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Reaper Sigma -> A Call to Arms (5/29/2010 16:29:18)
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“Hey Aron!” Cyrus yelled. “How’s the crop this year?”
“Springing up like dandelions,” the farmer yelled back from the field of wheat.
“That mean we’ll be getting honey cakes soon?”
Aron chuckled loudly. “Anna’s gathering honey right now. She’ll be back with a few jars by sundown.”
Cyrus smiled. He gently nudged his horse, Greymane. He complied, trotting forwards.
A young man in his early twenties, Cyrus was a brown haired youth that always had a smile on his face. But his kind exterior belied a troubled past.
As a young boy, he and his brother, Orion, lost their parents to wild wolves while on a picnic in the forest. Their father, a skilled hunter, fought off the wolves with his dagger while he and Orion, their mother already dead, ran back to the village. When they returned, they told the village what had happened. A search party went to see if his father survived, only to find his parents’ bloodied corpses. Only two things were found intact. The hunting dagger Cyrus’ father used, stained with wolf blood, and a ring his mother wore. Orion was given the dagger, and Cyrus wore the ring on a chain around his neck.
Ever since that day, they lived by themselves, with no living relatives to care for them. Cyrus became a woodcutter, while his brother became a hunter.
Cyrus’ stomach growled, reminding him that it was close to dinner. He nudged Greymane again, eager to get home. The thought of steak and bread entered his mind, making his mouth water.
***
As Cyrus approached the village, he found a crowd gathered in the streets. The voices drifted in the air, and he caught several words of it.
“Who is he?” one asked. “What’s he talking about?”
“Forget that!” another said. “Look at him! We need to get this man to the healer.”
Cyrus dismounted and made his way to the front of the throng. Lying on the ground, in a small pool of blood, was a man. He wore thick, steel armor and a helm made in the likeness of an eagle. On the center of the breastplate, the emblem of a griffon coiled around an hourglass was embellished in golden metal.
The symbol of Eralin, Land of the East.
The knight slowly rolled his head towards Cyrus. His face reminded of his father, so much that he wanted to look away. But he mustered his strength and kept his emotions in check. He knelt by the man’s side, his hand reaching out to touch the insignia on his armor.
Suddenly, the man grabbed hold of Cyrus’ arm. He tried to pull away, but the soldier spoke in a loud, commanding voice.
“Hold!”
Immediately, Cyrus froze. The authority the man had ordered him with somehow told him that this was no regular knight.
“Why have you not taken up arms?” the knight asked him sternly, though with an effort. “All Eralinin males that are of age must go to war. Why do you not fight?”
Cyrus jerked his arm free from the man’s grasp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not Eralinin. And why is Eralin calling men to the army anyways?”
“Fool!” the man yelled with such ferocity that Cyrus stepped back a pace. “Only the deaf or blind do not know what is happening. War is upon us. War between Eralin and Aranc. War between the East and the West.”
The crown gasped. Many of the villagers began to talk amongst themselves again, panicking.
“War in the East and the West? Impossible! Too many lives were taken from the last war, the royal families know better!”
“We’re going to die! The armies will battle all across the lands, even in the North and South! They will even battle here!”
“You’re all idiots!” a particularly irritable villager screamed.
“Enough!” Cyrus hollered. A hush fell over the crowd. All were focused on him as he spoke.
“We aren’t going to die. Eralin and Aranc have warred ever since they were founded. The Third Great War even founded this village, when refugees from both countries came to hide from the armies. We are far north, away from their reaches. We’ve lived unaffected by the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Great Wars, though the Seventh sent a few more refugees into the village. We’ll be fine.”
“Did you not hear me?” the knight questioned, getting to his feet. He stumbled, and Cyrus caught him as he fell.
“All of Eralin has been rallied,” he hissed. “Our army is now millions strong, as is Aranc’s. This is not simply another Great War. This is the Great War. The Eighth; the one that shall destroy the West or the East.”
Suddenly, the soldier clutched his side, stifling a cry.
“What do you mean?” Cyrus asked him. “The West and the East have stood for thousands of years. Neither can be destroyed!”
The man did not answer. The young woodcutter checked for a pulse. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt a heartbeat. Slow, but beating.
“Get this man to the healer,” he said to a nearby villager. “I must go to the council.”
***
One of the councilors slammed his fist on the wooden table.
“Preposterous!” he shouted. “This man is clearly delusional. We cannot trust anything he says!”
“I object,” another council member protested. “The man came in full armor, with a wound from a blade. We cannot ignore this, we must prepare the men to protect the village.”
“No!” another one of the council said. “War or not, this village was made by those who wanted to flee the war. We cannot join this fight.”
Soon, the entire council was shouting and arguing. Cyrus became irritated, not liking politics. No one ever agreed on anything. And, as the hours passed, his disdain was growing more and more. Finally, he could not take any more.
“Be quiet!” he bellowed. As the villagers did, the council stopped talking and turned its attention to him.
“Don’t you see?” he asked them. “We are wasting precious time. If what this knight said is true, then all of the lands are in trouble. We may be in the north, but we are still in Eralin. And with Aranc’s border so close, their army will undoubtedly come here, maybe faster than Eralin‘s will. We need to protect the village.”
