Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _
Chapter Five: The Stand______ __ _ _
In the Quentic Faith, there exist many tales of brave stands against seemingly impossible odds. These are much beloved of the commons, the nobles, and the church alike, but for different reasons. For the first, they represent the triumph of man - and, sometimes, even woman - against things much greater than himself. They are agency attained with the blessings of the Gods. For the second, they are an ideal to aspire to: the legendary story that will resound through the ages, the fulfillment of the ideals of a nascent form of chivalry. For the last, who approve and promote them most fervently, the stories are proof positive of the power and mercy of the Gods. They are what might be achieved by those who place their trust in forces greater than themselves and act upon faith. St. Defrois slew the Dawn Wyvern not because he was more powerful than it, but because he was blessed with Chune's sagacity and Echeran's might.
Yet, for every story told of a brave hero's triumph or noble, meaningful sacrifice, there are twice as many untold. That is because the heroes in question did not win and if thy died, they saved no one. It this fear that nipped so persistently at the edges of their minds as hundreds of knights, magicians, and men-at-arms huddled within the dark, dank, strangely warm caverns beneath Mont Errant. They had tried fighting the Eskandr and they had failed. They had tried fighting the dragon and they had failed. Even now, it circled above, howling and screaming into the predawn darkness. Blasts of fire cooked the mountainside shrubbery and boiled away streams and small pools. Beyond some measure of protective rock lay a hellscape of choking smoke and scalding steam that bled and billowed from sheets of flame. So it was that they prayed. In diverse degrees of faith, hope, and vigor, they beseeched, now, the five members of the Pentad - but Echeran above the others - to intercede on their behalf or to grant them the strength to overcome this trial and become heroes instead of victims.
Heroes to Some
If one side prayed to its gods, the other's appeared to have actively interceded. In the matter of an hour, the situation had transformed from nearly hopeless for the Eskandr to a victory of sorts. The Nashorn had laid low the cream of the other side's army. Sweyn Thunderspear had been restored to health, and the dragon's ire focused almost solely on their enemies. If it was difficult to leave behind such a magnificent hunt for some, the consolation was now that they would be hunting bigger prey.
At a run and a canter, they made haste for the east and the great city of learning and libraries known as Chamonix. Capture it in tandem with their attacks and those of the Enthal Drudgunzeans further south, and they would escape this scenario with some gains to show for it and a strong positioning at the bargaining table. If Eskand could not have all of Parrence, then it would at least have a good chunk and its enemies would be permanently weakened. The larger prize was Arcel himself. His army was in close pursuit of Hrothar's, looking to bring the Black King to battle. He was not, however, aware of the second army now coming up behind his. Should the charismatic young monarch fall in battle, surely it would break the Parrench spirit. Should he be captured, his ransom would bankrupt the enemy treasury.
It was on a warm and drizzly late Stresian morning when Sweyn Thunderspear's scouts, led by his fellow Æresvaktr, Ulfhild of Ulven, sighted the rearguard of King Arcel's Army, itself shadowing Hrothgar's and perhaps only a day's ride from the city gates. The decision that emerges is a key one: immediate attack or settling in for a longer campaign? The stage is set for a second great clash of armies: one that might determine the fate of nations.
Shune's Gambit
It was not only from Echeran that the potential answer to their prayers arrived. Both strength and wisdom had combined those two hundred years prior to slay one maddened beast, and so they would ally once more. A bold plan was hatched by Ser Maerec de Solenne, weighed by others including the Queen herself, her brother Count Perceval, freshly healed, and finally the famed Kressian dragonslayer Hildr the Red. Of the Eskandr forces, she alone had remained, her insight and experience potentially invaluable in the fight to come.
For the next hour, humans, small and trembling but with increasing boldness, risked approaching one of the cave system's entrances and peering out into the slowly-lightening void beyond. After a time, the furious creature cooled, its passes becoming less frequent, its blasts of fire sporadic. Then, the earth itself shook, small rocks tumbling loose from the cavern's ceilings, a couple of stalactites hitting the ground. People cried and prayed, but the danger passed after only a few seconds and they found themselves in Oraphe-Sept's debt. When the next party crept out from their refuge, the great maddened beast rested atop the mountain, thin trickles of smoke spiraling up from its nostrils into the deep blue sky.
So it was that their desperate campaign began not with a charge and a battlecry, but with Queen Eleanor, Ser Maerec, Dame Hildr, and two dozen handchosen knights in the drizzly predawn. Flames guttered in blackened tree stumps. Smoke drew the odd cough from the group. Every footstep kicked up pale, ghostly ash from where it lay upon the ground. It was within this otherworldly setting that they made their way up a darkened mountain under fading stars, hoping that - someday - stories might be told of what was to come.