Starfall (The Fables of Chaos Book 1)

by Jackson Simiana

  Bringing his hands together as if to catch a ball, ignoring the pain of his broken arm, the Magister willed the Blight within him to concentrate towards the tips of his fingers. It came on like an instinct.

  Come on!

  Aymeir looked down and saw the black liquid within his blood vessels flooding down through his arms and into his fingers.

  In an instant, a huge burst of energy shot out from Aymeir’s fingers. The entire Repository lit up in an explosion of arcane light. The concentrated black liquid had become an almost plasma, shimmering with blue and white electricity as it fired through the air.

  The force blew Aymeir backwards off his feet, hitting the beast directly, searing into its hide and knocking it into rows of ancient bookshelves with an enormous boom. Wood, parchments, and dust exploded all around the fiend.

  The plasma stuck like glue all over it, burning hot and deep. It writhed around, trying to find any sort of escape from the plasma that was now enveloping it.

  Aymeir, too, began to scream once again. The black liquid within was so concentrated that it was tearing his insides apart.

  Without a second to waste, Aymeir spun around, crawling away on his hands and knees in the direction of the lost tome he had dropped. He looked down at his wrinkled fingers as they began to fall away from his body, riddled with rot. Chunks of skin fell from his face with a splat on the marbled floors below.

  What have I done? Creator, I do not want to die! I am not ready to transcend. Please.

  Aymeir peered into the darkness ahead, and there it was on the floor ahead. The old tome he had been trying to escape with. As he urged his body forward, he could feel parts melting and collapsing inside.

  He was in agony.

  Within arm’s reach of the tome, another monstrous howl came from behind. Like a hungry cat pouncing on a little mouse, the beast howled once more before leaping on top of Aymeir.

  Its body was decaying like Aymeir’s was. Bones hung from its open chest cavity, its insides turning black, bubbling, and burning.

  Aymeir shrieked, but his screams turned to gargled mutters as the monster’s hinge-like jaws wrapped around the old man’s neck, its teeth piercing his flesh with ease.

  Aymeir felt his cold blood pumping from the punctures in his throat as the creature’s bite grew tighter. It crushed his windpipe. His breaths grew shallow as he struggled, before turning into gargles. He was drowning in his own blood.

  The beast ripped into his neck again, its serrated teeth severing the arteries and tearing flesh and bone alike.

  Aymeir closed his eyes, accepting his fate. He felt the life slipping away from his body. But despite the agony and the horrifying fate that was to come, all he could think about was Lynn.

  He had failed.

  He felt the pain slowly dissipate.

  He saw the darkness consuming him.

  And before long, Magister Aymeir sensed nothing but cold and deafening silence.

  Act I

  Dawn & Dusk

  Chapter 1 - Winged Omen

  Tomas’s hands were shaking. Not from cold, not from an illness, but from fear. He was struggling to hold his spear steady. The trembling resonated in his crudely made armour.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the soldier on his flank grumbled, elbowing Tomas hard in the side. “Quit your shaking, boy. The last thing I wanna hear before I die is you shittin’ in your breeches.”

  Tomas glanced at him, staring at the lizard-like green eyes behind the helmet. The man had wide shoulders, rows of bony ridges running across his cheeks and an incredibly high hairline with long white dreadlocks. He was Valkhor, Tomas realised. He hadn’t seen one in quite a while, as none resided back home.

  Tomas ignored the jest. Focus.

  But all he could focus on was how much he did not want to be here. No one did.

  Tomas reapplied a strong grip around the haft of the spear, interlocking his fingers. He held it outwards steadily, in line with the hundreds of troops to his sides. A wall of spears.

  Sweat poured down Tomas’s dirt-smeared face, his blue eyes intensely focused on the scene before him. On a normal day, this area may have been quite picturesque- it was a cloudless day, and a cool breeze made the fields of grass dance in unison, swaying back and forth. The grass was still damp from earlier rains. Scattered oak trees groaned as their old roots strained to keep the behemoths upright. Behind him and the battalion he stood with, was a thick forest which lined most of the open field’s perimeter.

