In the Shadow of the Storm - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Ingvarr          

         As the bright orb dropped below the jagged line of the horizon, the light which had been provided by the sun was replaced by that given off by flickering flames. As adults in the camp herded the last of the children into tents to put them to sleep, others checked the enclosures for the animals. These were the first to fall, arrows speeding out of the night. The only sounds were muffled gurgles as they sunk to the floor. And then there were horsemen in the centre of the camp, riding in all directions scything down the now terrified tribesmen with long cavalry swords and lances. Men, women and children were all claimed, the darkness made the slaughter indiscriminate as the faceless soldiers rampaged through the camp. As the initial shock passed, people began to grab weapons, and pockets of resistance sprung up around the camp.
         Ingvarr emerged from his tent, axe in hand, and leather breastplate half on, to be confronted with a scene from his worst nightmares. The lumps of bodies lay around prone on the dark floor, and from what Ingvarr could see, they were exclusively garbed similarly to him, showing that the tide was firmly against him. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a shape thundered out of the darkness. Ingvarr lunged to one side and rolled down to avoid the sword which had been intended for his throat. The horseman yanked hard on his reins, eliciting a squeal from his horse, wheeling and bearing down on Ingvarr once again who, seeing he was outmatched, dodged behind a tent. Unable to control his charging mount, the rider shot past, giving Ingvarr the opportunity he needed to jump out and tackle him from his horse.
         The two men went down, struggling on the floor. Ingvarr managed to get his knee up and delivered a sharp kick to his opponent’s midriff. As his opponent reflexively curled up, Ingvarr rolled away and came to his feet, axe in hand. The man’s pain was only momentary however and he slowly got to his feet, wary of the tribesman who towered over him. At over two metres tall, Ingvarr was taller than average among his people, but compared to the people of the west, he was a giant. As his opponent took up a balanced stance, Ingvarr launched forward with a savage downward stroke which threatened to take the man’s arm off.
         Except the man was no longer there. As the stroke came, his opponent had gracefully stepped sideways and past the axe blade and was suddenly very close. With a vicious grin, Ingvarr dropped his axe, grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him closer, before smashing a fist into his face. His head snapped back, but the man was already struggling to get clear and, surprisingly, he succeeded, spinning away in a blur. The punch had caused his mail coif to slip down, revealing a mane of golden hair and startlingly, pointed ears.
         An elf. This then explained how he had been able to break free so quickly, for elves were well known for their strength, almost as much as for the fact that they were extremely rare, so what was one doing here? As this train of thought concluded, Ingvarr cursed himself for lapsing. Even as he returned to himself, there was a single edged sword whipping towards his knee cap. Instead of trying to block awkwardly with his axe, he dodged back, moving out of reach of the blow. The elf stepped forwards, pressing his perceived advantage. Another stroke came in from above. Ingvarr simply stepped forwards, caught the elf’s wrist, and crushed it. The elf cried out, as the bones were mangled. Not waiting, this was followed up by a knee, thundering up between his legs, causing him to crumple.  Ingvarr then cast the body carelessly into the side of a tent, before bending to retrieve his axe.
         And suddenly there were people around him. In the shock of the elf’s appearance, it took Ingvarr a second to recognise his own people.
         “Come, we must leave, the camp is gone. We must return east.” The speaker led a small group of survivors; a few men with a variety of weapons, and about a dozen women and children. Shaking himself, Ingvarr surveyed the group critically:
         “Is this all? So few...” On the far side of the camp, there was a sudden flash, as the raiders set fire to the first tents. There, to the west, would be where their mysterious attackers would be in force then.
         “We go east,” grunted Ingvarr over his shoulder, as he strode to where he had left the elf, who was no longer there. 
         “Right, you,” indicating the leader of the group “take point, keep your men awake and alert; protect the women and children, I’ll bring up the rear and cover our tracks.”
