>For Coronas! Long live the Silver Princes!
The harquebusiers of Coronas fire, the crack of gunpowder echoing off the ridges of the Ironbone mountains in the distance.
Immediately, the Schenburgi formation leaps into action, marching with haste down their side of the small rift between the hills. In response, the Coronan forces move to meet them in the depression below.
There's a loud clash as the two armies meet, the sound of thousands of throats yelling out wordless war cries.
The General of the Coronans, a man by the name of Vene Da Sole, extends a hand as he watches his army clash with the Schenburg troops. His aide passes him his lance, and without giving thanks (for the aide is far below his station,) he rides swiftly down the hill into the melee.
His lance spears two men before shattering into splinters, but that was expected, and it was too long for the mess of things anyhow. Meeting up with his cavalry, Da Sole takes the point of a triangle-shaped formation, and the cavalry circle out of the thick of the melee and attempt to strike from the side.
The Schenburgi cavalry is attempting the same, however, and the two meet with a clash. Da Sole rides swift through the combat, striking at opportune moments to free up his men to fight the more numerous Shenburgi. But out of nowhere, a young cavalryman in hand-me-down bronze rides in from the left with a spear in hand, and drives the point into Da Sole's steed. The horse's death whinny is drowned out by the sound of combat as Da Sole drops off and rolls to the side to avoid being crushed.
He flips his sword over to parry a blow from his mounted opponent, who circles his horse back while turning to keep his spear facing Da Sole. He dismounts swiftly, well aware of the numerous battles around him that have yet to notice their generals danger.
Drawing a sword, the young Cavalryman comes at Da Sole again. But Da Sole is on his feet, and lashes out before the Cavalryman can strike, his blade dipping low, below his opponents defenses. The cavalryman scrambles back, forsaking balance in return for his intestines, and Da Sole presses his advantage.
Leaping forward, he strikes out as if fencing, cutting weakly to the diagonal. The cavalryman parries easily, but Da Sole's intention was not to hit, but to force his opponents sword up and wide. In a flash of steel, the sword strikes from the opposite angle, and the cavalryman is defensive once again, only barely managing to keep his skin unbroken, by such a hair that one of his armor straps is severed.
Seeming to know he is out of his league, the Cavalryman tries to get some distance, and Da Sole allows him a brief respite, taking the time to perfect his stance instead, and check on the larger battle, which is turning in the Coronans favor.
Suddenly, a loud horn blows, the call for a ceasefire. As the sound of steel unexpectedly dies down, Da Sole flies into a rage.
“Chi ha chiesto un cessate il fuoco? Non io! Che sciocco presume che egli è generale?” He screams. And yet, the armies are still.
Da Sole notices that both armies are paying him no heed. Something has appeared on a far hill. Whipping out his spyglass, he spots what his aide did moments before, and with it comes the sudden, chilling knowledge of why the ceasefire was called.
“Del Sangue...” he murmurs.
The figure is not that far away, the third hill being only so positioned as to split the small valley. In fact, such was the source of the name for Sever Hill. It was higher than either of the nameless hills used as campsites for the armies of the warring states, but not so high as to block the vision of the young woman who so calmly stood upon it.
But of more interest than the woman herself was the artifact she wielded. Even for those in the valley, the distinctive shape of a scythe was plain to see, and the mottled Elderwood handle was too long for a simple farming scythe. Nor was the head appropriate for the simple task of cutting grain, made of fine Orcish steel and serrated with vicious teeth. Three blood holes completed the head, and signified a artifact so dangerous no-one would dare to try to make a fake.
“E 'un Negromante! Ha conseguito Falciare della Morte!” Cries Da Sole in pure terror. Death's Scythe. A weapon so powerful that the enchantments and techniques used to shape it had been tossed not down one volcanic crater, but torn apart and tossed into several, along with the shapers themselves. A scythe which could reap souls as easily as grain, ripping them from the bodies of their owners to add to the weapons own power.
Not that a necromancer was to be trifled with even without the scythe. The petty armies mustered by Coronas and Schenburg numbered almost twenty thousand in all, and yet...
Both generals quickly called for a retreat, but it was too late. The woman was down the hill in seconds, propelled by some sort of magic, and the men barely had time to turn and draw up a defense. There were no more banners, now, only pure survival.
Da Sole watches the woman rip into his troops.
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Topic: Necromancer: A prologue (Read 8249 times)