Entry 13

"Archers along the ridge! Shield wall!"

Each shield went up in quick succession, with the soldiers caught near the center of the grouping raising their wooden bucklers overhead to fill in the wall's gaps. Heavy breathing and quiet prayers swept through the line, heightening the anxiety that had taken hold of these fighters. 

There I stood, holding a weathered shield and surrounded by a mix of desperate soldiers and terrified farmers, readying myself for the next few moments of adrenaline-fuelled scrapping. It took less than a month after leaving one army for me to get drawn into the machinations of another; but I suppose it may be necessary to explain how I ended up in this situation, first.

After finally leaving Tresin behind, for good, my next move came easy as the Kyrlund proved too volatile to remain in. The rebellion played their cards right: temporarily allying with Triton helped to trick Bovica into drawing their main force to the northern border, allowing the rebel army a clear path towards Garved, the Kyrlund's crown jewel. We discovered the trick too late, and barely a fraction of the militia made it to Garved in time to defend the city. Weeks later, the kingdom of Bovica was no more. The only reason I survived is due to my desertion in the final days of the siege; an act of cowardice that saved my life.

With Bovica gone and the rebellion setting the stage for their "Freehold Confederacy" to reshape my homeland into whichever form they chose, the Kyrlund's future lay on an uncertain path. So, I began the week-long journey farther north; towards the Kradellan Mountains, a natural border with Triton, and a new chapter in my life.

I arrived at the border, gazing up at the towering peaks. Unfortunately, the next scene to enter my view was of a group of soldiers carrying bodies down the mountain, from a path that I could assume led north to the pass. Blood and snow speckled their leather-centric armor, adding grimly to the undead look about them. 

Despite seeming utterly exhausted, I needed to know what happened in the pass. If I couldn't pass through, I'd be forced to turn back. Walking up to the corpse-carrying group, I asked, "What's going on up there? Who's fighting?"

One of the soldiers turned his head slightly to acknowledge me, before turning back and continuing on. I nearly asked again before he replied, "Who isn't?"

Having nothing more to say, he returned to the muted state that the rest of his group resided in. The only way for me to uncover the situation from the pass would be to head up there myself, and hope for the best. Trudging forth, I left the Kyrlund behind and made my way deeper into the mountains. It didn't take long to find the source of those bodies: a large battle raged on up ahead, with dozens of battered human carcasses littering the snowy ground. As I slowly made my way forward, attempting to avoid stepping on any loose intestines or severed limbs, the sounds of the visceral fight before me increased in volume. Shouts, metallic clangs, savage screams and the deathly moans of the wounded all jumbled together into a primal, grotesque combination.

This wasn't a battle: it was a fight for survival.

And the only way through was to win it.