Prologue
Imperial Calendar 523
Forthland Duchy
An Unnamed Hill
The four-year-old warhorse had lost all control after being slashed and stabbed repeatedly.
Its tough hide was split open, deep red flesh bulging outward. The pressure difference between its blood vessels and the open air sent blood gushing uncontrollably.
With every powerful beat of its strong heart, the horse lost more blood.
It reared and kicked in a frenzy, neighing to ward off any human who came near, even snapping its jaws at its own rider several times.
The young knight on its back had suffered far more attacks than the horse.
Though his armor was sturdy, leaving no stab wounds on his body, the crushing blows of heavy weapons had left him gasping in agony.
The knight paid no mind to his injuries; his only thought was to escape this death trap as quickly as possible.
He clamped his legs tight around the horse's belly, gripped the reins and saddle pommel firmly with his left hand, and fought to stay mounted as the beast raged.
His lance had been lodged in the first enemy he charged, torn from his grasp by the sheer speed of his mount. His shield was long gone.
All he had left to defend himself was an arming sword, and his mind was completely blank.
All technique, form, and his master's teachings had vanished, leaving only brute force—slashing, swinging, swatting away any blade that came near him.
He couldn't understand how this ragtag mob of peddlers and craftsmen had managed to hold firm against a flanking charge. Instead of scattering and fleeing, they'd charged right back at him, locking him in combat.
Most of the cavalry who'd launched the charge had broken free of the melee on their horses' speed and were regrouping.
But a small contingent had failed to cut through the enemy lines cleanly. Their momentum blunted, they looked on in terror as enemies closed in from all sides.
If the enemy had broken under the flanking strike, the cavalry would have routed them, sweeping the entire line in one go.
But if they failed to scatter the foe and were trapped in the middle of the enemy ranks, the scattered cavalry would be cut down one by one.
And he was one of that small contingent, trapped deep in enemy lines.
Thud.
A deafening crack jolted the young knight.
He knew that sound—the report of a matchlock musket, the enemy's most fearsome weapon, the one he dreaded above all others.
The echo bounced off the nearby hills, stretching the gunshot into a long, lingering roar.
Relief flooded him when he felt no new bullet hole in his body—but the joy was immediately clouded by dread: if he hadn't been shot, that meant another comrade had fallen.
Just then, the warhorse's frenzy began to fade. The knight could feel the beast no longer trying to throw him.
The horse's pain was dulled by endorphins, the rage and panic that had driven it to attack ebbing away, replaced by the primal instinct to flee danger.
All the horse wanted now was to escape this place reeking of blood and noise as fast as possible.
The knight felt the shift. He nudged the horse's flanks, guiding it with reins and legs, steering toward the thinnest part of the enemy lines.
The warhorse responded to its rider's command, no longer thrashing wildly, but accelerating in the direction the knight pointed.
The enemy dared not stand in the path of a charging warhorse, scattering to the sides.
They moved to the horse's flanks, thrusting their spears viciously at man and beast alike.
In the mere seconds since the horse had calmed and begun to run, three new wounds gaped on its belly and thighs.
The knight took two spear strikes too, but he was overjoyed.
For he saw that though these commoners were brave, they were not foolhardy enough to stand their ground against a charging horse, to trade their lives for his.
That meant as long as he could get the horse up to speed, he could escape.
Saved! I'm going to make it out! The knight praised his only savior over and over in his mind.
Suddenly, a massive jolt wrenched at his left shoulder.
Caught off guard, the knight was torn from his saddle.
While the horse had still been in a frenzy, a halberdier at the edge of the crowd had spotted him.
As the knight guided his horse toward the gap in the enemy lines, the halberdier lay in wait along his escape route.
When the horse's head passed in front of the halberdier, the man struck, swinging his halberd at the knight's side.
The moment the halberd connected with the knight's arm, a colossal force surged through the weapon, slamming into both men.
The halberdier gripped the wooden shaft like a vice, his feet rooted to the ground like tree roots.
One second, the knight had thought he was saved.
The next, he was ripped from his horse by the halberdier's strength.
He felt as if he were flying, a brief moment of weightlessness before he crashed hard onto the soft grass.
Freed of its burden, the horse bolted, fleeing this hellscape.
The knight struggled to rise, only to find his left arm useless—the brutal yank had dislocated his shoulder clean out of its socket.
The enemies around him saw him fall and swarmed over him at once, dropping their weapons. They pinned his left arm under their boots, held his thighs down with their hands, and pressed their weight onto his body.
The knight felt hands trying to yank off his helmet.
Terrified, he clung to his gorget with his right hand, letting out wordless, whimpering cries.
He fought with all his might, but couldn't move an inch.
One enemy flipped up his tasset, while another musketeer pressed the barrel of his matchlock to the chainmail beneath.
Realizing what was about to happen, the knight sobbed, kicking and thrashing wildly, but the enemies' hands were like iron, holding him fast to the ground.
The musketeer's assistant poured powder into the flash pan at the end of the musket and primed the matchcord.
Without hesitation, the musketeer pulled the trigger. The smoldering matchcord brushed the flash pan, igniting the powder inside.
