Clash of the Dragons 1

Clash of the Dragons 1 is an encounter in Against the King.
==Enemies==
* King Crenus (Clash of the Dragons 1) (100 Gold, 100 XP, 100 Energy, 2 HP)
==Transcript==
===Introduction===
Beneath a moon in silver wrought,
Where once brave men and dragons fought,
And heroes' blood our freedom bought,
As glory and grand deaths they sought,
Lay the prince of whom I sing.
The city and royal palace seemed
A silent tomb in which all dreamed,
Till his eyes opened and he screamed;
The boy who would be king.
***
Manfred grinned when the woman came through the door.
The newcomer wore an ankle-length brown dress of cheap material and inelegant design. At first glance she could have passed for a maidservant or washerwoman. But Manfred's eyes were sharp, at least when it came to assessing his customers. The garment was immaculate; it had never endured a minute's toil, let alone a week or month's. And the boots beneath its hem were the work of a cordwainer rather than a cobbler. Manfred's grin found the space to widen a little. She probably didn't realize just how many of the tavern's other patrons were kindred spirits, participants in the same charade.
She stayed in the doorway for some moments, gazing at the unruly mob who drank, ate, belched, and in a few cases slept, around the taproom. He knew that look. She was calculating whether she could make it to the bar without being robbed, stabbed, or worse. The conclusion must have satisfied her, because she came over -- though she looked askance in each direction as she approached.
"Are you the barkeep, good fellow?" she asked.
"I'm standing behind a bar, ain't I?" Manfred said.
The woman glanced down at the damp, scarred surface, and furrowed her brow. He continued to grin.
"First time in a pub?" he asked.
"Oh, no! I... I often drink in public houses, and pass out in puddles of my own regurgitated foodstuffs! I'm a simple village girl, you know. I have loose morals and dirt under my fingernails!"
She presented the latter to Manfred, who confirmed the artful application of grime. He was disappointed that she didn't try to demonstrate the former as well.
"Fancy a drink?"
"Actually, I..." She leaned over the bar, put her palm alongside her mouth, and whispered. "I heard you're accepting wagers. On the duel."
"Oh, you want to make a bet!" he said.
She cringed and looked over her shoulder. But instead of disapproving magistrates, irate angels, or whatever else she anticipated, there were only cheers and raised tankards. Thus emboldened, she turned back to Manfred.
"Ten gold on Crenus!" she said.
At least she'd got that part right, he mused. Yesterday one fop had tried to place a wager with a stake large enough to buy The Plundered Dungeon thrice over. Manfred had been forced to decline.
There were a few whistles and cries of support, along with a barrage of boos and hisses. Even the latter were good-natured. %name% was the heavy favorite among the locals, of course. What kind of Rester worth their salt wouldn't favor a descendant of the Dragon-Rider? But Manfred wasn't the only one benefitting from the influx of rich outsiders. Without enough of them coming and betting on the Selutha monarch, the game would've been impossible.
"The boy here'll take your name and give you your scrap," he said.
The kid waved his wad of torn parchment at the end of the bar. Had he held it the other way up, patrons would've seen the flourishing handwriting of a local priestess. Maybe someday she'd search the temple for her old sermons and wonder where she'd misplaced them...
His latest customer went to place her bet, while Manfred continued to grin. Some Resters had left town. They didn't want to be anywhere near the armies assembled to observe the fight. But people from far afield had converged on the settlement -- eager to watch from the rooftops, or merely be nearby, so they could brag to their children and grandchildren that they'd been there when the King of West Kruna battled a Kasan. Only a handful of his fellow townspeople were stupid enough to resent their presence.
According to Gil -- the ghost who haunted the fields whenever he could be bothered, and tried to strike up conversations with passersby when he couldn't -- Burden's Rest once enjoyed a bustling trade from tourists who came to visit the Dragon-Rider's birthplace or Roland's old tavern. Manfred didn't doubt it, but he'd seen precious little of that in his own lifetime. Until now. He was sure he'd sold more beer in the past few days than in the previous month, let alone the gold he'd be pulling in from all the wagers.
The door opened again. As before, the barkeep grinned.