  Clear skies were rare so far north. Tomas was used to overcast, damp weather and snow for half the year.

  But this day was not a normal day.

  The fields were poisoned with dread. A deep, insidious atmosphere or foreboding and anxiety.

  A swarm of black crows were perched in the oak tree branches, screeching, awaiting the feast to come. Tomas always thought of crows as a bad omen- that is what his mother had taught him.

  At that moment, more so than ever, he could understand why.

  On the crest of the foothills about a mile ahead of Tomas and the vanguard unit he stood in formation with, black figures began to take shape.

  Soldiers. Hundreds of them. Blood-crazed and marching to battle.

  Tomas could see their dark armour speckled with deep shades of green shimmering in the afternoon sun. The invaders made their presence known with thunderous marching and howls of intimidation.

  Tomas’s nervous eyes darted around.

  Where were the knights in shining armour? The line of banners? The courageous speeches by his superiors to boost morale?

  Are any of the old stories of war true?

  Most of these soldiers in the vanguard lacked any proper equipment. Some had blunt weapons, dinged-up swords, and hammers with split handles. A few had even carried pitchforks and machetes from their homesteads. Others were lucky enough to have some chainmail and metal helmets, but most wore padded gambesons, cheap leather, and furs.

  Tomas was fortunate enough to have a wooden shield on his back.

  Yet, he knew this was possibly his last day alive.

  These breaths the final ones they would ever draw.

  That was a sickening thought.

  A soldier in the row behind Tomas fell forwards as vomit came spewing out from the gaps in his helmet’s visor. The smell was sickening.

  Another young man, a farmer, was stricken with fear, wailing for his mother.

  “I don’t want to die. Please, I don’t want to die. We are going to die.”

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Rilan whispered to Tomas sarcastically.

  Next to Tomas stood his good friend, Rilan. They had been conscripted together on the same day, given that they lived in the same village and were young, able-bodied men.

  He looked to Rilan, paralysed with fear. Rilan’s nervous eyes spoke louder than any words.

  All their lives, Tomas and Rilan had wished to leave Brittlepeak. They daydreamed of mysterious travellers, an alchemist in need of his aid, or veteran knights seeking young apprentices.

  Conscription was initially a source of excitement, until they realised that their dreams had no basis in reality. This wasn’t what they had wished for in the slightest.

  “This doesn’t bode well,” Rilan muttered. Strands of his bright blond hair stuck out from beneath his father’s old helmet he wore. His scared eyes were narrowed ahead.

  “If we stick together, we will make it out of this,” Tomas said. But did he truly believe those words?

  The Akurai army had many more soldiers than the levies that Tomas’s regional command had put together within the week. They had sallied forth out from the town they had been stationed at to defend from the invaders- a small village named Barrowtown.

  Ironic.

  Many of the mounds and hills scattered amongst the field were ancient barrows, filled with countless dead. Nature had taken them back with hundreds of years’ worth of soil, rock, and vegetation coverings.

  There they st
ood, a battalion of levies, made up of regional farmers, fisherman, stevedores, and smithies. Forced to wield spear and shield and sword for their kingdom against the foreign invader.

  Tomas himself was the son of a butcher. He had no experience in fighting and had no will to die on some far away field. Rilan was only a mason. Despite Brittlepeak being many miles away over the horizon, Tomas was longing for the comfort that home brought. He always felt at the very least guarded in his home village, sitting in a valley at the base of Mooncrest Mountain.

  The clatter of armour from someone fainting in the distance snapped Tomas back into the moment. He took a deep breath in; he knew he had to be strong if he wanted to live to see the next day.

  “What chance do we stand?” an older man whimpered a few rows back. Tomas turned to look at the man. His white beard and pale eyes underneath the leather skullcap atop his head hinted at a long life behind him. “This is one of the Empire’s armies. How many more they got? We’re outnumbered, they got better weapons, better armour-”

  “Quiet, old man,” another interrupted. “Nobody wants to hear your ramblings.”

