* * *
King Donathan of Ae’brinthil
raised his sweaty head from the cot. Immediately two healers rushed to his side. He
winced as burning pain radiated from two cuts across his bandaged chest.
“Lie back
down, your majesty,” said one of the healers, placing a wet cloth to the king’s
forehead.
“Did we… are
they gone?” Donathan mumbled, his curly brown hair matted with sweat and blood.
“We don’t
know yet, Your Highness. You must rest.”
At that
moment, Donathan heard the clinking of armor as a man ran to the door of the
tent and slipped inside. “Your Majesty!” said the man. Donathan looked up
blearily. He recognized the voice of his civil elf lieutenant.
“Are they
gone, Gryar?”
“Yes, my
liege! The fiends have been banished, every last one of them! Are you well
enough to announce it to the troops?”
“No,” said
one of the healers, stepping between the two men. “Can you do it in his place,
sir? The king is still recovering. The demons’ fel blades have wounded him, and
we need to get one of the priesthood here to—”
“I’m fine,”
said Donathan, his heart taking courage. “Just help me up.”
“Your
Highness, I must protest. Those wounds need to—”
“I said help
me up. That’s a command by order of the king. Or a decree, or whatever pleases
you,” said Donathan, looking the healer in the eyes. Whatever the healer saw
made him yield. The two healers helped him to his feet, and Gryan placed the
king’s crown on Donathan’s sweaty brow. The burning on his chest made him want
to wince, but he focused his mind on the truth at hand. The fiends were gone. They had won. The crusade was
over.
The men
helped the king limp out of the tent into the open air. The smells of blood and
sulfur hung heavy in the air. Though Orovion was in a tropical part of
Argaenothruzil, the sky was dark, and the cold wind bit into
Donathan’s sweaty face like icicles.
They made
their way past dozens of other tents, the sounds of moaning coming from some of
them. “Stop,” said Donathan. “I wish to announce it here first. To the wounded
and dying.”
“As you wish,
sire,” said Gryan. They were near the center of the camp, and all of the
healing tents would likely be able to hear him from here. He helped the king up
onto the back of a cart. It was as good a platform as any other for now.
The king
stood proudly, though he was out of breath, and Gryan gave him a singed banner
to prop himself up on. To his surprise, however, the king merely lifted the
banner aloft and spoke in a booming voice that echoed across the camp.
“Hear me, my
brave men. It is finished! The demons have been confirmed banished back to the
Dungeon Realm from whence they came! The sacrifice of each one of you has
brought this victory for us this day. Not one of you has fought without injury,
and I count myself among you. The sting of the fiends’ blades burns hot across
my breast, but just like the demons have faded from this realm’s reality, so
too will all your pain.
“I say to each
of you courageous warriors: live! Do not succumb to oblivion. Live on, and tell
your children and grandchildren of this day! Let the victory sink into your
hearts. The fight is over. The fiends have lost. The hopelessness and dread of
the last year is nothing more than a memory now.”
Heads began
poking out of tents, and healers in their white garb began leading the wounded
from their tents to watch the spectacle in the middle of camp. Donathan stood
in majesty in the midst of them, his silvery armor sliced in two places on his
chest, his hair matted, his cape torn, but his crown bright.
“This is not
a victory of Ae’brinthil, nor is it one of Orovion, nor yet of Argaenothruzil
itself. This is a victory of light! The gods have made us a sword in their
hands, and have severed the arms of the Other Three from the world. No longer
will we fear the onslaught of demons! Together, we have banished them from this
realm, and there they will stay! Let Third Generation, year one thousand
twenty-eight, be a date remembered by future generations as the Year of the
Final Crusade!”
Cheers
erupted from all around the camps. Gryan was astonished at the vigor that came
from dying men, elves, dwarves and halflings from all sides. Donathan raised
the banner higher. Its image was that of a half-circle of six white stars on a
yellow field. Gryan joined his cheers with those of everyone else. He wouldn’t
have to worry about the world ending for quite a while. It was a good feeling.
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