His latest customer was as different from her predecessor as could be. Her breeches, doublet, and cape were of good cut. But they'd all seen hard use and, if Manfred was any judge, their fair share of fighting. The two swords at her belt weren't for decoration like some he'd seen of late. This was fine with Manfred, whose requirements when it came to the Dungeon's patrons weren't too particular. If they had enough money for a drink, and didn't wreck the place afterwards, that was usually good enough for him. Still, his grin wavered. This woman glanced around the tavern too. Yet he had the distinct impression that whilst the previous newcomer had been watching out for people who'd stab her, this one was looking for people she might wish to stab.
He held his breath. So far he'd been lucky. No belligerent royalists or rebel-supporters had barged into his bar to butt heads. Other than one punch-up in the square outside, which the guards soon broke up, Burden's Rest had only seen each side's coin and custom. Manfred hoped that wasn't about to change. If The Plundered Dungeon became the war's latest battlefield, it could be bad for business.
The young woman approached the bar. He repaired his grin.
"Drink?" he asked.
"Whisky."
He reached for a bottle.
"No," she said. "Not the watered down piss you've been serving them."
She cocked her head towards one of the tables, where a group of young men and women in fancy clothes were sipping their weak drinks and babbling in educated accents.
"Fair enough." Manfred picked up a different bottle and poured a measure into a small wooden cup. "Careful... This is str-"
The woman picked it up and knocked it back. Her other hand scattered a few coins on the bar.
"That enough for another?"
"Yeah..."
He poured again. This one disappeared as fast as the first. He coughed, and spoke more out of a desire to fill the space than anything else.
"So... Who'd you think's going to win today?"
"Roderick."
She walked away, leaving Manfred scratching his head.
***
Burden's Rest.
The small farming town nestles on the horizon, beyond the purple and steel formations, perhaps little different from that day a quarter of a millennium ago. Clusters of red and grey tiled roofs sprawl around the base of a modest keep, a simple and diminutive fortress that would look like a child's toy next to some of the grand castles you've seen. The place where Solus Tullian gave his life to protect the children and became a blue dragon's namesake. The new settlement to its right -- a city of tents and fluttering banners -- is far larger.
King Crenus' vanguard arrived here days ago, as did the first of the rebels. Many of your allies and enemies had already assembled by the time you arrived. Since then your growing forces have glared at one another across an expanse of grass and furrowed fields, studded with rows and rows of small green tufts. Rakshara asked you what kind of crops lay beneath the soil, but they could be turnips, carrots, or potatoes for all you know. It's been a long time since your family worked the land.
"Those lazy sods almost missed the show."
Hugh nods at the rear of the enemy's left flank. Heralds bearing huge purple and gold standards are rushing around, herding a band of armored orcs and a unit of royal archers into position.
"So did some of ours," Tessa says.
You turn towards your own ranks, a far motlier and less resplendent army than the one arrayed opposite. In place of issued uniforms, of identical helms, mail shirts, breastplates, and violet tabards, there's a ragtag, ill-matched assortment. Knights in elaborate painted panoplies stand next to bare-chested barbarians whose pectorals twitch like growling beasts. Grimy beggars clutch spears alongside noblemen with capes and cuirasses worth enough gold to keep those paupers fed for life. Priests of Rassys, breathing hard from last minute bouts of 'horizontal worship', take their places next to Karuss' clerics and smirk at the cold stares they receive. A bear with glowing green eyes sits on its hindquarters, next to an elf whose hair resembles a tongue of flame.
It could be mistaken for the world's biggest bandit horde or ramshackle mercenary legion. Until you noticed the hard, steady expressions on their faces. The looks of men and women ready to kill or die for freedom.
A country road passes through the hills on your left, a meandering path that loops around your army before reaching the crossroads and joining the lane to Burden's Rest. The late arrivals are a serpent of steel and horseflesh winding along its curves. Their blue and gold panoplies gleam in the sunlight as though polished mere moments ago. You look away and blink, while tiny spots of brightness flash before your eyes.
Hugh snorts.
"They should get a bloody move on. I could walk faster than that."
"They're sparing their horses," Tessa says.
You nod. The orders she and Carolyn sent out to the rebels were clear: be ready for battle, in case it proves to be a trap. Your fingers stroke the pommel of your sword. If that happens, you'll be ready...
"Chevaliers," you say.
"If they've blooming well ridden all the way from Rhynhart, no wonder the poor blokes are tired."
