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Battle of the Arts - October


armajesty
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IGN: Xarkly
Category: Creative Writing
Artwork: 
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1WM2zftJxYIbIraSc16RY4JWSi5nkA9u36IIg8KWpT9c/edit?usp=sharing


 

Creative Writing Entry:

The Last Victory

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The Aegis midlands

Start of the Thirty Year War

 

Music:

Spoiler

 


 

 

 

“Horses,” Arivand called mildly from his saddle.

 

“I -ah - y-yes, lord!” his squire, Ollen, stammered and fumbled with the unwieldy warhorn.

 

“Quickly now, boy. During the battle if possible.”
 

“Y-yes, right away, lord!” Ollen was too young to be on a battlefield, with his chubby cheeks and that wispy excuse for a beard, but Arivand owed the boy’s father a favour. When Ollen finally managed to blow two short bursts into the war horn, the peels were carried down the hillside and into the valley by the brisk went that rippled the black-and-purple banners of Horen that had been erected atop the hill. The sound quickly reached the army locked in combat in the valley below, and prompted the distant bellow of commands.

 

“HORSES! FORWARD! CHARGE! FOR HOREN!” 

 

As he watched his troops shift on the battlefield below in response to his signal, Arivand wondered if his old age had weakened his hearing - the cavalry’s charge did seem as loud as he remembered. That was not the only change he had noticed in his age; he surprised himself by flinching when the cavalry crashed into the enemy army a moment later, producing ear-splitting screams that seemed far louder than the charging horses. 

 

Never before had he flinched at the sight of blood, at the sight of his horsemens lances splintering through enemies. Not since his first battle, at least. But Arivand was an old man now, and he had spent his decades as a warrior and a leader of men, and one of King Horen’s own elite captains. War had been his craft, and just as the baker did not fear his bread, the warrior feared not bloodshed.

 

I am just old, he told himself wearily. Old and soft.

 

It had been a while since his last battle – long before this war with Iblees had broken out. He had a wife and a young daughter now, and he thought to spend his twilight years growing old with them. But that was before last Harvest, when King Horen declared that humanity would join his Brothers – Malin, Krug and Urguan – in their war against the Daemon Iblees. Arivand’s heart had sunk when King Horen himself had asked him to lead one last campaign, though it shamed him to admit it.

 

“One last victory is all I ask,” had been the King’s words, and Arivand dared not dishonour himself by refusing.

 

Besides, his role in this war was an easy one; while King Horen had taken the bulk of his armies north to join Malin and Urguan to face the Daemon himself, Arivand had been charged with weeding out the pockets of traitors who had sworn themselves to Iblees throughout Horen’s lands. Whether they had joined the Daemon through promises of power or prospects of survival, Arivand did not know, but he had been disgusted to find that a small army of the traitors had rallied together. Arivand had adeptly slaughtered most of them, and his army had left a bloody trail of corpses from the walls of Karrandall to the fields of Orsifar, and this small force – the rabble that vainly resisted his army in the valley now – were the last vestiges of the Ibleesians.

 

“One last victory,” he murmured reassuringly to himself.

 

Now, his army had almost cornered the Ibleesians against a steep hillside.  Arivand would defeat them here, today, and he would finally go home to Karrandall – to his wife, and his dear little Tarra – and wait for King Horen’s triumphant return. Clenching his jaw, he wished his old age had not weakened his eyes so that he could see the look of terror on the Ibleesian’s faces as they stared into the consequences of their betrayal.

 

“Call the horses back, ram the line forward,” he barked. “TODAY, please, Ollen!”

 

Franticly, Ollen sounded the signals, and the army moved with remarkable unison; the horses veered off to the left and right, and Arivand’s  line of spears and shields rushed forward into the breach, producing another tremor of screams and rasping metal, pushing the Ibleesians further and further back.

 

“That should do,” Arivand said aloud with a firm nod. They were done for. Abruptly, he found himself laughing. “Is that all your Daemon can do for you!?! Hahah! I tell you, Ollen, at this rate, King Horen will have the Daemon vanquished before Harvest!”

 

The squire returned a force, shaky laugh, before he frowned and pointed across the valley. “Are – are those their leaders, lord?”