He would have said more, but he knew that time was too precious to waste. The council sat in silence, making Cyrus feel embarrassed. But he knew what he said was right, and stood his ground. But the silence continued, and the council said nothing. Their eyes bored into him, hammering away at his willpower.
At last, one of the council members spoke up. Councilor Edmund, head of the council.
“Cyrus, son of Aldous,” he stated, and Cyrus winced at hearing his father’s name. He hadn’t heard it for more than a decade. “You have no right to interrupt a meeting of the council…but I fear you are right. As much as I do not want to believe, I know that nothing lasts forever. The village must be protected, even if it means war.”
He turned his attention to the six other men sitting at the table.
“Council of the village of Albon. This young man, Cyrus, is right. We cannot ignore such irrefutable evidence. For a soldier to come so far north means that a great war will come. Perhaps the greatest war of our time; of any time. Therefore, I beseech you to issue a call to arms.”
The council sat in silence. But the tension in the air was overwhelming, and the dead silence made it worse. The men sat in deep thought, carefully considering Councilor Edmund’s words.
Finally, one of the councilors stood.
“I second the High Councilor’s request for a call to arms,” he stated.
“And I,” another said, standing from his chair too.
The rest of the council began to stand and declare their decisions. Soon, all of the council was standing; the decision was unanimous.
The High Councilor nodded. “Then it is decided. Send for the messengers, all of Albon shall be rallied to fight. We will stand our ground against the West and the East.
Cyrus bowed his head. War had been declared for the first time in the village.
***
Legions of messengers rode out, carrying the message of the council to all of the village. The call to arms.
As the sun began its descent, men had already begun to march to the council building. In one hour’s time, one hundred men had come. In another hour, another hundred came. By sunset, the army was almost one thousand strong, and more poured in. As they came, Cyrus watched them. Not only men, but women and boys barely of age, were among the ranks.
Despite its size, the legions of peasants were not very intimidating. Most were dressed in scraps of armor, and many wielded pitchforks and wood axes. Only the hunters looked ready for battle, with bows and daggers. Cyrus shook his head. He knew none of them were ready to fight.
“Not like watching people prepare for their doom, do you?” a voice said.
He turned to see who it was. Behind him stood a middle-aged man with brown hair and green eyes. His face was stern, and bared a small scar on his left cheek. Cyrus looked at the man for a moment, not knowing who he was. Then, he realized that it was the knight.
“Do you think you can win?” the man asked. “Stand against an army of millions with some village folk that don’t even know how to wield a sword?”
Cyrus turned away. He was right, they had no chance of winning. But there was no escape from this, they would have to fight to protect their land. Or die trying.
“What is your name?” questioned the young man.
“Lewis Aldebourne,” the soldier answered. “Son of Aldeous.”
“Your father’s name is the same as mine’s,” Cyrus remarked.
“My father’s dead,” Aldebourne said blandly.
“As is mine.”
The two men were silent for a long time. Cyrus did not look at him, but he could feel the man’s eyes on him. But the woodcutter had other things to think about. These people were going to die, and he didn’t know what to do.
“You want me to teach them,” Aldebourne stated, apparently reading Cyrus’ mind. The younger man turned his head a bit, and nodded.
“I’ll do it,” the knight said, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. “However, only on one condition. You will find me who, with all their heart, believes that you can hold out against the armies of the West or East.”
“I do,” a third voice said.
Both men turned to see the speaker. Behind them stood a tall, young man, with dark hair slightly covered with dirt. His build was strong, and his face was handsome, though intimidating. But despite his looks, the one feature that stood out was his eyes, a nearly radiant blue, in sharp contrast with his black hair.
“Orion,” Cyrus said. “What are you doing here? Have you been listening to us the whole time?”
“I came because I received the call to arms,” his brother replied. “And I only heard about half of it, though I heard enough.”
The hunter turned to face Aldebourne, who stood a bit taller to try and match Orion’s level. He was still three inches shorter than the younger man.
“So, you think you can fight off the most powerful nations on the continent with a bunch of ragtag villagers?”
Orion did not answer, instead stepping out to face the militia.
“People of Albon, these are dark times,” he said, his deep voice filling the air. “The storm of war is coming, and with it rides Death himself. Even as we speak, entire armies so vast that they would fill up the Great Ocean march to the borders. We are in the eye of the tempest, but that eye is closing around us.
But it is those who fight for freedom, those who fight for life, it is those who will always prevail. These great armies fight for bloodshed and Death. But we will fight to protect our way of life, to protect our families. We will fight for peace! From beneath the darkness, the anger, and the violence of war, we will rise up in victory!
I would die before I see this village taken and destroyed. Will you fight with me, my brothers and sisters?”
The villagers roared in approval, announcing Orion as the one to lead them.
“We shall have peace in life or in Death!”
***
To Ms. Eukara Vox, the Librarian,
The document above is a narrative, written by my master, none other than Death himself. I am his apprentice, the Chronicler of Death. This is one part of the story, as I was too busy to send the other two. This is my contribution to your Library, as I doubt that many of my master’s documents reside there. I do wish, however, to deliver the second part of the story in person. With your permission, of course.
This letter must be short. As Chronicler of Death, I have many duties to attend to. My master does like to write, and I am the one to file all of them. I’m sure you know the feeling.
The Seven Hundredth Twenty-Second Keeper of the Chronicles
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