The cavalrymen halt at the edge of your force and form up into a two-deep line. As one they raise their lances, a palisade of shining points and whispering pennants, and let out a cry.
"Sacrebleu!"
Some of the rebels answer with a cheer. Others take up the shout without understanding it, mishearing and mangling.
"Sacre's blur!"
"Sack Reblur!"
"Death to Reblur!"
"Death to Crenus!"
Amid the hoots, one of the horsemen leaves his formation and canters over. His mount, a magnificent snow-white stallion, snorts down its nose at you. The rider tilts his visor back to reveal podgy cheeks and a familiar ginger moustache.
"We came in time, my friend!" he says.
"René!" You reach up and clasp his hand.
"The Bleu-Jaune chevaliers ride again, and we ride for %name% Kasan. After your victory, maybe we'll find another bottle as good as the first to celebrate..."
He bows his head, wheels his charger round, and goes to rejoin his splendid warriors. A wistful smile holds your lips as you remember that long-ago day when the old wine flowed.
It remains there till the horns sound.
"It's time," Tessa says.
An immense roar erupts from your comrades, so powerful it shakes the heavens above and makes the earth tremble beneath your feet.
"Kasan! Kasan! Kasan!"
"Time to kill a king, mate." Hugh claps you on the shoulder.
"Fight with honor," Rakshara says. "Let them all see the Dragon-Rider's spirit."
Across the fields, a man in golden armor emerges from the largest of the tents, followed by several others. The next shout drowns out the first.
"Death to Crenus! Death to Crenus! Death to Crenus!"
The king and his companions walk the length of their purple battle line. One by one each unit raises its weapons aloft as they pass, forests of steel rising and falling; an undulating ocean wave. When the three of them reach the lane, they stop. You turn to Tessa and nod.
With Tessa Tullian on your right, and Hugh on your left, you walk the road that leads to Burden's Rest.
***
"It's time, sire," the herald said.
Everyone in the command tent seemed to inhale at the same moment. Nevis' own lungs inflated along with the rest, hardening into lumps of metal. He might have tottered if he hadn't been sitting at the table. Even the Purple Tigers, those impassive masked killers, tensed and checked their weapons one last time. General Ranlatta fiddled with her sword belt. Temurn looked upwards and mouthed a silent prayer.
King Crenus stepped through the antechamber's canvas flap. His panoply shone like a golden galaxy, a billion aureate worlds and stars all gleaming to celebrate the Selutha king. He wore no helmet. And Nevis thought his handsome face was younger now, its lines softened by the arrival of the appointed hour. He met the boy's eyes and smiled. Nevis found himself smiling back, and again felt the surreality of it all. He wanted this man to win. Gods, how he wanted this hero to slay %name% Kasan.
"I'm ready," Crenus said.
The king and his people filed out of the tent, into the bright daylight beyond, and Nevis was left alone. Outside, armored boots stomped. Steel clinked. He imagined a thousand soldiers saluting their ruler, and yearned to sneak through the flap and watch. But Crenus had told him to remain. To play the part of a prisoner. To fulfil his trust.
Nevis pulled the tome from his knapsack and set it down on the table.
"Take this. Keep it safe. You may read it if you wish. And if I fall..."
He opened the journal. A prince's words swam in his mind as a king went to meet his foe.
***
The three of you stop in the middle of the road. Blue pennants twitch in the dying breeze on your left and right, atop stakes driven into the dirt.
A few dozen yards ahead, a marble statue looms beside the path, above a huge plinth that a sculptor's skill and genius carved out from the same block of brilliant white stone. While you were with your forces, distance robbed it of its magnificence. But now... Solus -- far younger and smaller, as he was during the war -- rears up on his hind legs. His forelegs claw at the air while his wings stretch unfurled on either side, each muscle and tendon shaped with miraculous detail. Atop his back sits the Dragon-Rider, dressed in ornate armor. The hero's cape flows behind %him%, defying time, gravity, and the elements. Artful contours make it look so supple and elegant that it might be genuine fabric instead of marble. %His% sword rises overhead, pointed up at the heavens. It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. A fitting tribute to a champion of Burden's Rest and all of West Kruna. Perhaps after this they'll sculpt one for you, and place it opposite. Two Kasans facing one another through the ages, twin liberators separated by centuries but immortalized in their glory.