The flame raced down the barrel, igniting the packed powder charge. The expanding gunpowder propelled the lead ball out of the musket with devastating force.
A deafening crack and acrid smoke filled the air. The high-velocity lead ball tore through chainmail, gambeson, and the knight's skin, burying itself in his soft abdomen. It ricocheted wildly inside his body, shredding his organs to pulp.
The young knight convulsed a few times, then lay still, never to move again.
Imperial Calendar 528
United Provinces
Stone Ford Crossing
"The moment of a lifetime is here! The false emperor is at the ford! Follow me!"
The general with the red feather in his helmet led the charge, his cavalry slicing through the gap between two enemy infantry squares, driving straight for the imperial standard, charging fearlessly toward the emperor's banner.
"Uukhai! Uukhai!"
The warriors of Palatu let out a roar like a churning sea, forming a wedge formation and pressing close behind their general.
Hooves thundered like rolling thunder, gleaming sabers held high above heads, pennons fluttering from lance tips.
The enemy cavalry that tried to block the charge were shattered instantly, their shining silver armor vanishing like foam in a red tide.
The remaining spearmen and crossbowmen were terrified out of their wits, dropping their weapons and fleeing for their lives.
The hussars were like the prophet parting the Red Sea, clearing every enemy that stood between them and the false emperor.
Cannonballs, lead shot, and arrows rained down on them, but the hussars did not flinch. Their only target was the head of Richard IV.
The Imperial Guard was the final line of defense. They leveled their halberds, bracing the butts against their boots, blades pointed straight at the oncoming riders.
The front rank hussars and the unyielding halberdiers were nearly annihilated together.
But the halberdier formation broke first, and the rear rank cavalry, thundering past, cut down every man still standing.
At last, the red-feathered general could see Richard IV's gilded helmet.
"False emperor! Mad Richard! Die!"
The red-feathered cavalry commander raised his saber high, leading the last of the hussars in a charge at the Emperor of the Holy Muro Empire.
His final vision was a spinning blur, the world tumbling around him as he flew through the air, as if he were a bird.
In that moment, he finally understood why the false emperor had stood his ground.
"Damn those court mages. God damn them."
He thought, closing his eyes, and a flame was snuffed out.
The hussars saw no movement from the two masked men standing before the emperor, but they watched as their general, horse and all, was torn into pieces, as if ripped apart from the inside by a colossal force.
These men from the Palatu Plateau did not know the spell [Disintegration]. Seeing the man they loved like a father butchered before their eyes, they charged the enemy in a blind, bloodthirsty rage.
One masked man raised a hand, firing bolts of icy light. One by one, the hussars took bullet holes in their chests, toppling from their horses.
The other masked man did not move a muscle, but the hussars before him flushed bright red, their bodies stiffening, and they stopped breathing in an instant.
"Black magic! Witchcraft! Servants of the devil!" the last hussar screamed in terror.
Even a warrior as tough as steel was terrified by the sight. He hurled his saber at the false emperor with all his might.
One masked man flicked a finger, and the saber veered off course, curving through the air as if pulled by an invisible hand, and vanishing into the bushes.
The masked man fired another bolt of icy light, punching a hole through the last hussar's head, ending what should have been a successful charge.
Imperial Calendar 531
Republic of Forthland
Drenthe
The city gates creaked open slowly, the ungreased hinges screaming in protest.
It was the first time the west gate of Drenthe had opened in the two years since Richard IV's army had laid siege to the city.
Soldiers carried out prefabricated sections, building a makeshift pontoon bridge across the moat.
A soldier rode his horse onto the bridge, crossing the moat, the ground soaked through with blood, the trenches and earthen walls the enemy had built to blockade Drenthe.
He rode through the enemy camp, under the numb, hateful stares of the enemy soldiers, all the way to the emperor's headquarters.
Finally, he took a seat at a long table, under the glares of Richard IV's most trusted ministers.
The emperor himself entered the tent only after everyone else was seated.
He sat in the chair at the head of the table, looking at the soldier, and asked casually, "Have you come to surrender now, Ned of Tormes?"
"No, Your Majesty. I have come to bring you peace." Ned Smith replied sincerely.
Imperial Calendar 532
United Provinces
Drenthe
"It's done! It's done! It's done!" Brigadier General Antoine-Laurent held the letter, jumping and laughing.
He shouted excitedly, slapped his thighs hard, and waved his arms at the air.
Not content with that, he drew the longsword from his cabinet, slashing wildly around the room, and smashed countless jars and bottles.
His wife heard the shouting and crashing from his study and rushed in to check on him.
Antoine-Laurent saw his wife open the door, dropped his sword on the floor, lifted his love, and spun her around the room several times.
"Goodness, what's gotten into you? Are you mad?" His wife asked, pale with shock.
Antoine-Laurent set her down, but did not let go.
He held her close, kissed her hard on the cheek, and said, "We're going to have our own mages at last!"
"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. For all that happens now finds its true cause in what has come before."
— Ned Smith, First Marshal of the Army of the Senus Alliance
