Ch.35

Some weeks went by before Erik and his men returned home.

Upon their ship's dock at the port, they began unloading the cargo they brought. "Carry the ingots and material to the forgeyard. The rest is to be distributed among the people."

The forging yards were to the northwest of the city. The smiths gathered around the crates as the covers were torn off to reveal their contents. Metal and rock filled every crate. Some they would recognize, others they could only guess.

"These are all the materials we will need for the time being." Erik explained to them. "We will be making weapons and armor, as many as we can. An enemy will soon dawn, when, that is uncertain. You have all practiced enough to understand the basics, some more than others, but no material here is to go to waste. We will begin immediately."

No time was wasted. They set to work, going over plans that Erik laid out before them. They began to construct weapons of war, both large and small. They worked until their skin thickened from the heat, and their fingers dyed black from the ash. They worked day after day, alongside their king who was not beneath manning the iron and fire.

One day, Astra had come to the site with a pail of water. She carried it with ease. Seeing her, Erik wiped his brow of sweat and let down his hammer. He would come to sit with her, away from the heat and the iron. A clear cup of glass was floating in the pail.

As he lifted up his hand, holding out his clutch in expectation, she took the glass and scooped up the cold water. "You shouldn't touch it." She told him. He said not a word, lowering his hand as she personally held up the glass to his lips. "You will dirty the cup."

He gulped down the entire glass. "Another." He requested.

"You are different from what I thought you would be like." She said softly with a heartfelt smile, as she refilled the glass and raised it up to his lips yet again.

He raised his hand, prompting her to pull away the glass. "Is that so?"

"Yes. The stories of kings I grew up hearing, were of men who refused to lower themselves to that of a commoner."

"And yet, those same men lower themselves to sleep with the common whore. They are men, no different from any other."

"You are different?"

"I am. I am better. A man who can not control himself, is a slave, a prisoner, in his own body. He is an animal, a wolf to be feared and put down, in a world of trained and bred dogs."

"I see... I was thinking. A king should have a crown, and a kingdom should have a flag. I like to think I am quite the tailor and was wondering if I could try to tailor one."

"...Right. A king should have a crown, and a kingdom should have a flag. I have a specific symbol in mind, one that I shall keep in mind as I forge myself a crown, and that I would like to have as symbolize my kingdom. Since you so ask, I shall allow you what you wish. In the coming times, days, weeks, perhaps months, we will need to show our people, and that we shall."

It would be nearly a month later that he would have his people gather before the temple-like entrance of his castle. His few thousand citizens cramped shoulder to shoulder, covering every inch of ground of the plaza and surrounding the sides of his castle.

He would show himself in a new light to his people, majestic, dark, and grand. As he stepped out, his people would see a tall and dark figure that brought about silence from the crowds.

A crown rested upon his head, one that made it seem as if he had a pair of horns. One was long, sharp, and demonic-looking, the other, seemingly broken, a snapped half of its counterpart. The crown was black, with a reflective sheen, matching the rest of his dark wardrobe, a long black cloak that fell down his shoulders and back, and a well-tailored and regal black suit, finely sewn by the Drowvish tailors at his disposal.

"My people!" His voice spoke out across the expanse of his people, loud and clear to even the farthest from his position, and bringing about silence. "May you consider us to be different, merely because of the color of your, the length of your ears, or the name of your race, but I tell you now, to cast aside such trivialities. This land, is my land, and my land is for my people. I brought you structure, education, health, and purpose, not because I am so gracious, but because you were willing. Know that a father is not a father, merely because of the blood he shares, but instead, because of the time spent, raising his kin. That is how I too, see you all. You may not be of the same race as I, but you are my people nonetheless, and as my people, you should be able to call yourselves as such. From now and henceforth, we are the people of Innah'vadah. We are Innah'vadans. Our faith, is the Fallenic faith, Fallenism, and this land, is our land."

From overhead, flags were unrolled from the tops of the pillars. Each one was pitch black and adorned with the symbol of his crown.

