A Warrior Born
folder
Fantasy & Science Fiction › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
1,560
Reviews:
12
Recommended:
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Currently Reading:
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Category:
Fantasy & Science Fiction › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
1,560
Reviews:
12
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
A Warrior Born
Chapter 1: A Warrior Falls
He was born in a time of peace, forged in a time of war. His name was Nykolas Alistair Alcander. He came from the line of the Vyik; savages who had torn down the ivory towers of the empires of old and had drank the blood of fat, slovenly kings using their broken skulls as goblets. The Vyik had rent the world asunder and beaten it into submission. The amazing powers of their shaman warriors, who combined incredible abilities of the mind with unstoppable berserker might, were whispered about in dark corners. They came to rule the land from coast to coast under one all-powerful emperor. Brutally harsh, but also fair and honest, they made the world a better place than it had been, and for nearly one thousand years peace reigned.
In time, over a hundred generations, the savage Vyiks forgot the old ways. Their shamans turned from their powers, setting them aside in favor of culture and science. The warriors became soft and their disputes petty. Shining cities of gold grew, and law became convoluted and ineffective. By the time of his birth, the civilization was on the brink of collapse.
He was born a normal child. His life was that of a spoiled, pampered noble. Yet as he grew older it became apparent, to those who studied history and remembered what had once been, that the blood of the shamans ran in his veins. By the time he reached manhood he stood seven feet tall. The breadth of his shoulders was like that of a wild bear, and indeed his strength was comparable. He had been trained in the art of war, as all nobles still were, and had taken to it so well that his trainers had become terrified of him. At eighteen he had surpassed them all. At twenty he began training others. In the night he received strange dreams, messages and warnings he could make no sense of. He believed them to be from the supreme God of his society and so became a holy paladin. A sword was forged for him from angelic metal, metal fallen from the sky. It was imbued forever with holy fire and given the name ASEERA, which meant Vengeance.
He was a warrior whose type had not been seen for a thousand years.
As he grew to manhood and his prowess reached its peak, the nation teetered on the edge of a conflict that threatened to destroy it. From the seas of the east, an obstacle that the Vyiks had never overcome, came the Hrab. They were a race of dark sorcerers, soulless and evil. They came over the sea in search of new minds and hearts to enslave in the name of their despicable gods.
The people were dissatisfied. The Alcander line had forgotten them, preferring to spin intrigues and indulge in debauchery. They were hungry. The roads they used were infested with bandits. Aristocrats sucked them dry with pointless taxes and gave nothing in return. The Hrab priests promised power and purpose if only the people would serve them. Thousands turned their back on their homeland and became acolytes. A huge and horrible army rose, the likes of which had not been seen for millennia.
The Alcanders were too soft to fight back. They had forgotten the old ways. All of them but one.
Nykolas was unleashed upon the Hrab and their dark armies. He fought with the savage fury of a zealot, and inspired his men to do the same. Willing to die for their God and their way of life, his holy knights set out to wipe the Hrab from the face of the earth. Their prowess was legendary. It seemed they could fight to the death and beyond. One of them was worth a thousand Hrab acolytes. Yet still the dark lords pressed forward, overwhelming the knights by sheer numbers. Their seductive promises held such power that it seemed the entire kingdom rose up at their side.
Nykolas was but one general, one commander. His peers were slovenly and weak, and they refused to let him lead properly. The Hrab pressed ever onward. At last they reached the gates of the capital and it seemed that all was lost. The coward who sat on the throne gave the order to surrender, terrified of the tortures the sorcerers could inflict. Nykolas spit in his face and led his knights in one final attack.
The Hrab fell by the hundreds and thousands before the fury of the knights, but still they pushed forward. The knights were forced back to the steps of their temple, killing a hundred Hrab for every foot of ground lost. All through the day the bloody battle raged. At twilight the last knight fell, and Nykolas fought on alone. The Hrab came ever on, heedless of the horrible losses he inflicted on them. Finally, after killing over a thousand of them with his own blade, he succumbed to his wounds and fell to the ground.
In his darkest hour, the paladin cried out to the god he had fought for. He received no answer. No surge of strength filled him. No unforeseen power struck down his enemies. As he sat, disbelieving and shattered, the Hrab swarmed over him, filled with dark joy. They placed him on a cross and lifted him high, displaying the final sign of their victory.
Nykolas was forced to watch as the horrid sorcerers decimated his temple. The holy signs were burned and desecrated. The bodies of his knights were mutilated and burned in sacrifice. As he watched, a rage unlike any he had ever known filled him. This was not holy, righteous fire. The god he served had abandoned him. This was a murderous thirst for killing, a need for vengeance. It filled him with strength. He tore the cross apart. His wounds healed as if they had never been. His eyes blazed red, and his sword, as much a part of him as the hand he wielded it with, flew to him. Its shining blade became black to match the hatred in his heart. He carved a path through his tormenters and escaped into the night.
* * *
At the edge of the city the fury left him. Filled with despair, he staggered into the forest and collapsed. All was lost. His god had left him. His people had turned against him. His knights were dead. Everything he had ever held dear was destroyed and violated. Nykolas Alistair Alcander was no more. Despairing, he abandoned his city and his life. He burned his standard and blackened his shining armor. He took the name Karanikus, which meant “Killer” in the old tongue, and began to wander the lands as a mercenary. Fighting was all he knew. It was all he had left.
END PROLOGUE.
