. It was too late. Long have they been chanting against the knights preoccupied in their clashing of blades.
In a blink of an eye, the pentacles erupted in pillars of darkness, decimating the knights, trolls and orcs alike. These mages were determined to annihilate as much of their enemies as they can in one focused attack even if their own allies were caught in the destruction brought upon by their spell.
Despite Ariabelle’s swiftness, it was inevitable that she would fall victim to the destructive power of the black mages. All she saw was pitch black, all she felt was a throbbing pain that tore inside her piece by piece. Try as she might, she was unable to scream to release her suffering, unable to escape the horrid pain coiling around her, twisting her, pulling her apart, incinerating her. It was as if her soul was subjected to torment in the fiery depths of Helukar, rotting in pure debilitating agony.
FIGHT IT! YOU MUST NOT GIVE IN ARIABELLE!
She willed herself to move, willed herself to open her eyes, willed herself to raise her blade, but she could not, she was powerless. The Blade Blessing has already faded, not a trace of its power left for Ariabella to resist the dark spell of the Grenwraiths.
Unable to withstand such excruciating pain, many of the knights fell to the ground, succumbing to the dark spell, blood soon flowing out of their eyes, their ears, their nose, and their mouths. Their skin ripped open, their bones breaking, their organs failing.
Even the orcs and trolls who were caught in the spell dropped lifeless on the ground. It was not long before bodies began piling in a circle where the knights stood their ground. A merciless massacre the sight was, for no one was spared from the pain brought upon the Grenwraiths who indulged in the suffering of their victims.
The pillars of darkness slowly diminished, granting what was left of the affected knights release from the torment. Not many survived, and even among the survivors there were those that simply could not stand up anymore. Meanwhile, those who were fortunate to have been spared by the spell watched as many of their brothers-in-arms stood emotionless, frozen by the trauma of what they have just witnessed, while some shakily stood their ground, trying to balance themselves as they stood.
The king survived, but with how badly injured he already was, the spell cost him his right arm. Olimno remained in its shattered state on the ground, and as King Trunno gazed upon the broken blade, he caught a glimpse of his reflection etched into the gleaming steel of the blade. Los Valles has not fallen completely, they still survived, they still continue to breathe.
Letting out a breath of air, King Trunno knelt down, disregarding his injurues and picked up the broken Olimno with his left arm, and upon seeing this act, what remained of the knights did the same. They knew it in their hearts and souls that this was finally it, the true final stand of Los Valles.
Helping their fellow comrades on their feet, every knight with one last breath left to give armed themselves. Knights mounted on their horses backed into the circle to offer assistance once more. They were the fortunate half-elves to be spared from such misery as they fought a good distance away from the foot soldiers.
No order was said aloud, for it did not need to be spoken, it only needed to be followed. Without pause, the battle continued as orcs charged once more, running atop the bodies that piled the ground. It was only a matter of time before the Los Vallian knights gave in to the vicious onslaught ahead of them.
Whilst the finals sparks of the battle raged on, Ariabelle was on the ground, in the center of the knights who struggled desperately to fight the still innumerable orcs. She was at her breaking point especially after empowering all the knights that continued to fight for their ravaged land. Weak as she is right now, upon seeing her hand still grasping her blade, she knew what she needed to do.
“ARIABELLE, NO!” her father yelled as he fought an orc, slowly retreating inside the circle towards Ariabelle.
“I…must…” Ariabelle replied weakly, blood dripping from the left side of her face.
“STOP ARIABELLE, ITS NOT WORTH IT!” King Trunno yelled louder.
His words did not reach Ariabelle’s ears as she begins to slowly lift her blade once more in spite of her difficulty to stand up. “We can still…prevail…the jewel will…shine on.”
“PELLANDIR!” called the king.
“Yes, my liege,” replied Pellandir, still mounted, falling back with his wounded yet persistent steed.
“You must be aware of the fate that lies upon us,” said King Trunno in a grim tone.
“I have already accepted it My King, I will continue to carry out my duty as a Los Vallian knight until our bitter end,” Pellandir promptly answered.
“Good,” said King Trunno, slashing down an orc that slipped through the circle of knights. “Then you must carry out my last order.”