Past the statue, as far from it as you are, your enemies stand at the place marked out by gold pennants. There's an elderly man in blue and white robes. A gold dove embroidered on his chest marks his devotion to the Lord of Light. You swear under your breath. You'd expected a mage, a student of the arcane instead of a servant of the gods. Will he... But it's too late now, and you can't let the others sense your disquiet.
The woman in black comes as no surprise. Ever since Tessa told you of Mina von Richten's allegiance, you'd expected her to accompany the king. He'd want his most powerful ally at his side. The vampiress whose likeness hangs in your family's keep in East Kruna, along with the other heroes of the Second Drake War. But her presence doesn't trouble you. The Red Baroness won't break her oath.
Between the priest and vampire stands the man you've come to kill. King Crenus Selutha. You watch him, and feel his eyes on you in turn. A thrill floods your body with each beat of your heart. The tyrant dies today. And he dies to the hand of %name% Kasan.
"Come," Tessa says.
She and Hugh move, while you stay put as agreed. Your enemies do the same. Crenus holds his ground when the Red Baroness and cleric approach. The four of them pass each other in front of the statue. Hugh and the priest keep walking, but Tessa and Mina halt for an instant. They exchange a few inaudible words before continuing. Tessa catches up to Hugh and they make their way to the king. Mina's beside the Karuss-worshipper in the blink of an eye.
The vampiress' red gaze locks with yours, and it takes every ounce of your will not to flinch.
"This is %name% Kasan," she says.
She turns around and makes a gesture. In front of the king, Tessa Tullian turns round and does the same. Neither you nor he has sent another in your place. If King Crenus plans subterfuge, it lies elsewhere.
"Do I look like my ancestor?" you ask. "Or can you just smell the blood of a Kasan?"
"I've seen you before," Mina says.
You frown, and the baroness' mouth twitches -- revealing sharp fangs between her blood-red lips.
"When-" you begin.
The priest steps forward, and you turn away from the vampiress to watch his glowing hands. No trickery here either. You're no cleric, but the aura emanating from his pulsing palms is as discernible as a sorcerer's spells. He waves his hands around you as though polishing a statue.
"%He% doesn't have any magical artifacts," the man says, "apart from %his% blade and armor -- as agreed."
You exhale. Mina stares at you. For a horrible second you feel like groaning. Did she understand? Does she suspect? But the vampiress says nothing. And the two of them walk away.
When they've reached the statue, passing Hugh and Tessa once again, you glance at your sword's new pommel. Brachus' powers are impressive. You knew the purple gemstone could evade arcane detection, for you'd tested that yourself, but you hadn't expected it to escape a god's gaze. Perhaps the cleric's powers have weakened with age. Or else the Lord of Light knows that destiny is on your side. You almost laugh at the glorious notion, but manage to suppress it.
If King Crenus tries any underhanded tricks, if this supposed honorable duel is a mere ruse, he won't find %name% Kasan unprepared.
***
"This is Crenus Selutha," Tessa Tullian said. She turned around and gestured.
"You're the bloke who sodding tried to conscrapt me," the fat man said. "You ask me, you're a bleeding tosser, and-"
"Hugh!"
He grunted, but fell silent and invoked his spell. Magenta energy bloomed into being and flowed around his hands.
"As a battle mage?" Crenus asked.
"No. A blooming cook. And they were going to bloody well hang me over it and all."
"I'm sorry."
Hugh blinked at him, eyes widening, mouth open as though to retort but gawping wordless like a fish instead.
"But after this it'll all be over," the king said.
The fat man looked at the noblewoman.
"Just sword and armor, like we said."
She nodded. The two of them went back down the road, though this time they gave their comrade a wide berth -- walking out onto the grass when they drew near %him%, staying outside of the flags. Mina and Temurn did the same. Both watching armies would be able to see that no one had passed an illicit item to one of the combatants.
When the seconds were in their places, the Kasan came forward. Crenus went to meet %him%.
***
The king doesn't draw his sword. He must want to talk first, and that suits you. The bards can sing about how you denounced him. How you hurled his crimes and tyranny in his face like a hero of old, exchanging barbed words before smooth blades.
He glances up at the statue. Stone %man% and drake loom over you both, large and powerful. You chose this place well. Even an autocrat must feel intimidated by the dragon and ancient hero, legends whose blood will soon strike him down.
