It was all over.
Battle cries fell silent, torches were slowly burning out, and banners were folded again. Few citizens were putting out fires that Lanun 'Wildfire' had caused, a granary and two residental houses were set alight. Moans of wounded and dying echoed, as men and women carried the fallen soldiers away from mud and blood of battleground, to marketplaces and public plazas- the places that were once the most crowded and richest spots on Erebus were now the places of ghosts and proverty. Far away on horizon, a distant bright fire was burning – a village, or a farm, who could know – just another casualty in this pointless war. Just outside the palisades, entire town of slums and shacks that was once a home to Kwythelhelars poorest, was laying in ashes, their inhabitants dead or enslaved, shipped on some Lanun ships to be sold to Calabim or some Lanun pirate lord far beyond the Sea of Tywer. As if poor men haven't suffered enough already. Or perhaps they did not. Living in Kwythelhelar slums was nothing compared to slavery – even poorest Kuriotates could hope to visit a theater, eat a warm meal, drink in a tavern, pray in a temple... It was now only a history.
Lanun had led another charge at Kwythelhelar, backed with Khazad and Hippus. They would do this quite often, just to never let garrison rest. Lanun would unload and deploy the ballistas from their ships, loaded with a supstance called Wildfire, a mixture of tar, oil, sulphure and Oghma-Knows-What else, that they would use to burn enemy ships' hull and sails. And now they used it on palisades, it was much safer than to use Khazad Rams. And when part of palling burned out, Hippus would storm in through fire and harras the garrison.
The assault was beaten back, as many before, but this time the price was higher. The Commander was wounded. He lied in a puddle of blood, in his heavy iron armor with golden decorations, and dragon-winged closed helm. Dragon insignia on his chest plating was red with blood, and flesh could be seen through the three-inch hole. He was not carried to plaza like the other soldiers, but was tended separately in his High Command tent. Woman in scarlet robes charged through soldiers in armor, and broke her way to the commander.
„BOY-KING!!! Your Majesty, I told you not to go, I told you... But you said that your people need you...“
Then she fell to her knees, sobering. Boy King never, ever needed a medic, and no one even dared to touch him now, even if He would actually allow medics near him.
He spoke, through his helm:
„My people... This is the end of my journey... The people that whispered on the plaza long time ago were right. I should have listened then... The Mandate of Heaven truly abandoned me.“
„I feel it right now... It leaves me, I am no longer fit to rule. It is not the blade of Hippus that gave me this wound... They would never hurt me if He was by my side... It was me who caused this, I pushed Him away from me, I caused this to my realm, and He is well aware.“
„But before I, before we go, hear my last words. Gather a Regency Council, to rule in my name. Let them negotiate peace. There shall be a peace to our broken realm and our people. And He says, that He does not abandon His people. He will return, oh, He will, and bring a scourge to his enemies, and mercy to those who repent. There will be another King, another great man fit enough to rule. And then He will restore our great realm, to rule in harmony for eternity... He vows to return... And now I hear Him speaking, He will take me back to His vault. I will live forever.“
Then he fell silent. Slowly, woman lifted the Boy Kings helm.
Under it was not a head of a boy that put this helm on before this battle. Under it was a head of venerable old man, his skin old and wrinkled, and his beard white and long like a sorcerers. So long, that it would take aeons to grow such a long beard.
In that instant of time, a golden light shined through the tent. Above Kwythelhelar, a magnificent Golden Dragon spread his wings, shining light over city streets and Lanun encampments like it was noon. He let out tremendous roar, not of anger, but of pain and sorrow, a cry for compassion, and then darted up in the night sky, to become a star.
In the High Command tent, armor lied empty, with no trace of body or blood on it. Only a single three-inch hole is a sign that the armor was ever worn.
Cardith Lorda was dead.