The Lost Raven

Chapter 4

The sun beat down onto blackened patches of land with a cruel gaze that stretched into the last of the fallen domain. The ashen fields were spread far, but not as far as many had thought as the black sea found its final stop at an army that encroached every closer over the lands they had torn apart.

Mangled forms of creatures boiled, twisted, and overgrown with sickly gold complexions. They marched in droves of thousands, their pikes and spears cluttered and shook with every step. At the head of the army marched the last of their great rulers, the last to call the name of the dark god with pride.

"Khalad-e-Vilkarin," the voice of one of the creatures called to the black rider. "Heljal is approaching from the west. Scouts say he marches with three thousand. Weak and few."

The rider then gave a breathless word through her steel mask in a tongue none would ever speak again. Her words flowed through with a poisoned kiss, like a dagger in the wind.

"Yes, Mistress," the creature turned to the army. "We march in pursuit! Death to Heljal!"

The command echoed throughout the army as several other captains repeated the order. Their army of five thousand marched ahead as the ground shook under their feet. The rider felt the choking sensation fade away as she left the darkened lands. The sound of the ground being crushed under their feet filled the air and they approached their prey.

Vilka, the last of her sisters, now rode with what little she had left. Her forces had been pushed far from their old territory with her command now being undermined. These five thousand were all that remained of her servants, of her warriors. She would take them and deliver one final blow against her enemies. Their strength would be enough, and her might would crush any to stand in her way. After all, she was Khalad-e-Vilkarin, the Undefeated.

Their horns echoed out like the roars of a dragon and the rumbles of the soldiers thundered away at the earth like a lion to its prey. The enemy forces soon came into view as they slithered over the hill. Heljal was a young fool, and a green king with the roots of an elder. Victory had spoilt the boy, but not Vilka. Defeat had humbled her instead.

She unsheathed her sword and let the steel ring to the skies. Her army growled with anticipation as she pointed the blade forward. Her unholy voice gave the order through her grey mask, and her forces charged. They ran with the strength of a mountain as they smashed into the front of the young king's army.

The infantry bashed into the frontline defense of the enemy's vanguard, but held strong. The horns blew out again, and the army pushed harder. They shouted and screamed as steel clashed and blood poured onto the grassy plains. Then came the sound of drums, another rumble that caused the ground to shudder and shake just as they had caused it to.

From the right flank, from over the twisted hills, came the sea of knights that poured over like a great wave. At their front rode out the young Orion, the Arkel Brightarch. He drew his blue blade that shot out with a spark of lightning that zapped out into the sky, and he took the name of his goddess.

"For Mulvari!" he shouted.

The call was heard in unison, and their cavalry pierced into the right flank. Hundreds of horses tore into the side of the army as their spears ripped into the skulls and bodies of Vilka's servants. She heard them cry in horror as a thousand were cut down. Her voice spoke out in her twisted tongue, and her captain heard the call.

"Retreat!" he shouted.

Vilka turned her horse as the army began to flee. Her five thousand was smashed into nearly half its size. They stood no chance, so they ran. Her soldiers ran with her order as she led them back, but her enemy was in tow. Heljal and Orion would see her dead.