The Battle of Graywolf

The Battle of Graywolf

He rounded the corner and he saw it. Below him there stood miles of soldiers. Their banners of blood red were in stark contrast to the blue of the ice that surrounded them; their black uniforms distinct against the thick layer of white snow. His men were not prepared for a battle of this scale, but there was no escaping it.

He turned around into the fire-lit stone room of the tower, where he looked to the commanders of his army; their faces flickered with light as the torches blazed. “Ready the troops,” he finally said. “They are here.” As he spoke, the room grew bright, and the air filled with the sound of flying arrows outside of the fortress. He ran down to the battlement, where he looked down upon the clashing of weapons; the battle had begun. Already prepared for combat, he trudged down the tower stairs and mounted his horse. He unsheathed his sword and rode into the chaos, slashing towards the enemy forces; the blood of men and beasts alike stained the snow red. The cold wind stung his face like needles, frost forming in his beard. He rode the galloping creature forwards, seemingly leaving the war far below him. Then, he saw him. Standing in the thick of battle, yet unengaged, staring into his eyes: the man he had trained, the monster he had created.

“Marcus.” He whispered, dismounting his horse.

“Tirannius, you remember me? I’m honored.” He glared and spoke sarcastically.

“You could have been so much more.” Tirannius said, walking towards him.

“Oh, but I am…”

“We shall see,” Tirannius responded grimly, reaching for his sword; pulling it from its scabbard with a firm grip, gritting his teeth as Marcus mirrored his actions. “Goodbye, old friend.” Marcus spoke with a hateful mock of sincerity. “That friend is dead,” Tirannius replied, “You killed him, just as I am about to kill you.”

Tirannius stepped forward and in one masterful swing brought his sword down towards his enemy’s head,
which was quickly blocked. The battle raged around them. “You forget, Tirannius, you taught me everything you know.”

“Not everything.” Tirannius made an attack that was immediately countered. Marcus swung, which Tirannius swiftly blocked with a side-swing. The swords scraped steel and separated, Marcus made for another attack, Tirannius countered, Marcus twisted his sword and forced a blow to Tirannius’s jaw with his hilt. Grasping for air, spitting blood, Tirannius stepped back. “Are you done already?” Marcus asked.

“I have only just begun.” Tirannius ran at Marcus fueled with rage. Their swords met, and they came to a pause. Blood surrounded them. The air was thick with the screams of the dying, the blades of the killing, and the crackle of flames. The frozen air pierced them. Tirannius pushed with all of his might, his sword touching Marcus’s face; cutting deep, making a gash next to his eye from which blood began to flow. Marcus removed one hand from his hilt, and reached for his dagger.