//------------------------------// // Hyperion // Story: The King // by ironwolf //------------------------------// At dawn two great forces stood across from one another, akin to wild animals flexing their muscles before the leap. The winter sun illuminated long walls of metal, spears and swords held high. Their steel helmets have been covered by icicles that covered the knights’ heads like grim fangs, breaking with each move. The soldiers readied themselves by scanding battle hymns, that collided in the middle of the snow covered plain, fighting a battle of their own. Who was louder? Who blew the horns stronger? Multicolored banners fluttered in the wind, presenting themselves proudly in the golden sunrays. The world has never seen such an enormous battle before, where on but one side hundreds of thousands of swords, spears, axes and crossbows stood strong. The mask of indifference adorning each and every Empire’s soldiers was now melting like snow confronted with a warm breath. The widened pupils captured every detail, as if that moment was to be their final image before they gave in to the battle frenzy that will not abandon them until nighttime, or until a hostile swing will strike them to the ground, unmoving and lifeless. Suddenly quiet reigned above the field. The singing stopped. Swords ceased hammering against the shields. Only the cracks of bows and bowstrings broken by frost interrupted the grim silence. Nobody counted for how long the armies eyed one another with gazes full of hatred and contempt. Just a day before, when the Empire’s regiments marched to their fate, such a long pause would mean death, but now the blood in warrior’s veins was boiling, going through their heads, not allowing them to die before they could kill at least one barbarian. At last the huge horns were blown and soldiers, step after step, began marching through crumbly snow. The bolts hissed through the air, breaking through fragile armor with ease and embedding themselves deep in the flesh. Nobody turned their head, the warriors walking over the corpses of both dead and wounded. Even if the most faithful ally fell it bore less importance than closing the distance, thrusting the speartip between the plated collar and the helmet’s edge and then tearing away the blood-soaked blade. With a deafening roar two armies collided in a murderous embrace, cutting, thrusting, hacking and chopping. The axes fell forcefully, breaking the shields into splinters, making way for the thin swords. The crossbows’ strings were tensed time after time, sending clouds of biting bolts, their owners hidden behind the burrowed pavises. The impasse lasted for a long time until finally the middle of the Empire’s forces seemed to start faltering. The first lines broke formation and retreated to their own. The thundering war cry of the enemy nearly outrun the fleeing soldiers clad in golden armor and it would have been the beginning of an end of the battle if the first rows of the Empire’s army consisted of their finest warriors. The obedient regiment of imperial knights was already on the move to face the enemy. They marched firmly upon the now hardened snow, covering themselves with long shields, freezing the enemies with their stares from behind the small slits in their winged helmets. With blows of their maces they made way for their powerful swings, smashing the golden plates of their opponents’ armor, pushing the offensive deep into their lines. The knights marched on, not minding the hits they suffered and leaving only a tangled mass of corpses behind. The snow was gone, molten by hot streams of blood, creating crimson puddles in which the battle reigned on. The fallen warriors mustered their daggers and crawled towards one another only to push the blades through their foes’ still-beating hearts. When their weapons failed them, they would strangle each other, suffocating and crushing. Nobody cried for mercy, knowing that it was never to come. Madness ruled the realms that day, turning those kindest of heart into blood-thirsty monsters. So what that the eyes you looked into were the same as yours? How were you different? If it wasn’t for orders wouldn’t you prefer to peacefully sit by the same, amply set table? No! It is better to dim the light of these demonic eyes with one swift blow. To break this snake’s neck before it bites, cut its hideous head off and break each of its venomous fangs. No mercy for murder, no justice, save for the one dealt with the executioner’s sword. Today all of the Empire’s warriors have the right to be executioners. The thought raises their spirits, gives them wings, and turns the battle into a bloodbath. Nobody escapes their merciless gaze. It’s payback for hunger, diseases and frost, revenge taken for those chased away from their towns, well-deserved compensation for the brothers and fathers that are to come back home no more. Nopony can match the one who leads the Empire’s warriors to battle in the very heart of inferno. The other nobles look to him with envy, as their leader smites another foe with ease. He is immediately confronted by another two, his shield cracking under murderous cuts, but he is already preparing his next strike. He is immune to their blows, the bolts bouncing harmlessly off his armor’s hardened plates, the enemies seem paralyzed under his gaze. He marches arm to arm with the Empire’s finest, but he is the first among the equals. His blade falls again and again, cutting him a way towards the hostile banners. At last, after hours of murderous exertion, the enemy flees, showing its back. They abandon the fight, along with unwieldy shields. Whole groups of once proud barbarians run away from the Empire’s forces. There is no strength left for pursuit. Some die of suffered wounds and fatigue, but they die in the glory of their victory. Their triumph shall not be taken away. The generations to come will praise their sacrifice. The aftermath of the battle is frightening. Dead bodies are lying all around, frozen to the bone, locked in deathly embrace, trying to take their opponents’ lives even after death. The plates have frozen to the cooling bodies, creating a macabre carpet that is impossible to miss or ignore. The glasslike eyes seem to gaze at the retreating soldiers with reproach. Why are you still alive, while we have to stay here for all eternity? The shuffling soldiers, walking slowly to eat and rest, avert their eyes, not being able to stand the accusations of those dead pupils.