Side Story – Blackwater Crisis VI

Side Story – Blackwater Crisis VI

King Solomon had only just returned to his castle, and yet he was swamped with paperwork. Though he had gained a great deal of influence through the war, he had to immerse himself in the various matters of the Royal Court, capitalising on the influence.

A King’s work was never done, after all.

“The drakken have become strangely quiet,” Master Whiteheart said. He was the brother of the Lord of Westfort, and held a seat on the council. He, along with the relatives of the other Lords and Ladies of the various forts, remained at the capital city to act as one of the council members, who would look after the Kingdom’s issues whilst the King was at war and assist him in running the Kingdom during times of peace.

“Do we know why?” Solomon asked. He had expected them to grow quiet, but to not contact them either?

“We believe they’re fighting between one another,” The Queen replied, taking her place beside the King. She was tasked to keep an eye on the council members, taking on the King’s role when he was at war, so the King had no worries about the various advisers acting up, but she would remain on the council when he returned for a short while to assist.

“The Iyrmen’s doing?” Solomon assumed, tapping his finger on the table edge, feeling it’s hard wood.

“We aren’t certain,” Whiteheard said. “Lady Blackheart is not entirely forthcoming with the matters beyond the fort.”

“Lady Blackheart is more than willing to allow any of your soldiers beyond the wall to check for themselves,” Master Blackheart said, smiling. “Shall I send a messenger bird to let the good Lady know the soldiers of Westfort, who have been behind the walls since the beginning of the war instead of in the rest snow of battle, are to arrive soon?”

“There is no need for that,” Master Whiteheart said, smiling innocently. “Our soldiers are still to defend against the orcs on the other side of the mountain.” The mountain which cut right through the orc’s lands and the drakken’s lands.

“Indeed,” Blackheart said. “I recall Lord Whiteheart is not entirely forthcoming with the matters beyond the wall.”

“We will need to prepare for Daegyar and Rogryaen,” the King interrupted. The two always bickered with one another, and he would need to stop them from acting up.

“Shall we first throw a celebration?” Master Blueheart asked, admiring the two men as they fought one another. Master Blueheart’s influence on the council was perhaps second to the King, considering the role her family played with trade on the seas. “We will raise the coin required, if the King is willing to accept.”

“We will throw a celebration to lift the people’s spirits,” King Solomon said. “Since the North has been at war, their contribution will be decreased, and it will be picked up by the other four regions.” He was not willing to accept Blueheart’s offer, for it would have been too awkward to gift her more favours.

“We will set forth the budget, your Grace.” Master Redheart smiled, rubbing a gold coin with her thumb.

Blackheart to the North, Whiteheart to the West, Blueheart to the East, and Redheart to the South. These Hearts were those who were the Lords of their own regions, and were the keys to the success of his grandfather’s time.

Whiteheart descended from Bronwyn the White, a man who wore pure white armour, and carried with him a blade equally as white. He had been tasked with Westfort, to fight against the orcs.

Blueheart descended from Sea Queen Joriel, someone who was distantly related to the current King, and was in charge of the second largest city after the capital, as well as the sea to the east. She took command of the fleet, making sure the east and south were safe on the seas.

Redheart descended from Fargo the Blood Sword, who was the first to bend the knee, before assisting in conquering the Sea Queen. Redheart would keep the south safe from the savages.

Each were his greatest threats, and equally, his greatest allies.

“Once the Iyrmen return, we should reward them.” The King tapped his fingers on the table further, trying to think.

“Isn’t the fight a good enough reward?” Whiteheart asked. He was familiar with the Iyrmen, considering how many times their ancestors had clashed in the past. His family was perhaps the most familiar with the Iyrmen, who were the greatest threat to their south, whereas the orcs were the greatest threat to their north. Their home was safe between the mountains, cut off from the other regions by the giant mountain range, and Westfort was the only place they could be assaulted with any real efficacy. As such, the King had the least amount of influence in the West.

“Even the Iyrmen know the value of gold,” King Solomon said, noting the look in Whiteheart’s eyes. “It’s a good idea to keep them on our side.”

“We should reward them with a portion of the dragon,” Whiteheart offered, jabbing at the King.

“No,” King Solomon said, obviously. “They will keep whatever loot they manage to find. If we skimp them on battle loot, they may be less likely to send decent aid in the future.”

“They must send a hundred men, as part of the treaty, regardless,” Whiteheart said.

“As per the treaty,” Blueheart added, whose people had never faced the Iyrmen.

“Yes, but they could easily send a hundred of their weakest, and then we would have lost a great power.”

“As you wish, your Grace.” Whiteheart smiled, retreating from the matter.

King Solomon didn’t like the smile, but he knew that Whiteheart wouldn’t start any trouble for the moment, not while the King had won the war. “We still need their help, in case any of the savages of the south begin to act up, or the giants wish for another war,” the King’s eyes fell to Whiteheart’s, “or the orcs decide to attack.”

“Of course, your Grace.” Whiteheart bowed his head once more. The King was revealing just how much faith he was putting in the Iyrmen, outsiders. Such information would be quite demoralising to the people, as well as shameful for the other Hearts of the region. The Kingdom was still new, and as such, was still able to be broken, piece by piece.