  “He’s right though! We are gonna die!” a boy with brown teeth called out.

  Just like that, morale began to shatter.

  The crows in the sparsely separated oak trees began squawking excitedly.

  The men and boys all around muttered to each other. Some threw their weapons down. One ran the opposite way. Tomas and Rilan looked at one-another. They were young, naïve. They didn’t want to be here. They didn’t know what to do.

  All the while, the Akurai units before them marched closer. They would soon be within distance of their archers.

  Tomas stood strong. Perhaps it was from fear; perhaps it was confusion. But it certainly was not out of courage.

  He tucked his hand under his collar, making sure the key was still hanging around his neck. Thankfully, it was. He held it tight, as if it were giving him the ounce of resolve he needed.

  Dissent spread through the vanguard like the pox before a booming voice howled out over the chaos.

  “Enough!” It was the field captain. Tomas only knew of him by the name of Gharland.

  Gharland approached towards the front line on horseback, his steel armour looked fresh-forged. Flowing behind him in the wind was an exquisite ocean-blue mantle cape; Tomas had never seen anything like it. A longsword sat comfortably in the scabbard on his hip, the pommel of which had the sigil of the Broken Coast engraved into it. A shark’s open jaws with serrated teeth, encircled by a border of seaweed.

  Gharland stared at the approaching invaders, then turned back at the quieting vanguard. “Your unruliness sickens me,” Gharland bellowed. His eyes were small and beady, and his moustache twitched as he spat at Tomas and the other levies.

  “Here I am, forced to lead a band of destitutes and scroungers in defence of the Broken Coast. Look at you all. A sorry mob of cravens.” No one wanted to be here, no one more so than Gharland, by the look of things.

  Snickering at Gharland’s rear on horseback was one of the field officers named Britus.

  Tomas lowered his eyes, not wanting to draw attention to himself as Gharland paced back and forth throwing insults at his men.

  The Akurai forces took positions several hundred metres ahead, waiting. They did not want to lead the charge yet. The longer they waited, the more fear and dissent they would spread in this ravel of levies.

  “You, there?!” Gharland spat. Tomas felt shock run through his body, thinking he had been called out. But Gharland was pointing at another young lad down the line, who must have been a few years younger than Tomas.

  The boy’s lower lip quivered. “A-aye, ser?” he stuttered.

  “What is your profession?”

  “B-b-baker, ser.”

  Gharland snickered, before sitting upright on his horse. “We are here to defend our homes and our land from these heretic sacks of shit. These Imperial scum do not speak Alyrian. They know not our ways of life. They are barbarians from across the sea, sent to destroy us. House Stoneheart wants these bastards off our land. So, we are gonna push them back into the sea and send them crying home to Avarwyth with their tails between their legs.

  “Akurai do not belong on the Broken Coast! Do Akurai belong on the Broken Coast?!”

  Many of the soldiers shouted, “No, ser!”

  “The 12 Laws state that we all must “obey our liege” and “fight the unholy.” If we die, we will transcend and take our rightful place in the æther with our fallen kin. King Ulmer, your king, has called for us. He demands your aid. You are peasants; you are his levies. Get your shit together and hold your fucking positions. You will charge when you hear the signal or I will kill you myself.”

  Gharland spurred his mount through the front line with Britus close behind towards the other higher-ranking officers at the rear of the army, where they would be safe surrounded by dozens of men-at-arms. He continued shouting orders as he rode.

  “Was that supposed to inspire us?” Rilan asked sarcastically. A bunch of the soldiers chuckled under their breath; Tomas included.

  Tomas had never laid eyes on Ulmer Stoneheart, king of the Broken Coast. He wondered how many battles he had seen in his lifetime… and how many he had actually fought in. He questioned how fair all of this was.

  “Tommy,” Rilan whispered.

  Tomas’s hands began to shake again. “What?”

