The Jalahai Saga
By Christopher P Bartlett
The Tides of Fate

Chapter One
The Death of the King

King Stajikai of Traimont gritted his teeth as another bloodied messenger
entered his throne room. The ragged figure barely drew a second glance from
the harried faces who were still trying to marshal some kind of effective
defence. One of the king’s senior aides received the latest report, and
dismissed the man. Stajikai caught the look of despair that flashed across the
messenger’s face as he realised he was being returned to the fray.
“Give him some water first,” the king said quietly, without looking up from
the plan of the city which served as a map of the ongoing battle. One of the
other aides gave the messenger a sip from his own flask and, slightly calmer,
the man disappeared out of the doors. A moment’s silence in the throne
room sent a shiver down Stajikai’s spine as a cascade of distant, disembodied
screams carried through from the conflict raging outside. To get an overview
of the battle, all he needed to do was to step out onto his balcony for a
moment. In doing that he could see the defensive positions of the Traimonian
Brotherhood being methodically taken apart by an onrushing tide of
crimson. The same relentless progress could be seen on the map before him,
but didn’t require the king to see the sacrifice of his finest warriors, the
greatest heroes of Traimont. He knew that ordinary citizens had taken up
whatever weapons they could find to try to repel the attackers. He knew this
from reports which continued to stream into his throne room, previously a
hallowed sanctuary from the spectre of war. Now it had descended into
chaos, but nothing to compare to the sacrifice his people were making
outside the gates of Toraq Palace.
Looking down at the map, at the ever shrinking group of blue markers
which indicated the positions held by the Brotherhood, he saw that their
Barracks had been lost. Not completely, he corrected himself, the southern tip
was still held, at least, that was the last known information. Cursing his
weakness, he left the throne room and stepped outside to have a look with
his own eyes. The smoke filling his vision was not the only thing bringing
tears to his eyes. As his senior aides joined him on the balcony, he surveyed
with dismay the ruined splendour of Toraquai.
The Vesperic Knights had swept through the defensive line of the Northwest
wall, scattering the defenders of Toraquai before them. The gate had been
shattered, leaving the Vesperics with an easy entrance into the city itself.
Along the main thoroughfare barricades had been hastily erected, though
many had been overrun. The trained soldiers of the City Watch had held
their barracks for a time, but it was now held by the Vesperics and the
Saekrynian Guard. The Traimonian Brotherhood had paid dearly for the
unsuccessful defence of their own headquarters, the Vesperics resorting to
bringing the building down around them to wipe out the Brothers. The
shattered ruins held many broken bodies of men and women who had been
given no chance of escape. Now Stajikai could see that the Vesperic Knights
were coming ever closer to the palace itself. He shuddered to think of the
devil leading the assault. To even think of the man’s name filled him with
loathing.
Raevan Halfclaw.
The shattered remnants of the Traimonian Brotherhood could not hope to
hold the makeshift defences for long against the Vesperics. In battle Stajikai
had never seen such ferocious warriors. Even the mightiest fighters from the
wild hinterlands of Sokath could not match the storm of blood raging
within the walls of the city. The king could not help but stare transfixed as
the shield of blue was steadily driven back to the very walls of the palace
itself. The spell was finally broken with a hand reaching for his shoulder. At
first the face and voice were indistinct, the sounds and visions of battle
reducing the rest of the world to a whispered afterimage.
“Your majesty,” repeated the Commander of the City Guard. “I urge you to
leave now. The way into the mountains remains open. But every moment we
linger here reduces the chances of escape.”
Stajikai turned to his advisor stony-faced.
“And thus admit defeat, is that what you are suggesting, commander?”
“As long as you live, sire, defeat can be averted.”
Stajikai turned one last time to the battle below him, only to see the line of
defenders brushed aside and the swarm of Vesperics crash against the gates of
Toraq Palace. Stajikai gritted his teeth as he gave the order for the evacuation.
“May Traimontai forgive us.”
There was no time to retrieve the sacred relics of the Traimontese royal
family. The banners and scrolls were left hanging in place. The only pause
Stajikai allowed himself was to reclaim Traimontai’s sword from its position
above the throne. To leave that weapon would be to abandon the memories
of his predecessors. He caressed the jewel-encrusted hilt, closed his eyes and
felt he could see his ancestors who had held the sword, in peace and in battle.
