The Condona Hills

Jahan was not a man that many would have happily admitted relationship or blood to, but he was a brilliant tactician and any one who claimed anything to the contrary was either ignorant and jealous or possibly both. The low hill that hid the surging troops from the Alranian army was chosen for the very purpose of its height but gentle sloop. The enemy would charge it; unaware of how high it was until they began to crawl and then the arrows of the Mystenian archers would wash them as a rain did the ants from a boulder... Or so they hoped; the battle had yet to be fought... yet to be won.

Seated upon his brown dappled stallion, General Amsel sighed softly, hanging his head ever so slightly as he wiped his wet forehead with the back of his hand. Even now he could hear the angry voice of his future king ringing in his fading ears. He was old and each breath he took prolonged it. The sun was setting in a golden crimson array that he found beautiful. His deeply creased lips formed a smile as he closed his eyes. How many sunsets had he seen? How many of them as the blood of the enemy? How many golden as the hair of his granddaughters?

Soon he would lead his soldiers out to battle and the crimson sun sets would be no more. His last battle this would be; he felt it in his very bones. His eyes opened and he looked back toward the encampment. There were no fires and no tents; stealth and surprise were their greatest weapons as of now... and he could not help but feel rather helpless with this fact sinking into his mind. There were more Alranian troops... with more to replace their dead. He had only what sat on the cold ground. No auxiliary... each was precious; with no brother to replace him.

"For General Amsel." A young female courier hurried to the side of his horse, her youthful features flushed from a long ride and run.
"Thank you, my dear." he murmured, taking the missive she handed up to him. She scurried away and he strained in the fading light to see the thin writing. Nine pages of instructions in the delicate feminine script of Jahan's scribe... truly the gods had indeed cursed him.

"You need not read it now..." The sultry voice of his second-in-command washed over him and he could not help but smile.
"Chloris..." he murmured, peace rising over his fear of the enemy as her gloved hand reached up to take the pages of letter from him. Her dark eyes glowed in the faint light of her flaming torch.
"Gerard..." she returned, heat touching up his spine at her whisper. Indeed he had never heard a voice so husky yet subtly feminine and overly sensual before in his life. And that fact alone was enough to warm him thoroughly.
"I fear this battle." he whispered. She clicked her tongue in an admonishing manner, roughly taking the pages from him.
"You do not, my love." she assured him. "It merely baits and vexes thee." Although he did wish to agree with her, Amsel shook his head.
"This is to be a final." The last petulant rays of the dying sun faded and they were left with only the faint glow of her light.

"All soldiers believe each battle is to be their last, this is no different." General Vogel insisted, folding the letter and sliding it into its leather roll before tucking it into the horse's saddle bag.
"Ah, but it is. I do not believe what lies before me; I feel it. As the mother knows her child's pain and a bird its prey; so do I feel my death. Tis not my fear." He watched her head fall to rest against the horse's side. She was a small woman; a fact that he often forgot due to her exuberant strength in both battle and calm.
"Indeed, for death is not something to fear." she returned after a slow thoughtful moment. Swinging his legs over the side of his horse, he slid to the ground, catching the reigns with his hand.

They made their way back toward the "camp", with both of them lost in silent thought.
"Shall thy pillow be marked upon my death?" he asked, desiring to know how much pain he would cause her.
"Nay, for tears do not properly grieve a great warrior. Tis best in deed and blood." her response lifted his heart, as he knew she would never lie to him.
"And you shall take my place beneath Jahan and his beasts of fire." At this she paused, the white of her head covering stark against the night as she turned to him.
"Never beneath him... For as thy death hath been felt so hath Jahan's." This lifted his eyebrow.
"By whom?"
She did not reply; instead taking his lone hand from the reigns, she pulled him away from his horse and into the forest.

"The Vana has passed to King Oberon son of Wodon." she whispered, as they walked. "The very moment of its passing it is said that Jahan felt his heart tremble within his chest."
"How did this reach thee?" Amsel hated to even think that his men would be sacrificed for the vain blood lust of a doomed desired-king.
"Thy son, rode far to spread news of this fact." He closed his eyes, reaching to touch the bridge of his nose. It was all for folly. They were written to a defeat before the first song of arrow.

