Echoes of the Forgotten Blade

Kaelen woke with a gasp, his body jerking from the nightmare of falling. Pain immediately shot through his shoulder, reminding him that yesterday's humiliation in the training yard had been no dream. Every muscle protested as he forced himself to sit upright. His ribs ached with each breath, and his shoulder—though back in its socket—pulsed with a dull, persistent throb.

The small chamber assigned to him in the eastern wing of Ironveil Fortress was cold; dawn had barely broken, and the stone walls held the chill of night. Through his narrow window, he could see the training yard where he had collapsed yesterday, now empty save for a few servants preparing it for the day's exercises.

A knock at his door made him wince. He knew who it would be before the voice came.

"Are you dead or merely wishing you were?" Ser Dain Morlath's gruff voice carried through the oak door. Without waiting for an answer, the knight entered, carrying a small leather pouch and a steaming cup.

"Drink," he said, handing Kaelen the cup. "Willow bark and meadowsweet. It will dull the pain."

Kaelen accepted it with his good arm, the bitter steam making his nose wrinkle. "I should be training already."

"You'd collapse again before you lifted a sword," Dain replied, his weathered face expressionless as he opened the pouch and removed a pungent salve. "Your shoulder."

Kaelen reluctantly exposed the injury. The skin had turned a mottled purple-black, the bruising spreading across his collarbone and down his chest. Ser Dain's fingers were surprisingly gentle as they worked the salve into the abused flesh, but Kaelen still had to clench his teeth.

"Your mind recognized Garron's technique perfectly," Dain said as he worked. "I saw it in your eyes. The Blood Oath is not dormant in you."

"It might as well be," Kaelen muttered, staring at the wall. "What good is seeing if I can't perform?"

Dain's fingers paused on his shoulder. "The gift alone is not enough. Your ancestors were warriors. You are not—yet." The knight's eyes, gray as winter steel, met Kaelen's. "They had years of conditioning before they fully manifested their abilities. You've had days."

"I don't have years," Kaelen said, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable. "Not if I'm to reclaim what was taken from my family."

Ser Dain finished applying the salve in silence, then stepped back. "Get dressed. We begin with basic forms today. Nothing that will reinjure you."

"And when the others mock me again?"

A rare, thin smile crossed Dain's face. "They won't be there. I've arranged a private training space. Your humiliation yesterday served its purpose—the veterans now believe you're no threat to their positions." He tossed Kaelen a simple tunic. "That deception may prove useful."

Before Kaelen could respond, a commotion erupted in the corridor outside—shouts, the clatter of boots on stone. Ser Dain's hand went instinctively to his sword hilt as the door burst open again.

A young guard stood panting in the doorway. "Ser Dain! Lord Vaelrick summons all knights to the great hall. A messenger—from the borderlands."

Dain's expression hardened. "When?"

"Now, ser. He's... the messenger is in bad shape."

Without another word, Dain turned and strode from the room. Kaelen, ignoring the protest of his injured body, pulled on his tunic and followed.

By the time they reached the great hall, it was already filled with Ironveil's garrison. Knights, captains, and veterans like Garron Claymore formed a tight circle around a figure slumped in a chair before the hearth. Lord Vaelrick, commander of the fortress, stood over him, his face grave.

The messenger's leather armor was torn and crusted with dried blood—some of it his own, judging by the bandaged slash across his face. His eyes were sunken with exhaustion, and his hands trembled as a servant offered him water.

"Tell them what you told me," Lord Vaelrick commanded, his voice carrying across the hall.

The messenger took a shuddering breath. "They came at dawn, my lord. Three days past. Black Talon banners."

A murmur rippled through the assembled warriors. Kaelen had heard of the Black Talon—a mercenary army known for its brutality, rumored to burn their enemies alive in their halls.

"How many?" someone called out.

"A host," the messenger replied, his voice cracking. "At least two thousand. Heavy cavalry, foot soldiers, siege equipment following behind." He coughed, a wet, ragged sound. "They've taken Brinewood and Hillwatch already. Nothing left of either. Just ash and corpses."

Lord Vaelrick's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "And their direction?"

"Here, my lord. They march for Ironveil. Three days—maybe four if the rain slows them."

The hall erupted in voices, some shouting questions, others offering strategies. Lord Vaelrick raised a hand, silencing them.

"A war council. Now. Captains and knights only." His gaze swept the room and landed, unexpectedly, on Kaelen. "And you, Valtheris. You will attend."

Murmurs of surprise and dissent followed, but Vaelrick had already turned away, leading the way to the adjoining chamber. Kaelen felt eyes on him—some curious, some resentful. Garron Claymore's gaze was particularly bitter as he shouldered past.

"This should be interesting," Ser Dain muttered at Kaelen's side. "Vaelrick rarely does anything without purpose."

The war council chamber was austere—a round table of dark oak, twelve high-backed chairs, and a massive map of the region etched into a stone slab that dominated the center. Iron markers representing troops and fortifications dotted its surface.

Kaelen stood against the wall, knowing he had not earned a seat at the table. Lord Vaelrick, a broad-shouldered man whose black beard was streaked with silver, placed two iron markers on the map—one at Brinewood, one at Hillwatch. Then he placed a larger one, shaped like a talon, between them.