         The leader, a fairly young man Ingvarr now noticed: around twenty-five years of age, though with the scars plainly displayed to prove his experience, gaped at Ingvarr:
         “You’re one of them aren’t you?” in near-reverent tones: “a...a Forerunner...”
         Ingvarr ignored the tone as much as he ignored the question.
         “Let’s go, they’ll be here soon, and we need to be long gone.” With that, he motioned for them to be off, and took up a position at the rear, to scan behind for followers. Soon the blackness of the night swallowed the small group of survivors.
***

Kendryek

         Opening his eyes, Kendryek turned to once again face his three chosen strike commanders. One would lead twenty Lances against the front of the camp, while the other two would lead ten each against the flanks. He himself would command the ten held in reserve. While some might consider it cowardly to lead from the rear, Kendryek commanded five thousand men, something which was not easily achievable in the centre of a melee; but rather more so at a distance.
         “Muffle the horses’ hooves, and blacken weapons and mail. They get no warning of our arrival. Arrows for the sentries and then lances and swords following in. Leave a few survivors to a carry the warning back east, but kill as many warriors as possible.”
         The officers nodded wordlessly before ducking out of the tent one by one. Kendryek paused, before he too ducked out of the tent and into the darkening twilight. Sucking in a deep breath, he ordered his squire to bring up his horse and then waited, looking out at the camp. Men were being called to arms, running around while shrugging into hauberks, buckling on sword belts, shields, or tacking up their horses. The camp was a hive of activity. As his horse was brought, he put a foot in the stirrup and mounted up. Unclipping his helmet from the saddle, he raised the leather padding over his head, before lowering the helm on to his head.
         It was a steel half-helm complete with cheekguards, and was standard equipment for the Lancer Corps. Only the bleached horsehair crest distinguished him from any other trooper. That, and the four copper pips on his breastplate, although they were somewhat difficult to see from a distance.
         Kendryek rode to the head of the reserve with his squire, personal guards and a banner-man flying the banner of Laternas: the crossed lance and crossbow, on a field of black which made it  pointless in the encroaching darkness.
         “From here, silence. Until the battle is joined.” Spurring away, the reserve spread out into a double line. Only because he was listening did he here the whispered rustling as four thousand men moved into positions. From his vantage point, atop a small rise, he saw faint movement as his marksmen dropped the Ethernath sentries. He waited, counting. In less than ten seconds, he saw horsemen riding into the camp, silhouetted by the flickering campfires. Moments after that, screams began to ring out, carried across the intervening distance by the balmy wind typical of the summer. The idyllic weather seemed to somehow mock the event s taking place in the distance.
Ahead somewhere, he knew that Modred would be leading his patrol in a wide sweep at the extreme flank of the right arm of the Laternae attack. The position was the most dangerous in the attack; there were no Laternae men to his right, he was the end of the line. The slaughter was concluded in what seemed like no time at all, and no reserve support was necessary.
         The main body of the attack began to form up at the western edge of the now-burning remains of the savages’ camp. The remaining Lances spread out, dividing into patriols to cover the retreat of the Troop. Once the column was fully formed, it began to snake its way back towards its own encampment, with patrols screening to either side. 
***
Ingvarr
         “No fires,” grunted Ingvarr, as one of the women bent down to begin preparations for a meal. One of the men looked as if he might argue, but another touched his arm to quell any disagreement. Satisfied that his orders would be followed, he loped off into the darkness to scout out the immediate surroundings.
         He began to search for the signs that they had passed; eradicating any clues which might lead anyone too them. In the following few hours, he moved a few miles back the way they had come, back to the top of a ridge from which he was able to see his former camp. By now, it was little more than burning wreckage. The soldiers had formed a column at the extreme edge of the camp, away from the devouring flames, and were slowly preparing to move back towards the city. From his vantage point, he carefully surveyed the areas in darkness on his side of the camp, looking for signs of any other survivors. 
