Book - Ballads for Bullets

The Fall of the Lich-King / The Battle of the White Star

Written account of Sir Alric, Commander of the Royal Knights of Vistland, and of the Grand Company, at the Battle of the White Star near the citadel of the Old Keep.
Dawn, hours after the Battle of the White Star

         My hand trembles as I set quill to parchment, the ink smudging under my gauntlet. The White Star’s silver glare still burns in my eyes, its light carved across the citadel’s broken spires only an hour past. My armor hangs heavy, dented and dark with blood. The air reeks of ozone and rot, the plateau a graveyard of shattered shields and splintered bone. I sit upon a cracked stone, my surviving knights are resting nearby, their breaths fogging in the dawn’s chill. My chest aches, not only from wounds but from the weight of what we lost and what I fear is yet to come.

I led thirty-six men into this slaughterhouse.

“Shields up! Pincer left!” I shouted, my voice raw as we drove into the Lich-King’s horde. Our shields locked, boots ground through blood-soaked earth, while the Grand Company struck the opposite flank and a host of beasts tore in beside them. Overhead, Sir Eric’s wyvern, Vidri, grappled the Lich-King’s bone dragon in a frenzy of wings and claws, keeping the great bone-beast from turning its dread fire upon us.

The Grand Company fought like legends, and I set down their deeds so none may forget:
Prince Elandor’s arrows, trailing starfire, split skeletons so they could not rise again.
Grom’s axe hewed swaths of corpses like grain in the field, black ichor spraying as he laughed, “Bring me a scythe next time!”
Mira’s staff burned violet as she shattered each of the Lich’s wards one after the other.
Fizwidget’s bombs reduced zombies to smoldering heaps.
Lirael’s eldritch blasts tore apart every shield of bone the Lich raised as she unleashed the terrible power of her ancient pact.
Dame Sigrid’s hammer crackled with the lightning of the Sky-Father himself; her Skaldlandic hymns rose above the din as she led the charge, always first to strike.
Sir Eric, wearing Elara’s golden tiara upon his brow, fought at Sigrid’s side. His blade flashed like quicksilver, parrying every blow aimed for her life, tearing down death knights and banshees with relentless precision.
Brother Thorne’s prayers stitched our wounds as fast as we took them, his mace glowing with stubborn hope.
Lady Elara, Magus Innatus and heir to Vistland, shielded us all with the very light of the stars themselves, her trembling hands unyielding.

“Press right! Hold together!” I bellowed. The formation closed, crushing forward. Yet even within Elara’s shield, the line was perilous. A scrap of cloak, the edge of a bootheel strayed beyond her ward, and the knight was seized, torn screaming into the horde. Still we pressed on. I saw the Lich-King’s final ward flicker, then harden once more, pulsing with renewed malice. The backlash broke us like waves on stone. I saw my oldest friends die in an instant. Torren’s throat was cut open. Godric’s shield split, his head struck from his shoulders. Mara’s chestplate crumpled beneath a spear of bone. I screamed as I slammed shield and sword against the barrier myself, but the last ward held, unbreakable, mocking my every stroke.

Then the Grand Company stood beside me, and for a breath I dared to believe. We struck as one, and the barrier splintered, peeling away in ragged tatters. At last, we surged for the Lich-King, certain in our victory. His final phylactery within my grasp.

The Lich-King loomed before us, skeletal frame draped in rags, crowned with crystal and ebony. The relics embedded in that crown, fragments of the White Star gathered through long years, pulsed like a living heart. The star was now directly overhead. His bony hands wove sigils as he prepared to speak. The comet’s light seared my skin and his voice thundered:

“I wish to become the White Star eternal! God of all wishes and desires!”

Light erupted from his bones, his form twisting into crystal, blazing like a star. His wish was spoken. The ritual complete. Our assault faltered. We had failed.

My eyes stung with the burst of light, and in a flash she stood before me, my Maerwyn, my wife, lost years ago. Her face as it had been before the plague, her smile radiant. She called me to her, voice warm and sweet: “Come, Alric. Wish for me. Wish to hold me again.” Behind her I glimpsed the life we never had, children, hearth, peace.

But the vision darkened. Her smile curled with hunger, her touch turned to claws. Her body bent low, submissive, her gown falling from her shoulders as she whispered: “Wish for me to obey your every desire. Wish for endless heirs at my breast, for nights unending.” Her words mocked the love I bore her. Revulsion fought against longing, and I ached. I wanted it, gods forgive me, I wanted even this vile parody of her, to ease the hollow in my chest.

All around, I heard others groaning, whimpering, laughing madly. Each was lost in their own corruption, their desires twisted as mine had been. The battlefield was no longer a clash of steel but a pit of broken wishes. My shield quaked in my grip, the vision dragging me toward surrender.

Through the haze I glimpsed Sir Eric. He staggered, the tiara clenched white-knuckled in his palm. He fell to his knees, shoulders heaving. That relic in his hands had been our last safeguard, a fragment of the Star we'd kept from the Lich. It could be used to make a true wish, just as the Lich had done! How had I forgotten? I tried to cry out, to command him, to beg him, to use it, but no voice would come. Maerwyn’s false form seared my tongue and blinded my eyes.

How he found the strength to speak I'll never know, but I heard his words ragged and torn, as from a soul undone:

"I wish for an end to all this wishing.”

There was a pulse in the air, like earth herself exhaling a held breath, and the vision shattered. Maerwyn’s twisted face dissolved like mist. The air quaked, the comet’s light fractured into a thousand prismatic shards. The Lich-King’s starry form screamed in its ascension, then streaked skyward, joining with the White Star itself. His fallen crown broke apart, the relics crumbling into dust. All his minions collapsed, bones scattering on the wind.

Then silence.

I counted only twelve royal knights beside me. Two thirds of my company slain. Elara lowered her hands, pale and trembling, tears streaking her face. The Grand Company stood unsteadily, weapons slack in their grasp. The fight was ended.

Now, as I write, I watch the cursed comet fade eastward. Small streaks of light still fall from its wake, like stars torn from the night.
Something has changed in the nature of our world; I feel it in my bones.

When we return, there will be endless celebration. Bards will sing that we triumphed here. But the truth is this: we failed.

Sir Eric had borne the final relic of the Wishing Star, that legendary White Star of the North. He spoke the last True Wish. I believe he has ended the power of wishes in this world, perhaps forever. He did not wish for glory or for victory, but for release. In seeking freedom from his torment, he cut away the power of the gods themselves.

In 50 years the wishing star will return to our skies, and with it may come the rage of an impotent god. Will he have found some way to unleash his fury upon us? I pray I am at peace when that time comes, and no longer living to witness it.

Let the songs say what they will. I write so I do not forget.