The Judgment
A young man stood alone in the field, the cold winter sun glinting off his gold-colored eyes. The chill wind pierced through his armor like so many tiny daggers, chilling his muscular frame to the bone. He stared into the forest before him, his expression serious, as always. He heard a rustling come from behind him, and his right hand was immediately on the hilt of the great-sword he wore across his back.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and swiftly drew the massive sword from its sheath, pointing the tip at whoever had touched him. When he saw who was standing there, he lowered the sword and apologized, brushing back his short brown hair.
“Tyalan, how many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me like that? I could have killed you.” The young man said calmly. “So, I take it our scouts have located the enemy encampment?”
“Yes, Rothun, we have found them. They aren’t too far from here. They’re just beyond this forest.”
“Good. Tell the men that I’ll be expecting their help.”
“But there are too many of them for you to handle alone!” Tyalan cried feebly. He knew that when Rothun set his mind to something, there was no talking him out of it.
“We shall see.” The muscular youth said as he returned the great-sword to its sheath and turned his back on his friend. How cold he seemed, even to those who knew him well. His expression was always serious, made all the more intense by his strong jaw line. He had a face that seemed to have been carved out of granite, but at the same time it was handsome. His eyes, in particular, stood out. They were golden in color, like the grains of wheat in a field ready for harvest.
It was night by the time Rothun made it within sight of the enemy camp; perfect timing. His dark-blue dragon scale armor blended in nicely with the night sky, and he could clearly see what was going on in the camp because of the large bonfires. As Rothun turned his sight down to the camp, he wondered why these men had rebelled against the empire. The new emperor had brought an end to the constant battling and united the nations. He had reduced the number of the poor… And yet these men stood against him.
A twig snapped from behind him. Immediately he drew his sword and wrapped both his hands around it. If he had been seen, he had to be certain that he could kill the man before he returned to camp. It was a lose-lose situation for him, but he would take the lesser of two evils. He began to quietly chant something in the strange language of magic. His sword suddenly began to glow brightly, and then, it burst into white-hot flame!
He could now see his foe, and knew that it had been a waste. What stood before him was merely a goblin. The wretched beast couldn’t have killed him even if Rothun had fought against it empty-handed. “So much for surprise.” He muttered as he swept the burning blade in a wide arc. The goblin had been split in two. It’s halves fell in opposite directions, but no blood was spilled because the intense heat of the blade had already cauterized the wound.
Rothun was sure that his reckless use of magic had alerted the entire rebel camp of his position. He had no option now, but to move. There would likely be search parties, and though he would be difficult to spot in his dark-blue armor, it would be difficult to hide. Of course, hiding does not suit a knight anyway. Regardless, he would have to move swiftly to make it to another safe vantage point.
About fifteen minutes had passed before the unorganized rebels had managed to assemble search parties, giving Rothun plenty of time to relocate. He could tell from his new position that there were all kinds of races in the camp below, but most were human. He could also tell by the disorganized manner of operations that these rebels were not trained for military campaigns, the size of the camp making things all the more inefficient. While it did make his job easier, Rothun did feel slightly sorry that he had to eliminate them. He knew, though, that if they were left alone, the rebels would eventually gather up enough support to become an actual threat to the empire.
Reconnaissance had become a bore. Now it was time to come up with a combat plan. Rothun did not know how long it would take the imperial army to arrive at the camp, but he didn’t have time to wait. These rebels had been difficult to locate because of their constant movement, and Rothun did not want to risk losing them again. He would have to storm the camp alone. Though he was a master swordsman and skilled in the use of fire magic, he doubted he could take out a group the size of a small army, even if they were just rogues and bandits.
Regardless of the outcome, he could not pass up this opportunity. He unsheathed his great-sword and clasped both his hands around the hilt again. Once more he slipped into a trance-like state and began chanting words of magic. But unlike last time, he plunged the tip of his sword deep into the ground. As he did so, a giant fissure appeared and began to open in the direction of the camp.
When the giant pit reached the first of the tents in the camp, it swallowed it and then disappeared! By this time, Rothun was already racing down the hill towards the camp, his sword glittering coldly in the moonlight. Several of the more responsive rogues began to race up at the hill towards him, while others began shooting arrows.
As the first of the rogues reached Rothun, he met a swift end as Rothun’s great-sword came down on him. The blade bit through the neck of another rogue in the return stroke, which came as quickly as the initial blow. As Rothun cut down the last of his foes, an arrow glanced off of his left pauldron. Although the blow did nothing to wound Rothun, it did somewhat anger him. He was now lost in battle-lust and would see this through to the end. He began chanting again, but this time he simply pointed his left hand at his foes and a fireball leapt forth from his palm.
When the fireball made contact, it exploded and several tents near the unfortunate archers caught fire. But by this time, the great majority of the large camp had rallied to fight this powerful foe. Thousands of men, elves, goblins, and even a few ogres had been called to prove their mettle. It seemed impossible for Rothun to take on an enemy of such size, but he was confident that his troops would make it to the camp on time. The rogues had managed to assemble into battle formations and were already marching towards the single man who dared stand against them.
While powerful, Rothun could not take on an enemy of this size, but he would not retreat. He was a knight, and he would die before giving up his honor. He began chanting once more, spread his arms and brought his hands together. As he moved his hands, a wall of fire leapt up where he had pointed his hands. The blaze illuminated what was to be the battlefield; a stony hillside, and Rothun held the upper ground. Tactically speaking, Rothun had the advantage, but he was too greatly outnumbered for his position to make much of a difference. He did, however, manage to rout his enemies.
And then the rain of arrows began. The cold steel tips fiercer than hailstones. He had left his shield back in the camp, and there was nowhere for him to take cover. He had nearly exhausted his magical abilities. He would need to rest to replenish his energy, but he could cast one more spell until that time. The wall of magical fire was beginning to die, and in some places, all that remained of the blaze was smoldering earth. He would need to time the casting perfectly in order to maximize the damage.
He began his final chant, but the words came out tiredly. He pointed his great-sword towards the sky above the army of rogues. As soon as the chant was finished, a bolt of fire shot towards the sky, but when it reached the space above the army, it stopped, suspended in midair. Suddenly, fire began to rain down on the army from the focal point, just as the first of the arrows began to rain down on Rothun. All he was able to do to shield himself from the onslaught was to hold his sword above his head.
Most of the arrows missed, but a few made their mark. One pierced his right arm – his sword arm – between the pauldron and cuirass. A second arrow bit through his left thigh. Wincing with the pain, he still stood defiantly before the sea of rogues. They were already charging towards him. His final spell had only managed to slay about two hundred of them. Four times that number was now advancing towards him, only angered by the fact that he stood alone.
He was injured and magically exhausted. He would die here, fighting to defend the empire that he had fought to help establish. But he would gladly give his life for this noble cause. Just before the first wave reached him, he heard a battle cry come from the trees behind him. Arrows shot up from the trees in such great numbers that they seemed a single mass. Just before the first swordsman cut down Rothun, Tyalan led the imperial army through the trees. The rogues were stunned by the sight of the army. All they could do was flee before the might of the battle-hardened soldiers.