"Two thousand against our four hundred," he said without preamble. "The walls of Ironveil are strong, but they were built for a garrison twice our current size."

"We should send riders to Highcrest and Stormwatch," said Lady Iseult, one of the few female knights in the garrison. "Call for reinforcements."

"They wouldn't arrive in time," countered Captain Thorne, a veteran with a face crosshatched with battle scars. "Four days, the messenger said. Highcrest is a week's hard ride."

"Then we abandon Ironveil," said another knight—Lord Dravin, whose lands lay further south. "Fall back to Stormwatch where we can mount a proper defense."

"Abandon a fortress that has stood for seven centuries?" Garron Claymore slammed his fist on the table. "I'd sooner die with a sword in my hand than run like a coward!"

"Then you'll die a fool," Dravin shot back. "Ironveil was built to be defended by a thousand men, not four hundred."

"I will not abandon these lands to the Black Talon," Lord Vaelrick said firmly. "These people are under our protection."

"The common folk are already fleeing," Dravin argued. "By nightfall, the villages will be empty."

Ser Dain, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. "There was a time when numbers mattered less to the defenders of Ironveil." All eyes turned to him. "When House Valtheris stood with us."

The room fell quiet, and Kaelen felt the weight of every gaze. Ser Dain continued, his voice measured.

"I've seen it. The Blood Oath has awakened something in the boy. He can see techniques—break them down and reconstruct them in an instant. His body isn't trained yet, but the gift is there."

Garron Claymore's laugh was harsh. "I've seen it too. I saw him collapse in the dust yesterday, unable to even lift a practice sword."

"He needs time," Dain insisted.

"Time is the one thing we don't have," Lord Vaelrick said gravely. He studied Kaelen for a long moment. "What say you, Valtheris? Your ancestors turned the tide of battles with their gift."

Kaelen swallowed, acutely aware of his aching body, of how far he was from mastering his supposed birthright. But in that moment, he also knew he could not hide behind excuses.

"I need to see more," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I can memorize techniques, but I need to see real combat to understand how they're applied."

"You want to watch us die for your education?" Dravin asked incredulously.

"No. I want to ride with the scouts," Kaelen replied. "Let me observe the enemy. Perhaps I can learn something useful before they reach our walls."

The room went silent again. Lord Vaelrick exchanged a glance with Ser Dain, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Very well," Vaelrick said. "Captain Thorne, assemble your best riders. You leave within the hour." He fixed Kaelen with a hard stare. "Understand this, Valtheris. I'm not sending you out there to save you. I need every advantage I can get, even a long-shot like you."

Kaelen bowed his head. "I understand, my lord."

As the council continued debating preparations for the coming siege, Kaelen caught Ser Dain watching him with an unreadable expression. Not pride, not exactly. But something like grim approval.

The scouts assembled in the outer courtyard—twenty of Ironveil's most experienced riders, led by Captain Thorne himself. They wore light leather armor and carried short bows and slender swords designed for quick strikes rather than prolonged combat. Their horses were chosen for speed and endurance rather than battle.

Kaelen's mount was a bay gelding, steady but unremarkable. His borrowed armor fit poorly, the leather stiff against his injured shoulder. A sword hung at his hip—not a practice blade, but a real weapon with an edge honed for killing. Its weight felt foreign, wrong.

"Stay close to me," Captain Thorne instructed as they prepared to depart. "You're here to observe, not fight. If we engage, you hang back."

"I understand," Kaelen nodded, adjusting his grip on the reins to ease the pressure on his shoulder.

"Do you?" Thorne's voice was low, meant only for Kaelen's ears. "Because if your fancy bloodline gets my men killed, I'll put you down myself before the enemy can."

Before Kaelen could respond, Thorne spurred his horse forward and raised his arm. With a signal, the gates of Ironveil swung open, and the scouts rode out in tight formation.

They rode hard for the first hour, following the eastern road until they reached the edge of Blackwood Forest. There, Thorne raised his fist, and the riders slowed to a walk, then dispersed into smaller groups of three and four. Kaelen found himself with Thorne and two scouts—Renn, a wiry man with a perpetual squint, and Elara, one of the few women among the scouts, known for her keen eyesight.

"The messenger said they were following the river valley," Thorne said quietly as they picked their way through the underbrush. "We'll head to Raven's Ridge. Good vantage point to spot their advance."

The ridge was steep, forcing them to dismount and lead their horses up a narrow trail. By midday, they had reached the summit—a rocky outcropping that offered a clear view of the river valley stretching for leagues to the east.

Elara, with her falcon-sharp eyes, spotted them first.

"There," she whispered, pointing to a distant smudge of movement along the river's curve. "Black Talon banners."

Thorne unrolled a spyglass and peered through it. His expression darkened.

"The messenger wasn't exaggerating. Two thousand at least. Heavy cavalry in the lead, foot soldiers behind." He handed the spyglass to Kaelen. "See for yourself, Valtheris."

