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| Xeogaming Forums - Story Realm - ChaoticDeath: Lost in Chaos |
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BBQMissile ChaoticDeath          Since: 08-16-04 From: New York Since last post: 4734 days Last activity: 722 days |
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| The Chaotic Death: War of Massacres
Prologue The enemies have wiped out the outer defenses, slaughtering all in their paths. Yet, their actions are justified, each forceful swipe of their sword an act of vengeance for their own dead kindred. We barely managed to hide the women and children amongst the tall mountains several leagues behind the defenses. Daylight is arriving swiftly and without delay. Now, we may finally have a chance. We are down to only ten strong troops, each containing only twenty men. They are a massive swarm of one thousand. Our king has fled to safety. That is most relieving news. We have just enough rations to last for two more days. And even that may not suffice for my soldiers grow weary and tired. Our armor is growing thin. Our swords are dulling. Our spirits and will is fading. My men want to run and return to the comforts of their wives. But they trust me. They place their lives upon the heavy burden on my shoulders. And now, before the birds can wake up and sing their songs, and before the petal of flowers slowly open to reveal the pistil, we stand. We see our enemies, the glints of their new swords and shields, the scowls upon their faces. They are well fed. They are well armed. They are in high spirits. We are a mere two hundred poorly armed soldiers forced to fight against an entire army of one thousand. Our two archer units can keep them at bay for only so long for our enemy relies on the tactic of rush and charge. They won’t bother to slow down when the arrows begin to rain upon them. They are willing to sacrifice lives in order to get to us. I can hear my soldiers nervously shaking in their now rusted armors. They are scared. The only thing that prevents the sword from falling from their hands is me. I did not ask them to stay. It was their preference. Slowly, one of them held up the coat of arms of our nation. It was torn and tattered in many places, stained by mud and blood. We would fight to the death. It is now up to us. But though they are nervous, a stain of confidence runs through their blood. They volunteered to stay with me because of who I am. I am a High Knight, the second greatest class and title achievable by any soldier in my kingdom. Though I am young, I have devoted my life to perfect my abilities. I am not here by accident nor am I here because I was merely a backup in case the outer defenses would fall. No. My king placed me here because he knew the outer defenses would fall. He placed me here deliberately with two hundred strong men because he knew it was more than enough. And though one thousand men march ahead of me, I fear not of my own life but for my troops. But they trust me completely. And behold, the archers slowly raise their bows, fitting their arrows against the sinew strings. They fight because I am here. My king gave me two hundred men. I only need five. I am a soldier, a warrior, a knight. I am loyal to my king. I have no superiors but him. I am loyal to my men. They are my family. And this is why I stand here. I have no more but a sword in my hand and chain mail over my torso. My king placed me here because he knew something that the enemy did not. He placed me here because I was their best. He placed me here because he knew I was the only person capable of slaughtering them all. There is a saying in my kingdom. It says, “For every action, there is punishment.” I am their chastisement. Once, they have given me the name of Passing Angel. But that is not my true name. My name is Sparda, and I will show not a single ounce of mercy. Chapter 1: Upon the Plains of Poena “Lo! Arrives thus the enemy several leagues ahead.” the soldier cried. Slowly, the mighty star that gave life arose from the far east, giving off its great rays of warmth. The glow it provided revealed the long line of men, standing in a perfect line. They were two hundred strong, armed with rusting armor and dulled swords. Yet, one of them did not stand in unison within the line; rather he stood one step ahead of him at the very center of the great wall of soldiers. Though his attire was somewhat different from that of his soldiers, one could easily tell that they were of the same army. The rusting chain mail covering his torso and the leg guards covering his leg in entirety suggested that he was perhaps of a higher rank, though they were of poor quality. It seemed amazing that a leader would even consider sending such poor equipment to his troops when they would be greatly outnumbered by an army greater than they. Ahead of them, several leagues away, was a great river of soldiers. They were a fearsome army, armed to the teeth with massive shields, long spears, sharp swords, well conditioned armor, arm guards, and leg guards. A few amongst the rankings blew small war horns that gave out strong dragon-like roars that made them a very intimidating force. They marched in unison, stomping on top of the plains creating a thump thump sound which grew louder and louder as they drew nearer. The long line of two hundred men seemed to quiver with fear as they saw what they saw their opposition. It almost seemed that they would drop their weapons at any given second and run back to their homes. But they did not. It seemed that the lone man standing ahead of the line was the string that held the bundle of twigs together. He was a tall soldier with sharp features for someone in the army. He had wild, long, black hair that would have easily covered his eyes had they been combed down properly. But instead, his hair was fashioned into what seemed to be a rogue’s haircut, sticking out