The Son of Kazmor

Oberion Yestermoor straightened in his saddle as he led his men closer to their destination. The glimmering steel plate armor he wore had grown unbearably heavy during the countless hours they had endured on horseback over the past several days. Riding behind him were five of the finest soldiers he had ever led, and for good reason. The West Wardens, they were called, had one mission; to protect the land from the many dangers contained within the mountains of Borac. Generally this meant protecting the farming villages that laid closest to the impassible cliffs, but things had grown worse over the past winter. Oberion momentarily shifted his gaze away from his reigns and Yiora’s golden mane. The mountains of Borac rose above a treeline in the distance, its sheer cliffs contained countless cascading waterfalls which prevented any sane man from attempting a climb.

The forest around them was a dull blend of death and destruction, a painting of battles fought years ago between Man and Demadi. While Oberion had never encountered the Demadi in his lifetime, he understood their cruel nature and unquenchable greed for power and wealth from bedtime stories his grandmother had told him as a child. Now a grown man, Oberion wore steel-plated armor forged in the Warden’s fortress of Vardenkeep. There he had spent his teenage years training, and in time, found his place in his current position of leadership; a position Oberion had at first felt overwhelmed with. The Wardens were composed primarily of baby-faced recruits that were often cast away from their villages for various crimes or general foolishness, some of whom rode behind him now, occasionally stirring in their saddles. Each man's eyes darted across their view of the dense forest around them. A thick fog had drifted in, causing the soldiers to lose all sight of the brush deeper than the first several moss-blanketed trunks. The forest itself still showed the impact of past battles; stones laid smashed, and trees now standing were curved as they grew around those that had fallen. The ground itself was muddled with various pieces of rusted armor and weapons, crusted in mud and covered in deep dents and nicks from battles long since ended. The convoy passed a broken lance still planted into the ground in victory, or perhaps in defeat.

“How much farther commander?” one soldier asked, turning his head to watch behind their caravan nervously.

“Be patient soldier.” Oberion had to steady his own voice, showing signs of weakness would only drive the courage from his men, and he knew that courage was the only thing that would keep them alive this far West of the Escorian border. “Stay with me.”

Oberion Yestermoor was very young for a commander, as his eighteenth name-day was less than a week ago, and his patchy beard showed it. Otherwise he was very handsome, with a chiseled jaw and strong muscles gained from countless hours of swordplay. His men, though some older and more experienced, respected him.

The young commander held up a fist to direct his men to a halt in silence; the horses came to a sudden stop, air escaping their nostrils as a cool, quickly dissipating mist. Oberion swung from his saddle, and pulled his sword from its place within his saddle-tied bags. The five behind him followed, and together they crept forward on foot, unable to dampen the sound of plate metal clinking with each step. The fog had grown thicker, and Oberion often found himself attempting to wave it away from his face in vain. Each step drove his armored boot into the mud with a squish.

“Surely we'll be coming upon our target shortly,” General Joseph Grestor, a soldier older than Oberion by ten years, spoke out of place. The Warden General held a tattered map in front of his face, struggling to hold it in place as it flapped in the wind. “If it wasn’t for this blasted fog.”

“Silence.” Oberion’s voice was a harsh whisper, and Grestor glared cruelly at his young commander’s back. The night was bitterly cold, winter was short past, leaving a thin layer of snow among the barren treetops. Heavy furs were thrown over their shoulders and tucked beneath their plated armor to keep the soldiers warm. The ground however remained warm, melted snow had created the thick mud they now trudged through.

“The ground.” Another soldier spoke, receiving a sideways glance from his commander. He lowered his voice. “I've heard stories in the tavern at Vardenkeep that claims these Demadi used magic used to build their fortresses. They say it seeps into the earth like some sort of poison.” Oberion adjusted the grip on his sword, held heavily out in front of him. The fog was now so thick he could scarcely see its pointed end.

Then, as suddenly as their horses had vanished not ten paces behind them, something slowly revealed itself through the fog. Towering above the treetops stood the last standing Demadi construct on the continent. The stones were placed together and smoothed as a single solid wall, stacking end on end until the fog hid them. The stone curiously gave off a slight aura of blue. Grestor stepped forward, curiously extending his arm towards the glowing tower. Oberion ordered his men to halt with a quick hand signal and whistle.