         There, at the foot of the very ridge he was standing on, there was a slight glint of reflected firelight from the camp. Although it could have been anything, Ingvarr continued watching the spot, and was soon rewarded for his patience as there was a slight hint of human motion. He silently began making his way down the ridge, avoiding loose stones and dry branches, and anything that could give him away, or alarm the refugees.  Ten minutes later, Ingvarr crouched motionless about twenty metres upslope from the temporary camp of the refugees. He could see now that there were eleven refugees that he could see in the camp; four children, three women, and four nervous-looking men, who had their hands firmly planted on the hilts of swords. Approaching too suddenly would be fatal; these men were on edge, and would attack anything that moved, and Ingvarr had no desire to add the numbers of the fallen Ethernath.
         Suddenly they all stiffened, as did Ingvarr: faintly, but clearly approaching was the sound of hooves. There were too many horses for it to be his people, which left only one, chilling conclusion: more Lancers. As he prepared to move out into the open and make himself known, he felt a sword tip prick between his shoulder blades. 
         “Who are you?” Ingvarr relaxed as he heard the distinctive dialect of the Wastes.
         “Ingvarr, Second Forerunner of the Western Edge.” Keeping it clear and concise was his best chance of not being accidentally killed by one of his own.
         The sword blade did not move however:
         “Get up, and turn around, slowly.” Keeping his hands well clear of his sides, and his array of weapons, Ingvarr did as he was told, turning around to see, with a half smile, a man similar to his own size, dressed in an almost identical manner, except for the weapons which his various belts sported.
         Another Forerunner then,
         “Who are you then?” asked Ingvarr with a wry smile; perhaps not the best thing to do with a sword still levelled at him.
         Ignoring the question, his captor seemed to be studying his face, looking for the truth.
         “Show me your mark, if you are a Forerunner.” The words came out almost grudgingly, as if he was being forced to accept that Ingvarr might be telling the truth.
         Unlacing his breastplate, he pulled it up to reveal a glyph of the Old Language tattoed across his abdomen, which caused the sword to be immediately lowered.
         “My apologies, I cannot be too careful, especially this night.” It was not much of an apology, despite the words.
Ingvarr pulled down his breastplate and began re-tying it, asking:
         “So, who are you then?”
         As the Forerunner sheathed his sword, the answer came
         “my name is Fyodor, the Fifth of the East.”
         Slightly stunned by this, Ingvarr took his time in forming his next question, as there was suddenly so much he wanted to ask.
         “Of the East? Why are you here then? What has happened out there? What have The Enemy done?” Despite the intended carefulness of his questions, his curiosity overcame him, and they came out in a rush which took the man opposite slightly aback.
         “The East was fine when I left, it was decided that some of us should be redistributed to aid with the migration, as it seems clear that you Westerners are having trouble.” There was certainly some of the sectional rivalry present here then; the people of the Eastern waste saw themselves as slightly superior to their Western counterparts: they fought against the faceless warriors known only as ‘The Enemy,’ contrasted with the occasional skirmishes against the Laternae in the East, mere humans.
         Ingvarr immediately became irritated,
         “I assume fine is a relative term, I mean, you are still being pushed back?”  As he spoke the words, he saw that they had the desired effect. Fyodor tensed, his mouth already twisting as it began to form a barbed retort. He was interrupted however, as they both noticed something at exactly the same time.
         The sound of hooves had stopped.  Not faded. They had stopped completely. Which meant that they had found something, possibly the refugees. Even now they would be picking their way through the woodland towards the terrified tribesmen. 
         The two Forerunners crept down towards the camp. As they emerged from the woods, Fyodor very deliberately broke a branch with a crunch, causing the men to spin, weapons half-appearing form scabbards and belt loops. When they saw the mountainous forms of the pair of their kinsmen, they relaxed, relieving their grips.
         “Listen, I want you to make your way quietly and quickly due east, you will find more refugees on the way. We must stay; a Laternae patrol is on their way.” As the trusted one of the pair, Fyodor did the talking.
