Brethren - Chapter One

Brethren - Chapter 1

Darkness and silence. Balael Arteminas opened his eyes to find himself in the middle of a vast orange plain. Before him the expanse stretched on into a red haze, deeper than blood. A dry, biting wind assailed his face, stinging his eyes. Looking down, he found himself clad in full armour, dulled by the dusty air and sapping light. A strong warhorse bore him aloft its steady back, awaiting his command. He kicked the animal lightly in one side, and it turned to its rear with no further duress. At what had been his back there stood arrayed a great Warhost, some seven thousand strong, and the sounds of an army prepared for bloodshed suddenly made themselves known.

A great resounding roar tore its way from Balael’s throat, and the ground shook with the sound of a devoted legion echoing their general’s war cry. He found himself speaking in the harsh and imperious tones of one whose words could mean the difference between life and loss.

“Hear me warriors of greatest Dasca, for these are the words you will carry with you to the slaughter! Before you marches fellness itself, and it is with the strength of steel and the light of honour that such black….”

He knew the words before they left his lips. He knew the place. He knew the battle. He knew the dream, for it was one that often played upon his mind in the dark hours. But he would gladly play the part; gladly relive the glory of one of so many days of bloodshed. Balael Arteminas dreamt only of war, and it soothed his soul in times of peace.

He knew what awaited him when he turned back to face the haze of blood, but still it filled his heart with the clamorous beating of battle, and his veins with the broiling nectar of a wrathful God.

Seemingly from the air itself there emerged in the distance a black wall of snarling enmity, a brooding, charged front line, seething with violent intent. The demon horde fell upon the remaining distance with terrifying speed, sinewy limbs propelling fang and claw and hateful eye.

Balael reached behind him and grasped tight the cold hilt of his blade. This was what he had lived for back then, the feel of crafted steel in his palm, the chorus of battle and the speed of the charge. He was older now, and a serenity had been instilled in him in his waking hours by seven years of peace. The sounds of battle were nevertheless slow to fade in his ears, and it was in his dreams that the warrior within fought on relentlessly, an echo of the past that would never rest, and would never wish to.

The clawing wind carried the snarls of the advancing demons to Balael’s ears as though with purpose to enrage him. His warhorse began to grow unsettled, but remained in its place. The general let the anger wash over him, enter in to him and affect him profoundly, inside and out. His muscles grew tense, his eyes wide and his teeth clenched. Deep within his armoured chest a younger heart than the one he now possessed began to pulsate more vigorously, preparing for the limits it would soon be pushed to.

Balael raised his blade high above his head, and in a slow, fluid and purposeful arc lowered the blade forward until its still gleaming edge announced the charge. He always found the moment just before the blade edge became fully horizontal an immense thrill. The power surge of command was never more completely realised than at that moment, when the lives of thousands were held in the unknown by decree of the smallest movement.

The surge of movement behind him was immense. The sound of hooves was deafening, and as Balael’s own mount shot forward, he felt as though he rode upon the crest of a gargantuan wave, both empowered by it and at its mercy. For Balael this was always the sensation of leading a charge.

As the two surging masses neared one another, Balael recalled what happened next. He would pick out the hulking mass of the fell Warlord in command of the demon horde, bedecked in dark bronze, a cruel wreath of skulls about his neck. He would raise his sword in challenge, and their paths would lock, the demon lord breaking free from the pack to meet him head on before the clashing of the front lines. There, like bolts of lightning from duelling storms the two would bring steel together, announced by golden sparks and the piercing wail of sword upon sword.
They would circle, Balael weeping red from his shoulder and the demon less an eye. Again they would clash, this time without speed to protect them, and the sound of the demon’s head falling to the dusty earth would be utterly lost in the thunderous cacophony of battle that would erupt as the two armies collided.

But something was wrong.

Balael could see the demonic general, just as he had before. Still there was something amiss, something in the way in the way he moved.

His line was different; he had veered slightly to the right, off target. Balael felt a sharp chill move up his spine. This was wrong.

Shaken by the sudden change in narrative, Balael began to slowly correct his line, directing his horse to intercept. He raised his sword in challenge, just as he had done so many times before. Still the warlord curved away from him, his angle growing sharper, his speed increasing as he spurred his dark steed onward. Balael drove his heels hard into the solid flanks of his own mount, felt the sting of dust and sand as his horse exerted its full power upon the ground. As the two generals paths grew closer, Balael roared words of challenge at his enemy.

“Fight me, fiend! Bring your sword against mine!”

The warlord ignored his cries, seemingly fixated on the path ahead.

“Fight me!!” Balael bellowed, incensed by the strange actions of his opponent.
It was then that the demon turned his head, slowly and with menace, casting foul yellowed eyes upon Balael as he rode. There was something knowing in those eyes, some dark and secret intent that made Balael’s blood turn to ice. As the demon’s gaze returned to the front, Balael followed their line, and the site that met him tore his soul from his body and wet his cheeks with wind-beaten tears.

Two figures stood upon the bright earth, dressed in calming blues. One was a woman, slim and striking, pale skinned and black of hair. At her feet played a small child, a girl of no more than three years. There they stood, oblivious to the threat around them, eyes and ears in another place, another time. A time Balael knew, in which he slept and dreamed, lived and breathed. Balael wept to see his family here, in so dark a place, though it was day. At that moment the general in him fell back, and the father and the husband came forth to fight alone, scared as they were. A new anger took hold, one born of fear, of a life unravelling before his eyes. Why were they here? For twenty years Balael had dreamt of nothing but bloodshed, but only now did he feel truly in danger, truly at the point of a sword.

Now that sword was held in the hand of a dead general, a demon whose goal seemed not to kill him, but to destroy him utterly, to nullify his very being. The armies had gone, vanished into the dust and glare of their own advance; only he remained.

Time seemed to have slowed for Balael, but for his enemy it had quickened, until the latter seemed a sickening blur of darkness and death. He felt powerless, weak and frail, old. Why was this happening? What had changed? He needed to wake up; it was too much for him to bear, even in dream.

Suddenly, the demon was upon them, sword raised high in the shimmering air.
“No!!” screamed Balael, his voice hoarse, his eyes red.

The sword began to descend, but again it was Balael at whom the demon cast its wicked gaze. It burned his heart, to see such unstoppable malice, such joyful hatred, such relish in so dark a deed. What was this for? Why only now, after all these years, did his dreams reflect the fear he held in his heart for his family’s safety?

The blade scythed through the air. Time had slowed once more, as though forcing him to experience every painful detail. Perhaps he had died as he slept, and this was his punishment for a life of bloodshed. Perhaps this was what being a spirit was like. Or perhaps….

His wife turned around, suddenly aware of the peril that loomed before her. His daughter looked up, eyes filling with tears, hands grasping at her mother’s legs.
Perhaps….

Balael wept bitterly, mind struggling, grasping at the realization.
Perhaps….

He fell to his knees.
A warning?

Cruel steel carved through flesh and bo….