Devastation

Chapter 1

27 Blomsen 1608 Middle Era

“It’s no use. We’ve lost another soldier,” Thomas lamented. The teen sighed as he rose from where he’d just crouched, checking the Albaron soldier, who only continued shivering and looking into the distance. “Pale as snow, hands, feet, and eyes all ringed with the blackening. He definitely has it.” 

Fifty out of two hundred men in this company had fallen victim to the mysterious illness referred to in whispers by some as “The Devastation.” Others called it “Ilyron’s Hammer.” Whatever name one gave it, for the Restoration’s Army, the Devastation had come to mean one thing—death.

With a strained groan, the other man straightened from where he had examined a similarly stricken soldier. “Fifty-two. These two over here came down with it yesterday and already fading.”

Behind the black hood-like mask and goggled eye holes, the physician William looked deceptively more sinister than those he treated. Adjusting his wide brim hat, also black, he raised his dark leather gloved hand and gestured to the tent’s exit flap with a ghoulish silent insistence.

Outside the tent, Thomas was able to remove his frightful head covering and breathe in the fresh air of the moor. Before them stretched Kilkern’s Redoubt. A strong Albaron breeze coming off the sea and sweeping through the verdant heather and puce thistle enveloped him. From atop the Redoubt’s dark stony outcropping, Thomas had more than once found this place to be imbued with a tragic beauty. 

Tragic, because it wasn’t the castle looming behind them that kept them safe. Castle Kilkern boasted thick stone walls and jagged spires that blended well with the mountainous backdrop that typified Albaron. It had once withstood a two-year-long siege. Years ago, centuries ago. Before cannons and mortars and all the dread force of Monarch Ilyron’s devastating war machine rendered it merely a target to pummel into powder. No, they weren’t in danger here, but only because this was where the wounded and sick had been assembled. The Monarchists wouldn’t be immune to the sickness that bore their master’s name. 

“How bad is it?” Thomas asked as William came up beside him, solemnity etched deeply into the Albaron’s face.

“Worse than we can stand. But better than the heart of winter. Spring brought with it a flicker of hope.”

“Let’s not waste time speaking in code, good physician.” Thomas turned his gaze squarely on the other man. They were roughly the same height, but the steely grey beard and wild wispy tangles of the William’s hair betrayed the great gulf in experience between them. 

“Unless the Libertians, you, and the Viceroy were able to add significantly more pressure in the south or this disease stops ravaging Albaron’s armies … we won’t see the summer.”

Thomas ran a hand through his thick brown hair. “Thank you for being blunt.”

“You did ask for it.” William carefully began removing the rest of his protective attire. Shedding his dark cloak, he revealed the brazen blue of his people. His silky tunic betrayed that he was far more than a physician. As an aged cousin of Albaron’s highest noble, the Laird Ringan clan Loch, William was Steward of Kilkern, the ruler of this area. Embroidered on his tunic was the golden Clach, the fabled ram that led a tribe of Ecthel explorers deep into the mountains of Albaron to found their nation more than a thousand years ago. Whenever Thomas saw it, he could scarcely fight the gnawing ache inside him. There was a potent temptation to shed a tear for Steward William Kilkern the Physician, who would rather be among his people as a servant than a master. And for the pride-filled land symbolized in the stern ram’s portrait as it teetered on the precipice of ruin. And for its people who fought to keep Ecthelowall from descending further into the depths of darkness to which Monarch Ilyron would drag it and all the Lowlands, if given the chance.

“You cannot wear such melancholy around the Baroness,” William reminded him. His stout resolution the very sort of rebuke Thomas needed at such moments.

“It’s no use to pretend. The Baroness sees straight through me. She always has.”

This earned a knowing smile from the Steward, who clapped his hands on Thomas’s shoulders and gave them a hearty shake. “Love reveals much. But it also hopes still more than it knows in this world.”

Albarons were surprisingly a romantic people despite their gruff exteriors. Stark but beautiful in their way, not unlike the land in which they dwelt. Perhaps that was why Steward Kilkern was one of the few to whom Thomas had revealed his secret courtship. “I wouldn’t, for the expanse of the Lowlands, let Mia think I’ve lost all hope.”

Much as he did with William, Thomas could not bring himself to stick with formal honorifics. Not when he and Mia had grown up together, and especially not after they had grown together in the many months past as they fled the murderous Monarch and his forces. They had come so close to death so many times in their eighteen years of life. Both lost so much, enough to almost drive Mia to a bitter desperate end. But he had been there for her and she him in those darkest hours.

“I wouldn’t think that you’re allowed ta’,” William replied, his thick burr showing as his expression turned conspiratorial. “Sir Thomas Fenwrest, heroic Knight of Light, you bear the banner of the High King. If you do no’ rally us all to hope, who will?”

“Oh, please. Don’t swell his head any further than it’s already become,” a strident voice, struggling to make the transition from tones of boy to man, called out. Gregor had snuck up on them. His arms were crossed, but more in dramatic protest than actual indignation. “Isn’t it enough I have to see the Baroness swooning over him?” 

“Cousin Gregor, are you really accusing me of having become conceited?” Thomas gave a poignant nod to the lavish outfit Gregor now wore.

“Mm-hmm. The lad does look to be settling into his role as Heir Apparent to Ecthelowall’s throne quite comfortably.”

Gregor rolled his eyes. “Over pert as you are, you’re both lucky I’m about as likely to live to become Monarch as you are to actually win a game of bastions against me.”

Thomas grimaced. Gregor was the most suitable candidate to take Ecthelowall’s archaic title and throne, more so than Maldes Ilyron, who had usurped rule of Ecthelowall from his father, the Viceroy Ecthelion, and overturned the Commonwealth. As a rival claimant, it made the younger teen both a target and a beacon for the Restoration effort. Even as the likelihood of restoring Viceroy Ecthelion became an ever more ethereal hook to hang hopes upon.

Gregor scowled, seeming to realize his humor had gone too far. “Sorry. It’s just all a bit much.”

Thomas walked over to his cousin. Gregor’s head hung, looking dejectedly at the tent of the ill and dying. It was remarkable how much the events on the Isle of Geists had transformed Gregor. Once insufferable, now only occasionally a boor. Sir Hurstwell would’ve been proud to see the change. Were he still with them, he’d no doubt know just what to say to buoy their spirits.

But he wasn’t. Which meant Thomas had to do his best in memory of his mentor. Nudging Gregor with his elbow, Thomas said, “Come on Your Highness. It wouldn’t be fair for us to deny Mia a daily dose of your effervescent wit.” 

A sharp retort looked ready to launch from Gregor’s lips when a rider on horseback galloped up to them and leapt down from his horse. He strode straight past the teens to Kilkern.

“Your Honor,” he addressed him with a typical Albaron gesture of obeisance.

The steward waved back in acknowledgment. “Bodde, what news do you bring?”

“Ill, I’m afraid, Your Honor. A Monarchist fleet of ships landed on the shores west of here about an hour ago. They’re disembarking troops now and look ready to march against you before dawn!”