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_A long time in coming. The next part of my story.

Hopefully I can focus more on it this year ^~^_

Wordcount: 1653

Art by Narikusha

Saga of the Dark Skald - The Guilder

Lightning wracked the sky, it's sharp edged fingers carving trails through the dark inky canvas of the heavens. It's fury smote against the ground, sending mud and dirt skywards in fierce explosions that drowned out the almost constant thunderous boom of artillery and echo of battle.

The rage of the storm was lost on the desperate life and death struggles of those who fought on the ground. Their immediate concerns were locked on the destruction of their foebeasts and their own survival.

The tattered blue and gold banner of the Guild of Laryn's Hold flew defiant above the earthworks carved into the earth by the industrious creatures of the southern free city. The eagle and triple crossed blades that had heralded the guild of heroes through the centuries as saviours, mercenaries and heroes of Erisdania now, stood as the rallying point for what could possibly be their final battle.

Cannons roared and spat hot fire towards the oncoming black tide that threatened to suffocate and swallow them. Crewed by desperate, frightened, animals fighting for their very survival against the horde of foebeasts that came to eradicate them.

Before them lay the trenches. Hastily dug in staggered lines with stakes sunk into the wet muddy earth to defend their flanks. They stretched for several leagues to either side of the crude artillery fort.

Within the trenches stood the massed ranks of blue uniformed soldiers of the guild. Each creature was a volunteer from the free city states. Drilled and trained to be professional soldiers and stand against evil and injustice wherever it could be found in disciplined orderly ranks commanded by confident officers of the line.

the nightmares once told to frighten naughty young ones to bed made manifest and real. The black furred savage cannibalistic wolves of the north.

Monstrous slabs of flesh and muscle covered in scars and ritual tattoos. Driven by an insatiable hunger and hatred for all before them.

That hatred was focused on the brave soldiers of the guild holding out against them and the officers leading them.

Sergeant Ulthar Sveriksen grunted and spat in disdain as he eyed the horde of black hearted barbarians. A grey wolf in his prime. He had enlisted with the guild as soon as he was old enough. He had worked his way up through the ranks, demonstrating an aptitude for combat and leadership which had set him in good stead with his superiors. He

made the rank of captain. Had.

Despite his glowing service and commendations. He was also a reckless insubordinate scoundrel.

The truth was far less complicated. Ulthar followed his gut and heart. It had made him many friends and just as many enemies. But he did what he felt was right. That was important.

He turned as a squirrel dressed in the same slashed blue and gold silk and steel breastplate uniform as his own clattered into his dugout. "Sergeant!" He cried. "The first sword has given the order to advance!" He gasped out shakily as he fought to catch his breath.

Ulthar snorted and took his plumed helmet from where it lay on a sodden straw bale, plonking it deftly upon his head and tightening the strap in one motion. He dearly missed his more comfortable floppy cavalier hat with it's long peacock feather. "Right corporal.. Let's send these mangy flea ridden bastards back to the hells that spawned them!" He exclaimed grimly.

He clapped the squirrel on the shoulder "Stick with me lad and we will make it through this." He promised. He grinned toothily as he saw the fear leave the younger creature's eyes. He made his way quickly down to the rest of his platoon. He could see their captain, Justinian, a fox with a chip on his shoulder, marshalling the last troops into position before the advance. The wolf had an odd unwelcome sensation of worms slithering deep within his guts.

He wondered.

Ulthar banished the thought and checked his weapons. A broadsword and flintlocke, standard armaments for an officer. The regulars had muskets and sword bayonets. He loosened his weapons in their sheathes and waited for the captain's orders.He could hear the muted chatter and quiet desperate prayers muttered by the more devout soldiers amongst his comrades.

The tension in the air hung like a shroud over the gathered ranks of soldiers sheltering in their trenches and dugouts. Ulthar felt his hackles begin to rise. He began wishing for something, anything to break the unbearable silence.

"Form ranks!" Justinian barked at the men under his command. An order Ulthar echoed and gestured to the men nearest to him. The soldiers formed into a line at the parapet of the trench. "Make ready!" Came the next order.