in all directions save a few strands which fell over his face. Gripped tightly in his hand was a long decently sized bastard sword that seemed to be the only good conditioned item amongst the entire force. It was lowered, its sharp tip pointing to the grassy ground. The thin chain mail he wore over his very light, tan skin bore a strange coat of arms that seemed to be composted of a half shield, a sword, and an arrow. His dark brown eyes showed not an ounce of fear as they glared straight ahead at the massive swarm that he was sent to disperse. He was breathing steadily though it could be seen that he too was a bit nervous. But his expression remained as it had been before, one of formality and cause. His soldiers seemed to try and imitate their leader but producing results not quite up to par. Now, the massive swarm drew nearer, their dark red armor drawing closer like a river of blood. The leader of the line could see the faces of the front line soldiers: the spear men. They were all scowling with occasionally a few of them showing a sinister grin. They were all well fed and well armed, given the best of supplies that were offered. Another horn sounded off again. It was almost time. One of the soldiers behind the man stepped forward and leaned close to whisper something into his ear. “Sir Sparda…is this the end?” The man identified as Sparda closed his eyes as if contemplating such a delicate question. He slowly opened his somewhat dry lips to reply, “No comrade. It is far from the end.” He seemed satisfied by this answer for a small smile of relief appeared on his face. “Sound the horn. Ready the archers.” Sparda commanded with a soft tone. The soldier nodded and dashed back to the line, retrieving a horn from a pouch that was tied to his waist. With one great blow, the roar of the horn sounded throughout the plains, causing the massive red army to stop. The archers, scattered amongst the line, raised their bows and began fitting the arrows against the hard oak wood and sinew strings. Sir Sparda slowly opened his brown eyes again. He turned around to face his men, his expression one of sadness but fortitude. “We are an army of two hundred sturdy and capable warriors. Yet, they are an even greater army of one thousand well armed. If you wish to leave, then you may go. I will not condemn or punish you in any way.” The soldiers turned to look at their leader but made no attempt to leave. He nodded, as if thanking his comrades before continuing. “Today is not like any other war day. Because today, it is not about some other troop of soldiers fighting under the banner of your great king. Today, it will be you who shall lift up the weapon and fight for the kingdom!” This raised the men’s spirits as they raised their swords up high, screaming in unison, “To Victory!!” “Some of us may die. Not all of us will return to our wives and maidens. But remember this comrade! If you are to die on this faithful day, let it be in the service of your offspring and your empire!” he cried with even greater ferociousness. He now raised his bastard sword high into the air, its tip pointing to the dark blue sky which slowly grew clearer and clearer. “Today, we charge to victory, honor, and death!!” As if this provoked the opposing army, they suddenly dashed forward, sounds of horns blasting from amongst the ranks. Several perfect lines of armed men dashed to the fore as the rest of the multitude followed in assigned groups based on weapon. Yet, even as this occurred, Sparda’s warriors raised their weapons in response to his words before they, as well as Sparda himself, charged forward to meet the enemy head on. Only ten men stayed behind with bows and arrows in their hands. In unanimity, they fired off a grand volley, shooting three arrows at once so that thirty great timber arrows rained downward upon the crimson armored foe. Though several men instantly fell from this volley, they continued to charge relentlessly towards to the now advancing opposition led by their leader who ran ahead of them. Arrows from the black mass were unleashed from the back lines, instantly slaughtering twenty men before they could swing their swords once. Nevertheless, Sparda charged ahead of them, being the first to strike the blow against one of the front spear men. The impact of the two armies was like a wave crashing against a rock during the mid of night. The clashing of the steel swords rung throughout the battlefield as once brave living soldiers fell to their graves upon the soft grassy earth. Sir Sparda and his men became like undomesticated animals, not showing any mercy to the enemy as they swung their swords with skills while the archers continued their volleys of arrows. It was soon apparent that Sparda, as the leader, was the most skilled amongst them all. Holding the bastard steel with just his right hand, he swung his sword from left to right, up and down swiftly and gracefully, allowing its sharp cutting edge to hack through the tough breastplate of the crimson army. One by one, the front javelin men fell to the shadows. Though his men had contributed to the first wave of triumph, it was now very obvious why the king had sent only one of Sparda’s ranks to such a battle: all he needed was Sparda. This quick victory of the front lines caused the rest of the ranks to stop and observe like a group of innocent children crowding over a small baby bird. They had underestimated their enemy but such a blunder would not be repeated again. Sparda’s soldiers rejoiced and raised their swords into the air, joyful that they were still breathing and basking in life. But this celebration was cut short when they saw the entirety of the crimson soldiers charging forward, ready to wipe them out with one passing. Sparda bit his bottom lip as he stood there, knowing that a victory like before was highly unlikely. “This is it…” |
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