Iltaran Family/Dark Vision

There were too many of them.

At a rational level, Askarn had known there would be too many. Even a week ago, when the situation had seem merely dire, there had been too many. Since then the legion had merely swelled, their victims reanimated by some sorcery beyond human understanding. Yet how could a man remain objective at the end of all things? Old Grehk, the Kingdom that had stood tall against the first, second and third invasions of Beluaterra had finally been laid low by the fourth. Her people dead or scattered, her lands ravaged and burnt, her rulers helpless before the powers that had been unleashed.

A lifetime ago, at his coronation, Askarn had sworn to the nobles surrounding him that he would not be the last King of Old Grehk. Now, as he gazed across the battlefield taking in the numberless horde, those words whispered treacherously in his mind. Soon Ossmat would be gone and the heart of the realm would be gone with it. Another might claim his throne when he was gone and rule over a few scraps of Vagabond’s mighty empire. But Old Grehk, home of the children of the Dragon, would be gone. All that was left was for him to die with it.

All along the line, the armies of Old Grehk and Sint readied themselves for battle, some fifteen hundred warriors strong. Not the mightiest force they had ever marshalled, there had been too many deaths already for that, but a strong host nonetheless. Most of the lords were known to him, comrades of dozens of battles. His soldiers were newer, recruited from the Ossmat Guards to replace Eodred and the Huscarls who had fallen in the first counterattack, but desperate struggles in the city streets had taught them fast.

The sound of trumpets heralded the advance of the human armies. Horses snorted as their riders urged them on, while the men at arms began the tattoo of blade against shield. Raising his war hammer high, Askarn shouted “For the Dragon! For Old Grehk!”, the troops around him echoing the warcry. Across the battlefield the undead poured forth, a silent throng of bone and putrid flesh. The distance closed to a few metres and both armies charged, dead and living throwing themselves on one another.

Askarn lowered his shoulder, driving forward with his shield. He struck the undead in front of him at speed, a jarring pain spreading along his left arm as the Wight was shoved back. The war hammer struck forwards, smashing into the breastplate the creature still wore. All around him came the deafening sounds of metal on metal, but at the same time the world shrunk into his surrounds. The dead warrior shook off Askarn’s blow, trying to stab underneath his shield. He was faster though, pushing the blade down with his shield. In the same moment he struck out again, crushing its skull.

From the corner of his eye he saw another one, stepping into a gap in the line to his right; whether by some residual talent or luck, attacking him from the side away from his shield. An overhead blow hammered against his armour, but the steel plate did it’s work. Replying he struck at his foe’s forearm, forcing it out of position for a second, then dropping the unnatural thing as his next attack hit home on its leg.

Though it took mere seconds, it was too long. Each one of the dead was replaced instantly by a comrade, while the human line was already falling apart. As Askarn turned back he saw the head of a halberd cutting towards him. Desperately he deflected it with his shield, but then they were all around. Askarn howled in pain and rage as a blow struck his right side. Throwing himself forward, he barged into the enemy, losing his weapon as he tumbled into the mud. The terrible smell of decay suddenly struck him, stomach lurching as the King lashed out wildly with a gauntleted fist. A chilling crack sounded as it connected with something.

Desperately he reached for his short sword, training disregarding the futility of the movement. Askarn drew himself into a ball, trying to protect himself. A blade slipped between the plates of his armour, piercing the chain mail beneath and sinking into his flesh.

So falls the Askarn the Last, he thought, sounding oddly detached even to himself. Kingdom and King died together and he was content.