It had not been wielded in anger for half a millennia. To use it now would be
folly, but Stajikai could not help but imagine striking down the tyrant
invading his city. As his advisors and guards urged him to come on, he took
a final sorrowful glance around his throne room. The pain of not knowing
when he would see the familiar sights again was yet another heavy burden
to carry with him.
The king’s guards escorted him through the corridors of Toraq Palace,
already filling with smoke from the struggle outside the walls. The din of
fighting and the screams of the dying were clearly audible to the king, he
cursed every step that took him closer to safety, and further from his people.
What message did it send to the people of Traimont when their king saved
his own skin rather than face the common foe? Stajikai tried to shut such
thoughts out of his mind, and tried to listen to the instructions of his
protectors.
“Your majesty,” shouted the commander as they emerged into the outer
courtyard of the palace. There was activity everywhere, most of the troops
moving towards the gate. Stajikai met the gaze of some of his soldiers, and
though he saw their determination, he also knew they recognised his guilt.
Only the living feel guilt, the king reminded himself, and tried to offer a
reassuring presence. The king’s party was nearly half way across the dusty
ground when a loud explosion to their left brought most of the guards to
their knees. The king himself managed to maintain his balance, but his
attention had immediately shifted from his escape route to the scores of torn
and bleeding bodies surrounding the shattered remnants of the main gate.
Through a swirling haze of black smoke, dozens of Vesperic Knights were
entering the palace. The sight was scarcely believable for the king, and for a
moment he stood transfixed. The Vesperics seemed only too eager to dispatch
their injured foe, who lay reeling from the blast that had carved open the
ancient gates of Toraq. As the survivors regained their senses and started to
fight back, Stajikai realised his escape route had been firmly shut. His guards
had accepted the same thing, and were already moving to adopt a defensive
position around their king. With a despairing breath, Stajikai reached to his
belt and touched the handle of Traimontai’s sword. He doubted whether it
could sway the battle, but he was left with little choice. With a prayer to the
sword’s first owner, King Stajikai of Traimont drew the blade and waited for
the onslaught.
The Vesperics made short work of the few surviving guards at the gate, and
were soon upon the King’s guards. At first his protectors kept the king from
the battle, but in the swirling melee of combat, Stajikai was soon called upon
to fend for himself. A heaving mass of combatants, some adorned in the
midnight blue armour of the elite king’s guards, others arrayed in the deep
crimson of the Vesperic Knights. The two contrasting colours mixed and
intermingled, and in the smoke and noise, friend and foe were difficult to
distinguish.
Stajikai had not fought in a real battle for several years, and he realised how
quickly his instincts for combat had deteriorated. Without the assistance of
his guards, he could very well have perished in the opening stages of the
battle. Gradually, his thrusts and cuts became quicker and more decisive, and
he was able to wield Traimontai’s blade with the skill it deserved. The king’s
guards fought with unswerving loyalty and supreme skill, but they were
outnumbered. For every Vesperic Knight that fell, it seemed as though
another three took their place. With the gate ripped apart, Vesperic Knights
and their Saekrynian Guard allies poured into the palace courtyard.
Stajikai, bleeding from a cut on his right cheek knew the battle was all but
lost. His guardsmen had sold their lives dearly, but now barely a dozen
remained standing. The Vesperics had broken off momentarily, backing the
defenders against the walls of the inner palace. Where Stajikai had formerly
enjoyed the sights and sounds of his domain, now he was trapped by the
brutal invaders. He waited for the final assault, and wondered why it had
not yet come.
As the crowd of attackers slowly parted, Stajikai realised the reason for the
delay. Striding through the gap created was the man responsible for all the
carnage. If he could really be called a man, thought Stajikai.
Raevan Halfclaw, his sword dripping blood freely, his face a mask of violent
ecstasy approached the King of Traimont. He stood regarding Stajikai with
utter contempt for several moments, before finally speaking. His voice
betrayed no hint of fatigue, despite his obvious exertions on the field of battle.
“Surrender your throne, heretic king, and I will spare the lives of your men.”
“You have no claim to this throne, I will not give it up so lightly,” Stajikai
stated, his voice breaking from the strain of fighting.
“Your life is already forfeit, do you not see the power before you?” Raevan
continued, his voice calm and clear. “If you fight now, you will die alongside
your men. If you lay down your sword, you will die, but the killing will end
there. I have no wish to see any more of my wayward cousins perish today.
You hold their lives in your hands.”