A hundred muskets were unshouldered, cocked and then leveled towards the approaching horde.

Ulthar pulled forth his flintlocke and cocked the hammer back. He fancied he could see the red glowing coals of their eyes. Those hateful intense bloody eyes. An involuntary shiver ran up his spine. These creatures who were supposed to have been a myth, now so nightmarishly real.

The horde thundered closer and closer. Ulthar could pick out individuals amongst the throng now. Here a berserker wearing the skull of a bear and decked out in the furs and skins of slain creatures. There a warrior clad in looted armour from a slain guilder, one of his comrades. The gall of these barbarians!

The rest was a sea of black fur, chainmail and swords and axes aplenty. A black tide of death ready to smother the last flames of resistance from the world.

The cannons thundered behind the guild lines and blew great bloody dents into the approaching horde igniting sporadic cheers from the gunners as they prepared another salvo.

"By my command! First rank! Fire!" Justinian roared. The gun line erupted with the crack of a hundred muskets blanketing the trench with smoke and the smell of cordite and powder. Scores of Ulvarg collapsed to the ground and were trampled by those behind in their rush to shed blood and slaughter their foe.

"First rank drop and reload! Second rank! Make ready!" The orders began to fly thick and fast from the captain. "Quickly!" Ulthar barked as the second rank leveled their firearms. The ulvarg were closing in at an alarming pace, he found himself feeling the pressure and aimed his own weapon towards the enemy.

"Fir-.." Justinian's shout was cut short as the trench exploded in a gout of sickly green and purple fire that consumed all within thirty paces. Screams and cries of fear cut the air as the flames swept through the defenses.

Ulthar's mouth went dry.

Now he felt fear. He gulped it down and glanced at the panicking lines of soldiers around him. He steeled himself and began to bark commands. "Hold the line! Fire at will!" He roared and discharged his pistol at the Ulvarg. He felt satisfaction as he saw one crumple and fall to the ground.

The soldiers now under his command dithered and continued to panic before their nerves left them and they began to flee. Ulthar couldn't believe his eyes. Guilders, running from a battle was unheard of, honour and discipline were the very creed that held the line since their creation. Now they scrabbled and clambered over the earthworks and began to rout enmasse like frightened children.

It was impossible. Unheard of. For a moment, Ulthar was at a loss before training reasserted itself and took back over.

"Come back you cowards!" He roared. His words fell on deaf ears. The world around him grew sluggish and grey. He watched as time seemed to slow to a crawl before a bright blinding light drew his attention back to the enemy.

He saw his demise. The blazing, infernal, form of a demon made flesh. He felt the blast of hot air that preceded the sickly magical fireball before it set him ablaze and incinerated his existence.

Ulthar yelped and fell backwards from the table he had been dozing at, much to the amusement of the other tavern patrons. He endured their guffaws and laughter stoically as he lay on his back with the sun from the window bathing his face with its warm light.

"Too much ale, Guilder?" A rat patron enquired of him. Ulthar turned his head and glowered at the rat. "Maybe." He reluctantly agreed and rolled off the upturned chair with a muttered curse. He stood and dusted down his scuffed uniform and righted the chair before he tossed a couple of coins onto the table. He adjusted his sword belt and snatched up his cavalier hat and set it crooked upon his head before he exited the busy tavern.

He stepped out into the bright midday sunshine and tried to get his bearings. The city of Crownspear was a labyrinthian maze to him, he much preferred the relatively open air and wide avenues and streets of his home in the south.

As he settled on a way to go. An open carriage trundled by. The occupants, two brown wolves, a male and female, caught his attention. Specifically the younger female of the two. Her long dark mane hung in ringlets down her back with a blue bow tied near the top. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, her golden eyes bored into his brown ones. He tipped his hat and shot her a cocky smile.

He laughed as he saw her look away shyly and then the carriage was gone. "Wonder whom that fine maiden was." He mused to himself as he began the long trek back to the barracks he and his comrades were sequestered in as guests of the kingdom.

He wouldn't have long to find out..