The older of the men, who looked to be in his late twenties nodded at first that he understood, then his eyes widened as news of impending discovery was given, and he ended up looking as though he might protest.
         “We must stay and help, you can’t possibly survive against a patrol...” His sentiments also seemed to be shared by the other two men, both in their twenties also.
         “No, you must lead the refugees east, and we have a better chance of holding off the patrol for longer. As many of our people need to survive this as possible.” This time Ingvarr took the lead, scarcely concealing his exasperation. It looked as though the man would still argue, so Ingvarr placed a hand on his shoulder. “Please, I am trusting you with the lives of these people.” He saw the look of resignation enter the man’s eyes even before he replied.
When the reply came, it was with a small amount of pride.
         “Yes sir, I will defend them to the death.” With a wry smile that did not reach his eyes, Ingvarr’s reply was sad as he turned away “I have no doubt...”
         The group made their way quietly up the ridge, back the way Ingvarr had originally come. As they began disappearing into the darkness, the two remaining figures melted into the darkness of the woods, preparing to receive the patrol. A Laternae patrol of lancers typically consisted of twenty men, each equipped with lances, swords, and mail armour. Of course in the woods, the lances, as well as the horses they rode, would be next to useless. Ingvarr and Fyodor split up, moving about twenty yards apart, made their way in the direction of the opposition. In their leather armour, the two men moved silently, creeping their way forwards while loosening weapons in sheathes. By contrast, their enemies, in chainmail, made very noisy and slow progress through the woodland, meaning that it was nearly effortless to locate their enemies.
         Ingvarr had claimed his first victim within five minutes, creeping up behind the man and quickly twisting his head around until his neck snapped. The resultant noise drew shouts from the other men of his group, as they began to converge on Ingvarr. Ingvarr’s reaction was but one thought: at least this would make it easier to find them. Leaving the body where it fell, he circled back the way he came, away from the encroaching soldiers. As he did so, he heard the sound of metal on metal, as Fyodor immediately took a more direct approach. While engaging odds of ten-to-one in a straight fight may seem stupid to some, the Forerunners, both standing at over two metres tall, towered over their opponents, the tallest of which was well below that. This height advantage, and the accompanying advantage in reach meant that they were able to strike down enemies before they were able to even consider striking a blow. As his thought process concluded, a group of six soldiers entered the clearing in front of Ingvarr and spotted the corpse of their comrade lying on the floor with his face pointing in the wrong direction.
         Preparing to make immediate and violent use of his advantage in reach, Ingvarr leapt out of the darkness, downing two men with brutal horizontal strokes with his axe before they knew what was happening. He was already moving towards a third when their wits returned, and this time his attack was half-parried; a sword was hastily brought up, but he was unable to maintain the block under the sheer power of Ingvarr’s arm. The axe blow swept all before it, taking the sword across the man’s chest, which it opened in a crimson spray on its passage. The body dropped to the floor, and the three other men shrunk back in fear at the open display of such strength. Their discipline held them however, and they moved into a loose triangle surrounding Ingvarr, swords out in two handed grips. The main rule about fighting against superior numbers was to never stop moving, to never present a stationary target, and Ingvarr immediately leaped forward, forsaking his axe, and tackling the man in front of him around the waist, bearing both of them to the ground. Ingvarr sunk his fist repeatedly into the man’s torso, cracking ribs with his thunderous blows, and rendering the man unconscious and dying. Rolling away, he sprang to his feet, drawing a long knife from his belt.