It was around that time the drakken, many miles to the north, were crying out with joy.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” cried the drakken, who had taken over several villages and outposts nearby. They had forced the weary villagers and soldiers to surrender and join their resistance, or to die in battle.

However, the mood between the Royal Guards and the Iyrman was chillier than the fresh snow falling from above.

The loss of Charles, who provided much needed light, had caused a rift between the party, especially after the disagreement between whether to cremate him or bury him. Iyrmen were buried, but the Royal Guard were cremated. Akrat gave in, as he had not known Charles for as long, but he had passed the story of Charles through the drakken, who would continue to sing it.

Akrat sipped the drakken ale, feeling the burn in his throat. He remained standing alone, atop the watch tower. He looked all across the landscape, illuminated by the star light. He thought for a long moment, dragged down by Charles’ death, and his story.

“It still bothers you,” Captain Kendrick said from below, leaning back against the wall. He sipped some drakken ale, coughing immediately afterwards.

“No,” Akrat said, still sipping the drakken ale, which burnt at his throat. “It is no bother.”

Kendrick chuckled. “No bother, huh?” He continued to drink the fiery ale. “When I first met Charles, I didn’t particularly like him. I know what the Commander was doing when he sent these idiots to me. Even so, they’ve grown on me the past few years.” He had finished mourning for his companions.

“I heard the tale of what happened to his family, to his brother. George told me.”

“Nasty business,” Kendrick said, shaking his head. “Politics.”

“I did not know that your people did such things to one another. To scheme and plot, to take over the family’s land.” Akrat shook his head. “The land of the Iyr belongs to all Iyrmen.”

“Belongs to all, huh? Then how are you going to live in peace?” Kendrick still wasn’t used to the Iyrman.

“By spilling blood.”

“So you also slay one another for land? Then what’s the difference between you and I?”

“No, we don’t do that,” Akrat said, leaning back to look at him, his brow raised. “We Iyrmen don’t kill one another.”

“You just said.”

“No.” Akrat stared down at him. “If anyone wishes to war with the Iyr, we will slay them. We Iyrmen don’t kill one another.”

“Ah, well, that’s not what I was asking.” Kendrick drank more of his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I meant, what happens if an Iyrman becomes an adult and wants a house.”

“They must make a request, or earn it through battle or coin,” Akrat replied, simply.

“What if they want a house belonging to another.”

George continued to struggle in the creature’s grip, but he felt something grab at his ankle. He looked down to see Akrat, who had found a safe place for Bili, and was climbing up using George’s armour as they flew over the wall.

“I am Akrat, son of Ikrat!” Akrat exclaimed, wrapping his legs around George’s chest, and he grabbed for his sword. “I have come for you, Daegyar!” He stabbed the creature, forcing his blade through it.

Daegyar’s scream echoed through the mountain range, and it was the last thing some of them heard before they died, and it dropped the pair of them. They tumbled off the other side of the mountain, before landing at a large clearing of rock.

Akrat roared like a tiger, leaping into action right away. Daegyar had landed, and was turning to try and blast the Iyrman with its breath, but the maelstrom of death was upon him.

Akrat’s blade pierced through its scales, digging in deep as it splattered wet crimson all over him. “Yes!” he exclaimed, tasting the blood. The excitement was too much for him, and he couldn’t resist the allure of the dragon. “I will take it! That heart of yours!” He howled with laughter.

‘Of course it just had to be a damn Iyrman!’ Daegyar felt the blade in its side, but it spun wildly, striking Akrat with its massive tail.

Akrat coughed as he was struck, slamming up against the rocks at the side. He looked up to see Daegyar bearing its mighty claw down upon George, whose shield barely managed to block the blow, though George was slowly being crushed underneath its great strength.

George grit his teeth, glancing aside for a moment to see the blur that was Akrat, who leapt onto the back of the dragon, driving his blade in deep once again.

“You damn Iyrman!” Daegyar turned its head, only to feel the death magics of the medic invade through his scales again.

“Akrat!” George exclaimed, filling the Iyrman with his healing strength. “Careful!” George’s magic had its limits, and he only had a single gem to bring back one person immediately from a fight.

“I will slay you today!” Akrat’s heart pounded wildly, filled with the excitement of battle. All he could see was the dragon, and in this moment, he aimed slay it. George was here, and he would claim the tale as his too, and the others would soon arrive.

The dragon snapped at Akrat, biting into his thigh, but it gave Akrat the chance to dig his blade into its eye. Daegyar flung Akrat aside, swallowing his blood as the world went black to his left. “You! How dare you cut into my eye! You scum! You’re nothing before me!”

George dove over to Akrat, grabbing at his chest. “Oh, Lady of Life, fill my companion with life,” he prayed, filling Akrat with more strength.

Akrat inhaled deeply, renewed by the magics which filled him, before he flexed his muscles, his rage pumping through his heart. He leapt back onto his feet and roared, gripping his blade tightly.