"Surely the letter speaks of retreat." She insisted, but he knew better. Jahan would not retreat, not till death took him.
"Alas... if it were so." he pulled the leather from the following beast and she shone the torch nearer as they skipped his long greetings.
"Plans for battle..." Not surprised by what his eyes read; although not pleased, Amsel allowed Vogel to take the pages from him.
"He is mad." she whispered, but the note of hopelessness was also in her voice.
"Indeed, but we hath known since his very birth."

Suddenly he felt Chloris' arms wrap around him and her face buried itself against his chest. For a moment he thought she may begin to cry; but years of friendship and more had never seen a tear and thus he knew she only would sigh and hold him tightly. His arm returned the embrace and they stood in silent comfort as the trickle of time moved forward and their ill-fates awaiting grew less and less.

"Know this." She stated softly, looking straight up into his face. "I shall not allow Mystenia to fall to Alrania again as long as I breath."
He nodded. What more could she promise him; nothing else was within her power.

That night they passed pouring over the detailed battle strategy of Jahan. His plan was flawless but despite this fact they did not take comfort in it. The calvary would ride forth to attack the Alranian army and then lead them back to the hill; allowing for the archers who lay hidden to attack. The footmen would swarm in from all angles at that moment and there was a chance... slim, but possible that in the chaos, Mystenia would win the day.

Morning reached forth to bid the sky greetings and in near silence preparations for battle began.

The low nicker of horses was covered by the whistle of the wind in the trees and the soft rustle of armour and steel was melted by the long calls of flying birds. Swords were sharpened under the flawless sky and spears soon dotted the grassy forest above the hill, hidden well by the trees and plant life. Bow bent and released, as their owners prepared them for long use and arrows were inspected to insure correct paths.

Dull crash after crash shook the land as four mighty dragons settled themselves for war, each blinking lizard like eyes and rolling large mouths prepared for the flesh of men and horse. Watching them, General Vogel shuddered inwardly. Such beasts should not fight along side men; it was a mockery to the honour of battle. But to say such a thing would also dishonour as her king had sent for them. With assistance from her guard, she mounted her horse and settled into the saddle. The glinting sun reflected of the armour of two hundred mounted knights as she led them around the hill and toward their waiting enemy. Her axe hung from her horse's saddle and she reached down to touch it; additional peace brought to her mind as its cool blade was felt against her finger tips. Her gloves soon covered her hands for protection sake as she lifted her helmet to her head. Covered in armour, with a heavy shield and helmet, she was no longer a person; no longer a woman. Simply an axe-weilding general with no thoughts of mercy.

Above on the hill, Amsel watched the calvary ride out to bait the trap. He breathed a silent prayer to the god of death to give Vogel a death of ease, should it come to her. What more could he do... nothing else was within his power. The dragons snorted behind him and he slammed his visor shut.

The Alranian camp, though large, was hidden well by cover of forest a short distance away from the Hills. Tents specially dyed to blend in with forest greenery dotted the clearing. A bloodied orange-red morning sun was on its way, turning the dull turquoise of twilight a tainted but distinct purple-lavender. Many of the troops were already awake, suited, and armed for the long day of battle that was ahead, forming the pre-arranged ranks. Whether they were truly prepared was debatable, having only had a small amount of time before being called into service, but they would serve their king well.


A young woman slipped out of Theseus’s tent and darted into the woods, heading back to Dorpha to wait with a head and heart full of worries and hopes. She prayed to the gods her prince would be kept safe from much of the ills his foes would attempt to do unto him. Hopefully her love and what little magic she was able to do would be enough to bolster his defenses all that much more. At least she had the blissful night previous to remember... and the bittersweet memory of assisting him into his armor, until he returned.


Within Oberon’s tent, the king sat before a map of the present locale. The Mystenian troops would not be far from here, he knew, but the problem rested in determining where they would make their first strike against him and his troops. Ample cover was provided by the Condona Hills and the surrounding forest. If only they could get there first to use the hills to their advantage... yet Jahan had who knows how many days ahead of him in the planning of battle strategy. He had, after all, plotted the precise means to goad him into starting this battle in the first place. Regardless of it all Oberon knew much rested on this battle and the ones to come. While his mother and daughter may have in fact gotten away from their assailants, Oberon would be damned to the nine circles of Hell before he allowed Jahan to think he could get away with even attempting to kill some of those that were closest to his heart. Many sons and husbands had been taken in the massacre as it were, and news of these actual deaths grieved the king equally... It was for them as much as for his loved ones that this retribution must not fail!