         The remaining two men were terrified, now nearly shaking with fear, and yet they still advanced on the savage beast they had just seen kill a man with his bare hands. Had the two men attacked together, it was possible that they could have overwhelmed Ingvarr, armed as he was with just a knife. Fear slowed the man on the right however, which meant that when the attack came in, it was disjointed, and therefore easy to deal with. Deflecting the first blow, he stepped past the first man, and swept the knife across the second’s unsuspecting throat, opening it nearly from ear to ear. As the man’s head flopped back, his neck created a ghastly, yawning smile for an instant before the frame fell drunkenly to the ground. Spinning away, Ingvarr returned his attention to the man he had stepped past, only to find that he was halfway across the clearing in the opposite direction, running for his life; helmet and sword both discarded in order to shed weight. Sighing, Ingvarr flicked a knife from his sleeve into his hand, cocked his arm back, and lazily hurled it in the man’s direction. The knife sunk into the man’s back between the shoulder blades, and he dropped, the only sound the rustling of his chainmail as he fell.
         Pausing to gather and wipe clean his weapons, he moved off in the direction of the sounds of clashing metal, which had diminished somewhat in intensity. Silently moving through the woodland just in case Fyodor had somehow been bested, he eventually reached the edge of a clearing, and the scene he came across was grim, even for him. Body parts and discarded weapons were strewn across the floor, spattered gore coated many of the surrounding trees, and much of the hard ground now ran red, as individual pools spread from each of the ten bodies arranged around the clearing to form a sea of red. Even amidst this display of death, Ingvarr’s eyes were drawn inexorably towards to the centre of the scene, where a man knelt, head bowed, in front of Fyodor.
         “How were you able to find this camp so quickly? Who warned you?” The words were not spoken with any anger, just a quiet menace. His hand rested gently at his side, but both Ingvarr and the potential victim knew that he could draw and kill in an instant. The man seemed unable to answer; he had begun trembling violently, and as he drew nearer, Ingvarr caught the distinctive tangy smell of urine as the terrified soldier lost bladder control.
         Fyodor repeated his questions, and finally there was a reponse:
         “We have scouts camped along the entire border of the Waste, we know whenever you arrive in force.”
The words struck the pair of them like a physical blow, as they realised that the migration west was going to be a lot more difficult than they had first thought.  Their hope had always been to slip through the Laternae patrols to the lands further west to find some unclaimed land, but if they knew whenever there were crossings, they would easily be able to track and destroy any incursions. A serious change in strategy would be called for if the Ethernath were to survive this systematic genocide.
         At the moment, the Ethernath did not have any tactics to speak of; each warrior fought for himself, normally in defence of his family. There were no tactics involving groups, which meant that it was easy for enemy forces to isolate individuals and wipe them out one by one.
         The terrified kneeling man seemed to notice the paralytic effect his words had had, and began to edge away. Before he had moved more than a few inches away, a sword flickered out, opening the man’s throat and causing him to collapse back to the already blood-sodden earth.
         “Do you know what this means? We need to change the way we fight, the way we think. If not, we will get crushed between the Laternae and the Enemy; a classic hammer and anvil. As much as it pains me, we have to fight more like them,” at the shocked look on Fyodor’s face, he carried on quickly to avoid interruption.
         “No no, not exactly like them; we need to fight with more order, more discipline, as units rather than on our own, we will be stronger together than we could ever hope to be on our own. We are already far greater horsemen than the Laternae, and at least equal to those of the Enemy, and we certainly need to use this to our advantage.”
         As they both realised how long they had been lost to their thoughts, they tensed, listening for any sounds in the surrounding woodland.
         “We should get moving, back to catch up with the others, they are vulnerable while we are here.” Fyodor began to move off as he spoke, gathering his various weapons from the bodies of his victims. Following his lead, Ingvarr moved through the woodland to the base of the ridge which he had descended scarcely thirty minutes prior. As they ascended the ridge, Ingvarr tensed as he heard the distinctive sound of another patrol approaching in the distance. With a mere glance at Fyodor, the two of them picked up the pace so that they were over the top of the ridge and lost from sight within minutes.
***

Modred

         The second patrol dismounted, smoothly moving into a system which had been perfected with its countless repetitions; one in five men dismounted first, locating suitable trees to create makeshift picket lines. By this point, the other four of their squad dismounted, scanning the surrounding area, while their horses were tied to trees by the scouts. Each unit then (minus their scout) linked up into a loose formation, ready to enter the woodland ahead.