Stajikai breathed deeply, meeting the malevolent gaze of his foe. He broke the
eye contact and looked around at his guards. If any felt a hint of fear, they
showed no outward sign. He knew all of them would fight as long as their
strength held. They could not win, but he doubted whether Raevan’s word
meant anything at all. He would never lay down Traimontai’s sword. Now
he had drawn the weapon, the only way it would be returned to its sheath
would be once the invaders were all dead, or he no longer drew breath.
“We are not your cousins, and the people of Traimont do not respect tyrants
like you. If you kill us today, we will join with Traimontai and our
ancestors. We will have a vantage point to see the judgement of the ages
smite your evil from these shores. You will be carried away on the tides of
fate, Raevan, and your spirit will know no peace in this world or the next.
People of Traimont, what do you say?”
A cheer sounded from the survivors as they readied their weapons. Raevan
scowled and let out a roar of frustration. Raising his own blade, he issued a
fearful challenge and charged towards the king. The rest of his knights were
a step behind, but soon were thundering towards the guards. Metal crashed
against metal as the two sides met. Raevan tossed aside two guards as he
made his way relentlessly to the king. Stajikai turned at the last second to
meet the thrust of Raevan’s sword. The two leaders traded blows in the
centre of a whirlwind of hacking and slashing blades. Stajikai’s training in
the Traimonian Brotherhood gave him a solid defence against most
opponents, but the ferocity and power of Raevan’s assault was beyond belief.
Stajikai had fought the Vesperic Knights once before, but he was now faced
with their leader and most feared disciple. In fact, it was Raevan who had
created the doctrines of lightning fast assaults that had characterised the war
in Traimont. The coastal cities had fallen with barely a warning, let alone
time for a defence. In a matter of days, the crimson horde had laid siege to
Toraquai, and now the walls had fallen, the Vesperic Knights were within
reach of removing the ruler of Traimont.
Stajikai’s mind was a blur of swords and armour. He could barely keep up
with fending off Raevan’s assault, let alone launch a counter strike of his
own. Already his opponent had landed a couple of glancing blows, further
weakening the king, and when he overstretched trying to land a hit of his
own, Raevan found the chance he needed. Sweeping aside Stajikai’s weak
parry, Raevan brought his sword down in a rapid arc at the king’s shoulder.
The heavy blade found a gap in Stajikai’s ornate armour, and bit deep into
the king’s flesh. Stajikai screamed in pain as his fingers lost their grip of
Traimontai’s sword. With agonising slowness, Stajikai watched the weapon
clatter to the ground. Desperately he tried to reclaim it, but as he slipped to
the floor, he felt a sharp pain pierce his chest. Raevan’s blow was perfectly
struck. Pushing the blade into his opponent until he was face to face with
Stajikai, Raevan caught the fear in his eyes.
“Give my regards to your ancestors,” Raevan whispered, then kicked the
king to the floor. Raevan looked around for another opponent, but they had
all been cast down. All he could see was a triumphant crowd of his loyal
troops, the castle had fallen.
“Raise my flag captain, and start rounding up the survivors. I’m going to
survey my new throne room.”
The young captain rushed off, leaving Raevan to be carried aloft on the
shoulders of his troops. Raevan made them pause, pointing to a discarded
item of his vanquished opponent. One of the Vesperics reclaimed it, and
handed the weapon to his lord.
“This blade belongs to the rightful heir of Traimont,” Raevan said, holding
the sword of Traimontai aloft. The jewels set in the hilt shimmered in the
sunlight breaking through the pall of smoke. Raevan Halfclaw took it as a
blessing from ancestors, as he was carried up the steps of the inner palace
and entered the throne room.
“The rightful heir is here.”

Raevan awoke with a searing pain throughout his body. The exultation of
the dream passed and was replaced with the full effect of his injuries. It took
several moments for Raevan to separate the dream from reality. He knew that
he had indeed killed the former king of Traimont, that he had taken his
palace. Trying to recall what had happened before he’d lost consciousness
proved much harder. Sitting up from his simple cot, he tried to gauge his
surroundings. It was a dimly lit canvas tent, the sides of which fluttered in a
breeze. A dark figure was standing in the doorway. Raevan tried to adjust
his eyes to the light, but he could not distinguish the face. Finally, the figure
stepped forward into the candlelight. Raevan recognised the familiar face of
his brother, Draeval Darkflame.
“At last, brother, you are awake.”


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