Dark blue eyes slowly rose from the map. “Bayard...” the King called to his attendant.

“Yes sire?” asked the suited knight, his helmet wedged between his arm and his hip as he made to bow to the seated monarch. The timbre of his voice was leagues deeper than the king’s own, almost reminiscent of a bullfrog.

“Bring my armor. It is time to move out...” he ordered with a softness that was as deadly as it appeared gentle.

* * *

Oberon stepped out of his tent, all of him heavily armored once again with exception of his head. He gazed to the sun and sent one last prayer to the gods that they would keep him and his men safe in battle, or to give them decent deaths should the worst happen. The prayer also included a sense of peace for his family no matter what fate decided to make of this war. Armor rustled noisily as he strode over to one of the few remaining stallions that were not mounted and ready to begin the trek anew.

With the same gloved hand adorned with the Vana, the sight of the magical ring caused him to hope his mother had returned and saw to a physician as Oberon stroked the horse’s nose. “We ride out again, my friend... Let us both pray for victory,” he murmured to the creature. Attendants attempted to help him into the saddle, but Oberon refused any and all assistance other than someone holding onto his helmet and shield. With a barely-noticeable ‘oof’ from the man and a sound of slight protest from the beast, Oberon righted himself on the horse. The king reached for his helmet and slowly placed it upon his head, eyes closing at the feel of cold steel encasing his head. Because of the defect in his sense of sight, Oberon preferred to keep his visor up or not wear the wretched thing at all. Next he took his shield, sliding the sturdy leather straps over his left forearm and gripping the metal handle-hold tightly. “Prepare your mounts. We ride when you are ready,” he ordered his attendants. They made haste to do as commanded.

Sapphire eyes surveyed the sea of Alranian soldiers as a tingling sensation ran up the back of the king’s neck. How many would make it out of the coming battle to fight another day? Who would be returning home to join the memorial service held only days prior, causing gravestones to litter where a stone will be erected with the names of those known lost but bodies unfound? What truly drove these men to fight beside him? Oberon couldn’t afford to be beset with these thoughts when the battle fired up, but at this moment it couldn’t be helped. Whatever happened out there... Oberon would appreciate the efforts of all of his men, for better or for worse. Beatrix had trained some of them to perfection. Despite his rough words to her days ago, the king sincerely wished the General were at his side now. But alas, she was still in the capitol consolidating more troops, and awaiting the arrival of probable Lancaster-ian forces. Oberon had sent such a letter with a messenger nearly the same day he declared war.

Those same eyes hardened to the strength of dragon’s hide as he unsheathed his sword with much noise to gain the attention of the men. To give those further back who would not have heard the same call to attention, Oberon sent a light but noticeable quake to shudder beneath their armored feet with his newfound elemental powers. “We ride for Condona Hills, either to enable the cover provided for our own... or to reclaim the land from enemy hands! You will show them no mercy unless it is to hasten Death’s hand, for that is the only courtesy they will give you! Days prior as we prepared for war, many of us mourned our lost brothers... but now... now it is time to avenge them! ... SO LONG AS WE STILL BREATHE, WE SHALL NOT LET ALRANIA FALL!!” Oberon boomed in his lion’s roar of a rallying voice.

After waiting a short while for the company’s thunderous returned response, Oberon led the troops out of the camp and towards the Hills, sword still drawn though not held as high as before until he caught sight of what he thought was a figure some distance away in the Hills. The king swore under his breath and signaled with his shielded arm for caution and weapons to be readied. If only the Vana had the power to correct his defected vision... although Oberon was almost certain what he saw was not some wild creature but the start of enemy troops to steadily canter down the hill.

In the final moments of calm before the battle was upon them, Oberon sent out one last prayer that Alrania would be victorious and their losses as few as the Gods deemed appropriate.