The Freetown Bridge

Prologue 1: 791ac - Frisia

Prologue 1: 791ac - FrisiaThe bitter cold morning sun shed watery light into the wide gully at the foot of the granite cliffs. Sickened by the run and bone-weary from days of forced marching on few rations, the soldiers flung themselves into a single rank stretching out more than a mile. It was a sight to behold, such a mass of bodies standing shoulder to shoulder on the Frisian border, blood running high.

Caught up in the sour, pungent musk of the foot soldiers, Tal Daris quivered. A juvenile whim had led him here. He had been almost in Aberddu, safe and free, when he had seen Belandrus' mighty army marching towards him. They were led by a battalion of heavily-armed Cloud Elves, riding proud on pure white warhorses with gold-armoured Belandrus himself, a blue plume rising from his helmet, at the very point of the formation.

To a displaced surf like Tal Daris, it seemed like a carnival. It was too much to bare. He had little left to lose now: Marial, his father, his home were all behind him. He had flopped tearfully on the side of the road, unable to fight against this overwhelming tide of traffic. All he could do was watch as they passed.

Thousands upon thousands of elven warriors marched in arms, both on foot and horseback, under liveries of all colours and creeds. Some wore the shining engraved armour of the proud Elven nations of Aragon or Alendria, others in mottled leather and more muted colours of the Elven Forest and Woods. Then came the human armies, dragging siege engines and cannon the like of which Tal Daris had never seen. After these smart regiments yet more thousands of ordinary men, women and children wielding whatever they could carry. Many were as shrivelled and dirty as Tal Daris, wild eyed and alive for the first time in weeks, some still carrying the packs they had fled with. They too must have lost everything, flung out from their homeland by pure-blood forces; starving and hopeless, and yet they held their heads high. After nearly two hours, he saw the end approaching, turned on his heels and raced into the back ranks.

General Belandrus galloped down the line, his proud mount making resonant thuds on the frozen ground. Behind him rode his commanders, colours streaming. He had noted with gloating satisfaction that the Frisian border garrison had withdrawn almost the moment that his army had arrived. They had not been expected. He had been prepared to meet troops head on at the border but so far nothing had come. All they could do was hold their ground and wait.

The sun climbed higher, bringing no extra warmth to the chilly border valley. Still no army came to meet the troops. The boiling rage of arrival had subsided, many of the soldiers had slumped to the ground; hungry and no longer fuelled by adrenaline. General Belandrus rode out once more, but his presence barely stirred them.

At noon, tired of waiting, the General mustered his troop once more and ordered them to move forward into Frisian territory. As one, the line charged with full fury towards the gruesome border markers: twisted skeletal creatures grimacing at them as they approached Frisian land.

Then, as they set foot across the border they began to fall.

Doubled with agony, Tal Daris fell to his knees, flinging his axe down as he clamped his hands across his belly. It felt as though someone had driven hot iron rods into him. All around him, he could hear the yells of others struck by the same invisible assailants, rendered helpless. More distressing perhaps than the cringing cries of pain were the guttural screams of the pure-blood soldiers overcome and enraged by the same force that now tormented their elven comrades. They lashed out in all directions unable to control themselves, beating the elves who were no longer in a position to resist.

Tal Daris must have been unconscious for several hours. By the time he came to, the sky was darkening and the field was all but empty. Dragging his tortured frame through the grass he could see the dead, twisted lumps of other elves, eyes still gazing in horror up at the empty sky. Fallen back in defeat, the Elven commanders seemed small. Their armour was smeared with their own blood and their eyes shaded with the horrors in their heads. Tal Daris heaved himself to standing and joined the haunted clusters where the rank should be.

As the sun set behind the slopes they had never managed to climb, a hundred or so riders appeared on the cliff top. Weakened by their ordeal, the army did not draw arms at the first sight of their opponents. The riders showed no signs of descent.

In the dimming light, it was impossible to see the faces of individual riders. None stood out as the leader. When a voice rang out across the valley, crystal clear reaching every ear, no one could see who the speaker was. Tal Daris remembered only the hatred and fear that overwhelmed him as the crimson glow of the sinking sun cast a shining red halo around the riders and the voice said,

“This land is for those who have earned it, those who deserve it. The pure blood. It will be cleansed, it will be washed with the blood of the unworthy. So is the word, so is the law, so sayeth the Inquisition.”