“We must be cautious.” He said through gritted teeth. “If their magic still remains in the ground then it likely still taints this structure. There could be traps that are still active. Who knows if Demadi magic has any kind of expiration date.” Together they took several hesitant steps towards the ancient tower, its front side had been blown away in a gaping hole, revealing a set of stairs that extended upwards and disappeared behind the intact sections of wall further up the tower. Oberion stared into the opening blankly for a moment before gathering his men a few paces back and saying, “You all know what we have come here for, and we all knew what could be at stake.” His hand pointed towards the tower. “This tower must be destroyed, but we must first locate any Demadi tools or mechanisms contained within."

Before they reached the entrance, something stirred from inside, sending a deep groan outward towards the shaking soldiers. The ground itself vibrated violently, and the nearby sound of their horses wailing, seeking an escape route but being rooted to the trees by rope, pierced the silence of the abandoned forest, sending dozens of small fledglings darting from the tree tops. Suddenly, four giant rock fingers curled and grasped the hole’s side. Several loose stone gave way as the creature wrenched its enormous body out of the enchanted tower and into the cold night’s air. It stood taller than four men stacked head to toe; cruelly carved rock made up its form, and two shining rubies were placed in carved eye sockets. A massive fist swung to pound upon the ground in front of the giant, sending a shock-wave that nearly sent Oberion and his men to the ground.

“For the Wardens!” Oberion shouted through his frost covered lips. “For all Man!” He charged forward, his soldiers running with all the same ferocity. The monster raised its fist again, but Oberion rolled between its legs before it came down, crushing an unfortunate man behind him. He died with a squelched scream. The other men all began slashing at the rock creature, each sword clanging off its solid shell. Oberion stood behind the beast, and glanced back at the opening in the tower behind him. From his pouch, he pulled a long cylinder tipped with a black string; he had brought plenty of dynamite in case they actually found what they were looking for. Grestor was closest to him, so he called for him, tossing the explosive lightly to the man.

As soon as it hit Grestor’s hands, Oberion turned and ran into the tower, wheezing from both exhaustion and the cold. His mission was more important now. He leaped through the ragged gap, falling to the ground as a massive explosion erupted behind him. His ears rung wildly, Oberion fell to the floor, clasping hands over his ears; he now realized that his helmet had fallen off when he rolled through the colossus’s legs. He shook himself, and noticed the stairs running along the sides of the tower, spiraling upwards until Oberion could see only darkness. Without looking back, he bounded up them. Each step grew tirelessly more painful, sending him onto his hands several times, madly catching his breath.

After what felt like hours of climbing, Oberion reached the top. A single wooden door stood in front of him, its handle locked securely. He kicked at it weakly, falling onto his back in pain. Raising his head back to the door, Oberion unsheathed his sword and began hacking at the reinforced wood.

“Let me help you commander.” Grestor appeared behind him, his face blackened with ash and charred. The general had been rushing up the stairs after him.

“The others?” Oberion finally asked. Grestor shook his head grimly.

“I blew the thing to bits, but not before it smashed two more of our brothers. The explosion may have killed Dorion, but there was nothing else I could have done.” Grestor helped his commander to his feet, and together they charged forward at the door. It smashed through cleanly, perhaps its frame had rotted over the years. Oberion felt he had not done much to open it. He felt weak, perhaps from the climbing, or perhaps something else. The room that was revealed to them was empty, except for a single cradle sitting in its center. The roof was a glass sphere, and light illuminated the room in many direction, the widest of which lead to the cradle. Grestor gave Oberion a bewildered look, before gesturing for his commander to approach it.

Oberion crept towards the swinging box, which had suddenly gained motion since they entered the room. Peering over its edge, Oberion saw an infant, wrapped in silks. The child’s rounded blue eyes opened slightly to meet his gaze.

“A.....” Oberion nearly choked upon his own words. “A child.”

“A child?” Grestor stormed forward, getting his own look into the box. “A Demadi child?” He placed his hand onto his sword hilt, seemingly awaiting his next command assuredly.

“Perhaps...” Oberion clumsily picked the baby from its bed, careful to keep his hand under its head. “We must tell no one of this. This child is to be trained as a West Warden for now. The King would likely execute it if he found out.”

“Hide it?” Grestor’s hand remained gripped on his sword handle, the man was bewildered. “We cannot hide it.”

“I am your commander,” Oberion’s eyes stared into the child’s, seeing nothing but innocence. “and this is an order.”