‘I need to make sure he stays alive,’ George thought, knowing he’d die if the Iyrman fell. As long as Akrat was alive, there would still be hope. Hope that Charles’ death wasn’t in vain. ‘This time, this time I won’t abandon you.’

“Die!” Akrat darted to the dragon, who aimed to slay the Iyrman with its tail, but the orcish Iyrman leapt over it, stabbing it where the tail met its body, sinking deep into its thick scales, drawing dark blood.

George followed into the fray, filling them with magical might. He couldn’t remain too far away, otherwise the dragon would come for him, and he wouldn’t be able to heal Akrat with his greater magic. The safest place in this battle was beside the dragon, for at least the Iyrman would be there.

The dragon blasted the pair with poison, which filled their lungs. George coughed up blood, finding his vision fading. He brought up his shield to block the blow of the dragon’s tail, skidding aside, though his bones were quivering.

All the while, Akrat attacked, like a savage beast. He could feel it, his heart pumping wildly to try and assist him in slaying the creature. Akrat was spitting up blood, his veins bulging as the poison invaded his body. Yet, each time he was about to welcome the blackness of death, he felt a strong hand against his back, filling him with greater strength.

“Come!” Akrat exclaimed. “Come Daegyar!”

The dragon focused its attention the Iyrman, who shielded the priestly warrior with his body. He whittled them both away, slowly, but even he could feel the heaviness set within his giant body.

The hand at Akrat’s back became softer, before Daegyar finally let out another blast of poison, which set deep inside Akrat’s lungs. He coughed up blood, his eyes rolling back into his skull, but the hand propped him up, and he was filled with vitality.

“Coward! Come back and fight!” Akrat exclaimed, before hearing a clang behind him. He turned, seeing George on his knees before him, his hands laying loosely on the ground beside his knees.

His face was dark, veins a purple black, with blood dripping out of his eyes, ears, and lips. His breath did not come to him. “Akrat,” came the ragged breath, blood dripping further down his chin and onto his armour.

“George!” Akrat could hear the form of Daegyar flee, away from the nightmares that were the two men, leaving a trail of blood to follow. The Iyrman dropped down in front of George, grabbing onto his cheeks.

George couldn’t even see the Iyrman, but hearing the muffled voice, and feeling the hot hands on his cold cheeks, caused him to smile. ‘He’s still alive.’

Akrat had thought George was safe behind him. He had his healing magic, but the Iyrman hadn’t realised it had all been sent to him as the man slowly died behind him.

“Take good care of....” George’s life faded from his eyes, but the smile did not.

Just like that, he died.

Akrat stared at the face for a long while, seeing the smile, the bloodshot eyes, the sickened skin which had been beset by the poison.

“George! Akrat!” called John. “George! Akrat!” When the forms finally appeared over the mountain top, it was revealed to be John, Bili, and the two other young drakken, as well as three of the five older drakken who hadn’t fallen. John walked over, seeing the gruesome form of George. “By the gods...”

“Where are Captain Kendrick and the others?” Akrat asked, not having turned to face them. He had heard the steps and counted each one.

“What happened to George?” John asked, looking at their dead companion. He almost dropped to a knee, sick in the stomach. ‘He’s dead?’

“Where are they?” Akrat repeated. He knew John had a healthy set of eyes, so of course he’d know what happened.

“They,” John blinked repeatedly, trying to remember why they had separated, “went down to find Randal and Timothy.”

“What happened?”

“They fell.”

Akrat remained focused on George for a long moment. His cool skin filled him with a sickness. “Stay here,” he said. “The dragon will not return.” With that, he left the group, heading out to find the others.

John turned to the drakken, fighting the quiver at his lips. “Take watch,” he said to the others. He had no idea what else to tell them. He knelt down beside George, sweet George, who had always treated them kindly.

Akrat found them, Kendrick, the guide and another drakken soldier, looming over a pair of bodies. An unconscious Timothy lay atop Randal, whose arms were wrapped around Timothy protectively, his head propped up by a rock, wet with blood.

“Randal’s gone,” Kendrick said, finally speaking for the first time in a while. “He leapt after Timothy, grabbing her as she fell. She’s unconscious, but with George’s healing, she’ll be as good as gold.” His jaw was set together, his eyes steeled.

Akrat’s face twitched into anger for just a moment, and he clenched his fists. “George is dead.”

Kendrick had heard the words, but he dared not to look at Akrat. If an Iyrman said it, it must have been true, but for the moment, he couldn’t accept the death of two of his companions, not this quickly.

“We fought Daegyar,” Akrat said. “The dragon fled, heavily wounded. He did not shame his family.” He had to say the words, for he had witnessed it.

Kendrick remained looking at Randal for a long moment, then at Timothy’s face. He couldn’t blame Akrat, who had almost died to save George when he couldn’t. He turned to face Akrat, his eyes burning. “At least he did not die alone.”

“No,” Akrat said. “Iyrmen do not die alone.”

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Okay so this chapter and next chapter are chunky bois.

I have cried so many times writing these chapters. Hopefully it won't be too depressing for too long! =)

This side story is taking a lot out of me, so I hope you're enjoying it! Please don't forget to favourite and rate and comment!