Journal
It always sounded like an arrow slamming into the wood.
Keldaryn watched as one of his riders took a halberd to the chest, twisted limbs hurled through the sky and brought crashing down in the earth. He left a great crack in the baked clay, gasping for breath through shattered ribs, barely raising a gnarled hand before the halberd came down again, spraying the satin mask of the enemy like red snow caught in a storm.
The wild crack of magick brought him out of the daydream, burning the edge of his shield. Keldaryn jumped out and rolled, pulling his spear across and under him, as the dark sorcerer chanted his black speech and the sands danced around them.
But Keldaryn was faster and leaped, twisting from the ground, snapping the buckler on his left arm across in a vicious strike through the face. He heard the neck snap under the weight of the blow but continued turning and drove his spear through the spellcaster, all the way up to the fist.
The barren field of the Norvaden Plains swirled in the heat; in the dust and sweat and blood. The hours rolled together into one, big ball. It was hard to even remember where they were anymore, let alone when it had started.
The sounds drowned each other out; phantoms in the dark. He braced his foot against his fallen enemy and pulled his weapon free. Keldaryn turned to see several of his men still mounted on their steeds. He no longer had such a luxury, having lost his horse in the intial rush. It had taken several arrows.
It was his first kill of the day and the only one of mercy.
Lake Akellan had been the agreed border for more than a generation. The Dark Men had known that when they came here. They had armed themselves, and made an army, but to what purpose? To what end? Keldaryn would never understand humans. They only seemed to understand ambition; nothing more now than black stains on red earth. It was a massacre.
Somewhere above, the ravens sang a song.
They had to burn the bodies. By nightfall the ghul would come and feast on the dead, or the poor souls too injured to live but too strong to die. No enemy deserved that.
This was no war. In the east, this was life.
As one, they all cheered.
Keldaryn watched as one of his riders took a halberd to the chest, twisted limbs hurled through the sky and brought crashing down in the earth. He left a great crack in the baked clay, gasping for breath through shattered ribs, barely raising a gnarled hand before the halberd came down again, spraying the satin mask of the enemy like red snow caught in a storm.
The wild crack of magick brought him out of the daydream, burning the edge of his shield. Keldaryn jumped out and rolled, pulling his spear across and under him, as the dark sorcerer chanted his black speech and the sands danced around them.
But Keldaryn was faster and leaped, twisting from the ground, snapping the buckler on his left arm across in a vicious strike through the face. He heard the neck snap under the weight of the blow but continued turning and drove his spear through the spellcaster, all the way up to the fist.
The barren field of the Norvaden Plains swirled in the heat; in the dust and sweat and blood. The hours rolled together into one, big ball. It was hard to even remember where they were anymore, let alone when it had started.
The sounds drowned each other out; phantoms in the dark. He braced his foot against his fallen enemy and pulled his weapon free. Keldaryn turned to see several of his men still mounted on their steeds. He no longer had such a luxury, having lost his horse in the intial rush. It had taken several arrows.
It was his first kill of the day and the only one of mercy.
Lake Akellan had been the agreed border for more than a generation. The Dark Men had known that when they came here. They had armed themselves, and made an army, but to what purpose? To what end? Keldaryn would never understand humans. They only seemed to understand ambition; nothing more now than black stains on red earth. It was a massacre.
Somewhere above, the ravens sang a song.
They had to burn the bodies. By nightfall the ghul would come and feast on the dead, or the poor souls too injured to live but too strong to die. No enemy deserved that.
This was no war. In the east, this was life.
As one, they all cheered.