         On the discovery of the clearing, and the horrific scene it formed, a number of them emptied their stomachs as the stench of death assailed their nostrils. Even hardened veterans, who had been fighting the migrations for ten years struggled to contain their retching. Members of the patrol looked east with a shudder, before looking to the lieutenant in charge, a tall, fair man by the name of Modred.
Slowly looking away, he spoke in a quiet voice, shaking with repulsion at the view before him:
         “There are no survivors, and there was no indication as to the way their attackers went. Three men of each squad are to move twenty metres out into the woods and set up a perimeter. Everyone else; find as much of their remains as you can and bury them, here and now.” Turning his back on the ridge which rose impressively before him, he did not mention the two figures he had seen on the crest of the ridge...
         As the last of the shovels of dirt thumped down on to the grave, Modred gave the order to fall back to the clearing, before the men slowly moved back towards the horses, eyes always on the forest.
As his men remounted their horses, he gave the order:
         “One more sweep of the camp and then we will return to the fort.” His men surpressed groans at having to move through the smoke-clogged encampment again, but he needed to stretch the patrol so it would not seem to have been a complete failure.
         They were ten metres out before the first of his men began coughing because of the smoke wafting their way on the wind.
         “Spread out! Search for survivors or casualties of our own.” His men reacted, spreading out to form a wide line which by no means stretched the width of the camp, but would nonetheless cover a large tract of ground. In such a fashion, they began picking their way through the camp. As they advanced through the camp, each man began to develop a hacking cough and streaming eyes from the sheer volume of smoke swirling around in the night time breeze.
         Modred paused as one of his men sidled up to him.
         “We need to leave soon, or the smoke will make it impossible to breathe.” Considering his words, and wondering whether or not what he had achieved constituted a successful patrol or not, Modred let his eyes wander, until he was staring out into the smoky gloom.
As he opened his mouth to answer, his eyes caught a glint on the floor a few metres away.
         “Look, over there!” he exclaimed, before starting towards it. Reaching the spot, he found the prone figure of a Laternae Lancer, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Not just any Lancer though, this was the Elf. Everyone in the Laternae army had heard stories of him, and the circumstances surrounding his ‘enrolment.’ A few years ago, he had appeared out of the East, prophesying doom and destruction, and the coming of some great evil which he referred to as ‘The Darkness.’ He had gone to each of the human states and ordered them to form an alliance, claiming it was their only hope of survival. His arrogance had not won him any support at all among the various rulers who believed it was impossible for anything to cross the Ethernath waste.
         The idea of the elves was also one distrusted and hated by all the people of the West. In the most ancient histories, the elves were mentioned as being the overlords of the West, and that their rule coincided with a very difficult time for the native humans living there. This coupled with the fact that elves appeared to have at best disliked humans and at worst been disgusted by them only added to the image of them as a cruel, oppressive people.
          “Sir? What do you want us to do with him? We could make it look like he was killed by an Ethernath...” The man broke into his train of thought, but Modred motioned for him to stop.
         “No, we must take him back with us, it doesn’t matter how arrogant he is, he doesn’t deserve to be killed while he is unconscious; he should at least be accorded that honour.”
         The words stunned his men, who had gathered at his shout. To save this insolent and arrogant elf was beyond belief, the one who had stood up before each leader of the western kingdoms, among the most powerful lords, and ordered them what to do.
         “But...sir, he’s an elf...” the distaste of the soldier was clear from the emphasis placed on the name.
         “That doesn’t matter, make a stretcher from one of these undamaged tents and carry him back to the horses. You don’t need to be gentle, but don’t kill him.” As his soldiers moved to follow his orders, Modred went to take in a deep breath, forgetting where he was, and cursed as the lungful of smoke he got caused him to choke and start coughing.
***