"%He'll% watch you die," you say.
You regret the hasty, blurted taunt the second it flies off your tongue. Before Crenus' steady eyes and features, which betray neither hate nor rage nor fear, the words ring in your ears like a child's bravado.
"If the Dragon-Rider's watching," the king says, "what does %he% think of a descendant waging war on the kingdom %he% loved?"
"%He% hated tyrants and murderers, whether they wore scales or a crown. And if %he%-"
"I know you killed Roderick."
The words echo between you, reverberating from the marble, the sky, and the gathered hosts, shaking the universe.
"No denial? So it's true. My people had orders to take him alive, and Marlus couldn't uncover any sign that they'd disobeyed. You killed your own ally... Why? Were you jealous of his fame? Or did you know his death would ignite your war?"
"No! I..."
"After we're done here, the kingdom will learn the truth. I promise you that. I-"
A war cry shrieks from your lips as you leap at him.
===Conclusion===
"Kasan! Kasan! Kasan!"
"Death to Crenus!"
"Now comes a hero from the Dragon-Rider's line,
A warrior without compare whose blade spills blood like wine..."
"Kill him, %name%!"
Screams, chants, singing, and a bear's roar raged around Rakshara. Swords clanged against shields. Spear butts thudded on the ground, drumming in a rhythm and cadence born of pure exhilaration. Fire spurted at the corner of her vision, flaring from Elyssa's hair in time with the battle. A Nord's frothing mouth bit into the edge of his shield.
The oroc made no sound herself save for the grinding of crystalline teeth. Her orange eyes held the two blades, anticipating and following each exchange, each clash of steel on steel. Her warrior muscles twitched with the heft and impact of every blow -- martial sympathy and empathy. Rogar's Dream moved in her hand. Its old, keen edge parted the atmosphere, mirroring %name%'s strikes.
No, no, no... Her friend was angry, frenzied. Rakshara understood. There had been rage in her heart when she fought Kulthax and the Sapphire King, a ferocious longing to destroy a wicked enemy. But %name% was too wild. Each of %his% furious, powerful swings, every slash and thrust, clashed against a parrying blade or met empty air as Crenus stepped aside.
The king was too skilled to be bested like that. If %name% wasn't careful...
***
"Come on..." Ranlatta whispered.
"He isn't attacking!" Carmath said. "The Kasan's winning!"
The two combatants' blades were gleaming blurs, rendered indistinct by speed and distance. Cuts and thrusts blended into a single stream of lethal spite. The Kasan's weapon unleashed an avalanche of steel -- battering against Crenus' sword, forcing him back.
"No," Symric said. "The king's taking %his% measure and luring %him% in. Making %him% wear %himself% out."
The general nodded. She was no expert swordsman like the goblin, but she'd wielded a blade enough times to know what tolls it could take. Passion couldn't sustain a warrior's muscles and suppress her fatigue for long.
"Roar, gold dragon!" Kimon shouted.
Other soldiers cried out in turn, the din harmonizing into a chorus.
"Now!" Symric's voice was a sharp hiss.
The king's armor flashed, a blaze of gold, as he darted aside. His sword lashed out. And even from so far away, Ranlatta saw the splash of crimson.
"He got %him%!" Carmath said.
The Kasan staggered backwards, blood spurting from the side of %his% face. Crenus lunged. Blades clashed and locked. The king's leg kicked and hooked. And %name% Kasan fell.
***
The world explodes. Bright lights erupt in your eyeballs, detonating the universe. The back of your skull groans. It feels like it's been smashed by a warhammer, and fragments of shattered bone cling to a ruptured brain. The side of your face screams. Flesh hangs loose in the tidal wave of blood cascading down your jaw. Information bursts inside your mind, flashing and flaring along with the lights.
Statue... Fell backwards. Hit your head. Crenus... Crenus!
You roll aside and escape the darting blade that shines amid the blood and brightness.
Too shaken. Stunned. Have to... Have to...
Your fingers claw at the pommel of your sword, scratching, pushing, twisting. Gold shimmers in the middle of everything. Gold and silver. No, not silver... Steel.
You throw yourself up, putting everything into a desperate block. Metal sings the dirge of war. And the gemstone comes loose.
There's another explosion. This time it's purple.
Category:Against the King