 

“Eh?” Arivand followed the squire’s chubby finger with a squint, before he muttered a curse at his failing vision and pulled out his spyglass to find that the faltering Ibleesian forces had formed a protective ring around a cluster of figures brandishing staffs. Mages? He had not heard of any warlocks serving the Daemon, but he supposed it was not impossible that some would be foolish enough to turn against King Horen. Still, it would do nothing to save them now. They had lost too many, and Arivand’s army was about to deliver their death blow.

 

Yet just as Arivand was about to lower the spyglass, he paused. Around the cluster of mages, the air seemed to … darken, and swirl, as if the wind itself was turning black. None of Arivand’s soldiers seemed to have noticed; they were absorbed in the heat of the battle, driven now that they could see victory was within grasp.

 

“What are they …?” Arivand mouthed as he lowered the spyglass. From the hilltop, he watched as the mages brought down their staffs, and the black wind spread across the valley like a shockwave, before it abruptly dissipated. Some of Arivand’s soldiers glanced around in confusion, and Arivand’s bones stiffened in anticipation … only for nothing to happen. The momentary lull was quickly forgotten as Arivand’s army rushed into motion once more.

 

“Wh-what was that, lord?” Ollen asked uncertainly.

 

“ … Nothing,” Arivand said decisively. “A cheap trick to try distract us. Nothing more than a last resort -” The words died in his throat.

 

The bodies strewn in the valley began to twitch.

 

Just as Arivand began to tell himself it must have just been the writhing of some poor wounded soldiers, he noticed all the corpses throughout the entire valley seemed to be twitching.

 

And then that twitch grew more violent; it became a spasm, and then a convulsion. Arivand watched in horror, his heart thumping like a marching drum, as the corpse-strewn valley stirred like a barrel of writhing worms. Some of Arivand’s soldiers, in the back lines, began to notice, and surprised cries joined the clang of steel and the screams of the vanquished.

 

“No,” Arivand breathed as he watched the bodies – hundreds upon hundreds of slain soldiers, with gaping holes in their torsos from lances and arrows skewered through their throats – began to climb to their feet.

 

“L-LORD!?” Ollen cried in alarm. The warhorn smashed as the squire dropped it.

 

Arivand, however, did not answer. An abrupt silence befell the valley as the army below noticed what was happening. They turned in horror, watching as the fallen stood as if alive once more, their weapons in hand.

 

And then the dead moved.

 

They surged forward like a mindless wave, like a horde of ravenous insects, into the back of Arivand’s stunned army. At that moment, he wished his hearing was gone so that he was not subjected to the sound of the dead clawing through the petrified ranks of his soldiers who, just mere moments ago, had been about to defeat the Ibleesians. Arivand could barely make out what was happening, other than shifting shapes and blood spewing everywhere, but he did not reach for his spyglass. He did not bother.

 

Arivand knew the Daemon and his followers must have held power, but this …?

 

“Ollen,” he began with a vain attempt to keep his voice steady as he watched his army of soldiers – good men, all of them, who had taken up their arms to defend their homes and their King – get shredded between the dead and the Ibleesians, who had begun to fight back. “I need you to ride back to Karrandall and send word to the King of what’s happened here. And … I need you to tell my wife and daughter ...” he trailed off when he turned his head, only to find that Ollen had taken off at a gallop in the opposite direction.

 

Arivand did not blame him. He turned back to the valley to find that his army was annihilated. The dead had already turned, and began to shamble towards the hilltop on which Arivan said.

 

“ … and I need you to tell my wife and daughter I could not get that last victory,” he murmured softly to himself. He doubted anyone but God himself could have achieved this victory.

 

With one last sigh, he drew his dagger.

 

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IGN: (posting on behalf on DAENGIE)

Category: Artwork (not mine, but DAENGIE’s, although for some reason the website is broken for him and he can’t post it, so I’m posting it on his behalf!)

 

6D47C4A8-DAAE-4258-A8CF-9B059D39FA85.jpe

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Submissions are officially closed! We will have results up by the end of the week! ❤️ Thanks to everyone for their participation.

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