A/N: Hello everyone! Some of you may remember this guy from a story that got deleted in an accidental purge. I’m re-imagining him here, and hopefully he’ll be better than he was before. R &R and let me know.
He was born in a time of peace, forged in a time of war. His name was Nykolas Alistair Alcander. He came from the line of the Vyik; savages who had torn down the ivory towers of the empires of old and had drank the blood of fat, slovenly kings using their broken skulls as goblets. The Vyik had rent the world asunder and beaten it into submission. The amazing powers of their shaman warriors, who combined incredible abilities of the mind with unstoppable berserker might, were whispered about in dark corners. They came to rule the land from coast to coast under one all-powerful emperor. Brutally harsh, but also fair and honest, they made the world a better place than it had been, and for nearly one thousand years peace reigned.
In time, over a hundred generations, the savage Vyiks forgot the old ways. Their shamans turned from their powers, setting them aside in favor of culture and science. The warriors became soft and their disputes petty. Shining cities of gold grew, and law became convoluted and ineffective. By the time of his birth, the civilization was on the brink of collapse.
He was born a normal child. His life was that of a spoiled, pampered noble. Yet as he grew older it became apparent, to those who studied history and remembered what had once been, that the blood of the shamans ran in his veins. By the time he reached manhood he stood seven feet tall. The breadth of his shoulders was like that of a wild bear, and indeed his strength was comparable. He had been trained in the art of war, as all nobles still were, and had taken to it so well that his trainers had become terrified of him. At eighteen he had surpassed them all. At twenty he began training others. In the night he received strange dreams, messages and warnings he could make no sense of. He believed them to be from the supreme God of his society and so became a holy paladin. A sword was forged for him from angelic metal, metal fallen from the sky. It was imbued forever with holy fire and given the name ASEERA, which meant Vengeance.
He was a warrior whose type had not been seen for a thousand years.
As he grew to manhood and his prowess reached its peak, the nation teetered on the edge of a conflict that threatened to destroy it. From the seas of the east, an obstacle that the Vyiks had never overcome, came the Hrab. They were a race of dark sorcerers, soulless and evil. They came over the sea in search of new minds and hearts to enslave in the name of their despicable gods.
The people were dissatisfied. The Alcander line had forgotten them, preferring to spin intrigues and indulge in debauchery. They were hungry. The roads they used were infested with bandits. Aristocrats sucked them dry with pointless taxes and gave nothing in return. The Hrab priests promised power and purpose if only the people would serve them. Thousands turned their back on their homeland and became acolytes. A huge and horrible army rose, the likes of which had not been seen for millennia.
The Alcanders were too soft to fight back. They had forgotten the old ways. All of them but one.
Nykolas was unleashed upon the Hrab and their dark armies. He fought with the savage fury of a zealot, and inspired his men to do the same. Willing to die for their God and their way of life, his holy knights set out to wipe the Hrab from the face of the earth. Their prowess was legendary. It seemed they could fight to the death and beyond. One of them was worth a thousand Hrab acolytes. Yet still the dark lords pressed forward, overwhelming the knights by sheer numbers. Their seductive promises held such power that it seemed the entire kingdom rose up at their side.
Nykolas was but one general, one commander. His peers were slovenly and weak, and they refused to let him lead properly. The Hrab pressed ever onward. At last they reached the gates of the capital and it seemed that all was lost. The coward who sat on the throne gave the order to surrender, terrified of the tortures the sorcerers could inflict. Nykolas spit in his face and led his knights in one final attack.
The Hrab fell by the hundreds and thousands before the fury of the knights, but still they pushed forward. The knights were forced back to the steps of their temple, killing a hundred Hrab for every foot of ground lost. All through the day the bloody battle raged. At twilight the last knight fell, and Nykolas fought on alone. The Hrab came ever on, heedless of the horrible losses he inflicted on them. Finally, after killing over a thousand of them with his own blade, he succumbed to his wounds and fell to the ground.
In his darkest hour, the paladin cried out to the god he had fought for. He received no answer. No surge of strength filled him. No unforeseen power struck down his enemies. As he sat, disbelieving and shattered, the Hrab swarmed over him, filled with dark joy. They placed him on a cross and lifted him high, displaying the final sign of their victory.
Nykolas was forced to watch as the horrid sorcerers decimated his temple. The holy signs were burned and desecrated. The bodies of his knights were mutilated and burned in sacrifice. As he watched, a rage unlike any he had ever known filled him. This was not holy, righteous fire. The god he served had abandoned him. This was a murderous thirst for killing, a need for vengeance. It filled him with strength. He tore the cross apart. His wounds healed as if they had never been. His eyes blazed red, and his sword, as much a part of him as the hand he wielded it with, flew to him. Its shining blade became black to match the hatred in his heart. He carved a path through his tormenters and escaped into the night.
* * *
At the edge of the city the fury left him. Filled with despair, he staggered into the forest and collapsed. All was lost. His god had left him. His people had turned against him. His knights were dead. Everything he had ever held dear was destroyed and violated. Nykolas Alistair Alcander was no more. Despairing, he abandoned his city and his life. He burned his standard and blackened his shining armor. He took the name Karanikus, which meant “Killer” in the old tongue, and began to wander the lands as a mercenary. Fighting was all he knew. It was all he had left.
END PROLOGUE.
A/N: Hello everyone! Some of you may remember this guy from a story that got deleted in an accidental purge. I’m re-imagining him here, and hopefully he’ll be better than he was before. R &R and let me know.