A golden glow slowly emanated from Ariabelle behind King Trunno and Pellandir. She was about to cast it once more, her final Blade Blessing, her final stand against the orcs in a futile effort to prevail in the battle. Her consciousness flashing in and out as she lifts her blade, forcing herself to utter the sacred spell.
Knowing what this meant, the Grenwraiths caught up to what Ariabelle was attempting to do and worked quickly to dispose of her, casting a small pentacle beneath her, one that would seemingly go unnoticed amidst the grueling battle of wits and will. Ariabelle herself would not realize that the Grenwraiths were already casting their spell once more, all that was in her mind was the incantation of the Blade Blessing.
This was all she could do, all she can muster. She cannot swing her blade, she cannot evade another attack nor parry an enemy sword, or even move a single step forwards. Death surrounded her, death already attempted to devour her, and for a moment she did submit to death. But she cannot stop here, not yet, not when she is still alive and continues to breathe.
Martyrdom? I do not believe in such things. We will prevail, we must, for who will carry the burden of those who have fallen? Who will carry the hopes and wishes of the unjustly taken? What is my life compared to the dozens more that I am able to save?
I am not willing to die, not now, nor tomorrow, nor in the future that awaits me. I shall carry them all with me, and we will rebuild our homeland.
As Ariabelle’s thoughts raced, looking forwards, she continued chanting the Blade Blessing, and as she did, she sees her father running towards her as he bled from all his wounds, fear consuming his expression, calling out her name. She could not hear him though, she knew not why he was running towards her.
Something is amiss… did we not survive? Is it the archer? He should have perished with his allies…
There was something gravely wrong about how her father approached her as fast as he was able to.
Why does he run as if he’s trying to—
King Trunno leapt with all his might towards Ariabelle as the pentacle glowed beneath her. For a moment, time slowed down around Ariabelle as darkness shot out from the ground beneath her forming a pillar of torment that encased her momentarily.
It was only for a miniscule time, but Ariabelle felt the unbearable pain course throughout her body before being shoved away by King Trunno, who took this burden away from his daughter and unto himself.
Everything around Ariabelle became warped as her consciousness began to fade away. Her vision flashing in front of her as she gazed upon her father’s cruel fate, enveloped in the pillar of darkness. Ariabelle couldn’t perceive anything else, not even the ground where she lay, but she felt it, her father’s anguish deep within her heart.
Father… but why?
It seems I will not die a martyr’s death, nor a king’s death. Despite the immense pain that surged within his body, King Trunno stood still, embracing fate, and seeing beyond the void that engulfed him. Ariabelle, live onwards. Show me the “hope” you believe in, the fruit of your convictions.
Once again, the pillar of darkness dispersed and disappeared revealing King Trunno’s lifeless body refusing to fall. In Ariabelle’s haze, she believed her father survived the Grenwraiths’ wrath, yet she felt a sense of unease and guilt, the same feelings she denied when Jeyan’s mother sacrificed herself not too long ago.
The leader of the Grenwraiths, confused as to whether King Trunno survived or not ordered an archer to shoot him down. The archer, taking deadly aim, quickly released the arrow striking King Trunno in his neck with just enough force to knock his already lifeless body down on the ground.
NO…
Stand up… Ariabelle… STAND UP!
It was futile, no matter how hard she willed herself, Ariabelle’s body could not handle any more stress. Even if it were to her last breath, even if she accepted bleeding to death, she could not stand no more.
Emotions lashed out within her, the anger and fury she has set aside came to rip her apart from the inside. At the same time, sorrow and hopelessness filled her heart, burning the essence of her soul into ash, leaving nothing but an empty void.
Father…wake up… you are far stronger than the might of orcish archers and the cunning of poison…
The battlefield was fading away, everything was fading away. How much death did Ariabelle endure, how many innocent half-elves did she witness die by the blade of such foul beings, so much blood, so much death, just for Ariabelle herself to fall with them.
PRINCESS!
Someone called out to Ariabelle. Who’s calling me?
PRINCESS!
The darkness slowly consumed Ariabelle, as she sank into the abyss, slowly closing her eyes. Her breathing slowed down, her heart struggling to hold on. The last trickle of consciousness made its steady descent as her final thoughts spoke softly.
Los Valles has truly fallen, and in my folly, I let my father be killed. If The One allows me still, I desire redemption, I seek hope, even in my hour of death, I seek hope.