  “Do you remember that time when we were younger, when we walked in on your father slaughtering that lamb in his butcher shop?”

  Tomas shuddered. Why would Rilan bring this up now? Is he trying to make me feel even worse?

  Rilan continued, “We were so little. We didn’t know that that’s where his produce came from. We never knew. That’s why he never let us in the back of the shop again.”

  Tomas gulped. He remembered that day clearly in his mind. The lamb’s squeal. The blood-covered blade. His father’s hands around the scruff of its neck.

  “We were so horrified… so scared,” Rilan said. “Do you remember what we did next?”

  Tomas smiled, nodding. “We went out the back, let free all the lambs from the pen.”

  “Watched them run into the Fist! Your father was so angry!” Rilan and Tomas laughed nervously to themselves. “But they got away. He never found them.”

  It was a fond end to a very horrible memory.

  And then, in the distance, a command was shouted- “Archers, ready!”

  Tomas felt his muscles tense up and his heart race.

  “I feel like those lambs, Tomas,” Rilan whispered. Tomas could hear the fear in his voice. “But I don’t think anybody is going to come rescue us today.”

  Hundreds of arrows shout out from the rear, whizzing through the air with a deafening whistle.

  “Vanguard, charge!”

  A horn blew, louder than anything Tomas had heard before.

  The vanguard rushed forward as a mass of hundreds, shaking the ground.

  Tomas and Rilan forced themselves forward with the rest of them.

  I’m going to die.

  ※

  The two armies collided chaotically and unevenly like waves upon the rocky coast. The sound was ear-splitting. Thousands of men shrieking; swords and spears clashing upon metal and flesh.

  The Akurai Imperials were equipped with thick, black-and-green plate armour and striking helmets which bore spikes on top. Their soldiers stood at least a foot taller than the men defending their lands. They were a fierce match.

  Tomas and Rilan stuck side by side as their section of the vanguard met the enemy’s. In an instant, Tomas’s world was consumed by darkness.

  Mud was kicked up by all the running soldiers. Blood sprayed out in all directions. Boys shrieked. Weapons were knocked from the hands of soldiers. Bodies fell into the once-grassy mud.

  Tomas’s ears rang with the deafening noise.

  He felt his spear bounce off a foe’s shield before his body collided at full s
peed into the wall of tower shields before him. The line of spears did little on the initial charge- the army of green and black exploded through the ill-equipped forces of the Broken Coast.

  Those impaled fell screaming. The rest fought on, adrenaline pumping through the air like a suffocating mist.

  Tomas was swallowed up in the turmoil. His spear snapped in half by the swing of someone’s sword.

  The soldier next to him grabbed a Akurai helmet that had been knocked to the ground, smacking it over the head of another with an almighty crunch. The spikes atop the helmet pierced the metal armour with ease and the Imperial dropped like a deadweight, the helmet impaled in his.

  Tomas’s face became covered in mud and muck thrown up by the pandemonium. It was in his eyes, his mouth. He coughed as mud and blood spattered into his airways with each shaky breath he took. He stumbled backwards but fell into other soldiers.

  There were friends and enemies on all sides, in all directions.

  A weapon. I need a weapon!

  Tomas drew his shortsword from the scabbard hanging on his belt. A Akurai soldier standing at least eight-feet tall spotted an easy target in Tomas, and raced towards him, raising a menacing mace into the air.

  In complete terror, Tomas stood his ground before ducking underneath the strong swing of the soldier at the very last second. He rose from behind as the Imperial stepped too far forwards, the shortsword slicing through the thin layer of armour at his lower belly with all the strength Tomas could muster.

  It was a lucky cut.

  The Imperial soldier fell screaming, his guts spilling out like a fishing bucket overflowing with catch.

  Tomas froze in the chaos, staring down at the kneeling man as he struggled to collect his innards with his bloody hands.

  The Akurai soldier wailed. It was unlike anything Tomas had ever heard before. The pain in his moaning, the fear in his screams.