Through the glass, the distant army came into focus. Their banners were black with a blood-red talon slashing downward. The cavalry wore dark armor that gleamed dully in the afternoon sun. Behind them marched rank upon rank of infantry, and further back, the wooden frames of siege engines lumbered forward on massive wheels.

"We should return to Ironveil," Renn muttered. "This is worse than we thought."

"Not yet," Thorne replied. "We need to gauge their speed, see their full strength." He gestured to a forested area further along the ridge. "We'll move there for a better view."

They remounted and rode in silence, keeping to the cover of trees. The new position offered an even clearer view of the advancing army, now less than a league away. Kaelen watched, transfixed, as the Black Talon host moved with disciplined precision uncommon among mercenaries.

"Something's not right," Elara whispered suddenly. "The forest below—it's too quiet."

Thorne's head snapped up, his hand going to his sword. "Ambush! Back to the horses!"

The warning came too late. Dark figures erupted from the undergrowth around them, cutting off their retreat. Black Talon scouts, at least a dozen of them, had been waiting in silence.

The first arrow took Renn in the throat. He fell without a sound, dead before he hit the ground. The second narrowly missed Elara, who had already drawn her bow and loosed a shaft in return, catching one of the attackers in the chest.

"Run!" Thorne shouted to Kaelen, drawing his sword and charging the nearest attacker. "Back to Ironveil!"

Three Black Talon warriors converged on Thorne. The captain moved with a fluid grace that Kaelen had never seen in the training yard—a real swordsman fighting for his life. His blade flickered like lightning, parrying, slashing, finding gaps in his opponents' armor.

Kaelen watched, frozen, as Thorne fought. His mind captured every movement: the precise angle of the blade as it deflected a thrust, the subtle shift of weight to avoid a counter, the brutal efficiency of a killing stroke. It was nothing like the practiced forms of the training yard; this was combat stripped to its essence—survive or die.

And then a mounted Black Talon rider broke through the trees directly towards him. Kaelen's horse reared in panic, throwing him painfully to the ground. His injured shoulder hit first, sending a white-hot lance of agony through his body.

The rider wheeled around, sword raised for a killing blow. Time seemed to slow as the blade descended.

I can see it, Kaelen thought with sudden clarity. Just like in the yard.

But this time, instead of trying to copy the attack, he focused on Thorne's defensive stance—the one that had successfully parried a similar strike seconds ago. His mind reconstructed the movement, breaking it down to its components.

He hesitated for just a heartbeat, remembering his failure with Garron's technique, the humiliating collapse.

No. Trust it. Trust yourself.

With gritted teeth, he forced his battered body to move, ignoring the screaming protest of his injured shoulder. His sword came up in a precise arc, meeting the descending blade with a force and angle that deflected it harmlessly to the side.

The parry.

It was imperfect—his arm trembled with the impact, and pain lanced through his shoulder—but it worked. The Black Talon rider's blade slid past him, throwing the man off balance.

For one stunned moment, both Kaelen and his attacker seemed equally surprised. Then the man snarled and spurred his horse forward again, this time aiming a slash at Kaelen's unprotected side.

Kaelen tried to shift his stance for another parry, but his body, already pushed beyond its limits, failed him. His legs buckled, sending him sprawling just as the blade whistled overhead.

The fall saved his life but left him defenseless on the ground. The rider circled back, readying another attack.

An arrow suddenly sprouted from the rider's throat. He clutched at it, gurgling, before toppling from his saddle. Behind him stood Elara, already nocking another arrow.

"Get up!" she shouted, loosing the shaft at another approaching enemy.

Kaelen struggled to his feet, using his sword as a prop. Around them, the clearing had become a chaotic battlefield. Half the scouts were down. Thorne was still fighting, his sword red to the hilt, but he had been pushed back against a large oak, defending against two attackers.

More Black Talon riders were emerging from the trees. They were outnumbered, with no hope of victory.

"Fall back!" Thorne roared, dispatching one of his opponents with a savage thrust. "To the horses! Fall back to Ironveil!"

The surviving scouts broke away from their engagements, running for their mounts. Elara grabbed Kaelen's arm, half-dragging him toward his horse, which had retreated to the edge of the clearing.

"Mount up!" she ordered, firing another arrow to cover their retreat.

With agonizing effort, Kaelen hauled himself into the saddle. His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges. Through the haze, he saw Thorne cut down his last opponent and sprint for his own horse.

"Ride!" the captain shouted as he mounted, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead. "Don't stop for anything!"

They broke through the tree line, the survivors—less than half their original number—galloping down the ridge with Black Talon riders in close pursuit. An arrow hissed past Kaelen's ear. Another thudded into his saddle.

The chase continued for nearly a mile before their pursuers broke off, unwilling to venture too close to Ironveil's walls. By the time the fortress came into view, Kaelen was barely conscious, clinging to his horse's mane as blood from a shallow wound on his arm soaked his sleeve.

As they thundered through Ironveil's gates, Kaelen looked back at the horizon, where dust from the approaching army rose like a distant storm cloud. His first real glimpse of war had been brutal and swift. He had survived—barely—but now understood the terrible truth: if he did not master his ability, and quickly, he would not survive the next battle.

And judging by the approaching army, the next battle would come all too soon.