"Let this flag symbolize our people and our land!" His voice seemed to spike in volume, and his tone brought about admiration from his viewers. "You have a purpose! You are not merely the lost, struggling to survive, day after day. Not anymore! You are Innah'vadan because you are of our new culture! You are Fallenists because you are of our faith! And as the men and women of our people and land, I ask you, will you allow the invaders, who seek to rob us of the homes we have built and the friends we have made, to cast you as slaves and whores, to come here and do as they please?!"

Moments of silence passed as the echo of his voice rang out before the voices of his people contested in a cacophony of denial.

"Your words are only that! It is action that must be judged! Our enemies will soon be abundant, and they surround us on all sides! A hostile faith, that worships a false goddess, surrounds us on the east. The Seratholics. To the north, Tel'vane, and the barbaric huntsmen. Across the sea to the south, the Highelves, who at this very moment, are on their way to reclaim their lost province. They seek to take what is ours, but I will not allow it. To my people, I warn you of the war to come. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, will invade our shores, but they will be nothing to me! Until now, I have been more than a man, less than a god. My reasons are simple: there has been no call for me to act, until now. To any invaders that think to swarm our shores, my wrath will be apparent. The power of a god, the purpose of a king, the reason for your worship; all shall be known, all shall be seen."

They knew he was a competent king, worthy of following, but it was only the orcs who revered him as a true god, while the Drow were hesitant to believe him wholeheartedly.

Within the coming days, the anticipation of a brewing war slowly rose among the people like a fog, getting ever denser with each passing hour. It was fear for the unknown and distrust within their god and king, Erik, that welled within them. Days passed with no sign of an enemy invasion, until over the horizon, a shadow began to creep into view in the distance.

From the shoreline, an orc looked toward the sea, his eyes peering through binoculars at the approaching vessels. "Incoming ships!!" He shouted in alert to his comrades.

From the deck of one of the elven ships, a tall standing elf stood, scoping out the land through a finely crafted telescope. He grunted, closing his telescope and turning to walk down the deck. "Bereesh t'vah! Soloma va zeech beach." He commanded with authority.

The naval fleet of High Elven warships slowed near the shore, coming to a stop just as the Innah'vadan knights marched onto the stretch of ground, just before the beach. They armed themselves with short blades and round shields, donning finely crafted, black armor, a mixture of Drowvish and Highland craftsmanship, stemming from Erik's own knowledge and experience from wearing the armor of a Highland knight.

At the front of his small army of less than a hundred, Erik stood patiently in waiting, wearing his own, newly fashion black armor, with a newly crafted blade and shield to match, and a rifle, hanging on his hip.

A small boat dropped into the water from the side of one of the elven ships and rowed closer to shore. It was clear from their uniforms that they were merely soldiers and no one with authority, which made Erik leer in response.

"I have seen enough." Erik raised his hand. "Kill the messengers." He ordered.

At his command, more than a dozen of his men with rifles in arms, stepped forward and took aim at the boat with clear confidence, hammered into them over months of effort and training. Loud explosions went off at the pull of the triggers, shooting dead, the messengers in the boat, explosions loud enough to send flocks of fowl into a panic, and to be mistaken for thunder in the distance.

"Ready the catapult!" Erik ordered, at which a large catapult was pushed forth.

From the enemy ships, the commander watched, realizing his men were dead and that Innah'vadah's forces were launching an attack, he too, sent out his orders with a boom in his voice. "Orac slava! Julu nisha maroon!"

The ships began to move in the water, attempting to position themselves, side to shore while the soldiers hastily readied the cannons upon the sides of their ships. The soldiers scrambled to carry the cannonballs in their arms while balancing against the shifting of the ship, turning in the water.

"Treva orisan'a!" The commander shouted, hastening his soldiers along as he turned back to the beach to see the weapon being fired and a massive projectile being thrown toward them with great force. "Oratah!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, he and his men immediately taking cover as their ship's hull was blown apart.

Chaos quickly ensued with the sound of men shouting in urgency being mixed with the explosions of firing cannons. The weapons of war vibrated the air and shook the very sea they rested upon. The cannons would easily put holes into the hulls of vessels, but none of them found their target. They shot across the water toward their enemy, but none of them even made it over the shore's border, stopping in midair, mid-flight, on what could only be described as a wall, a barrier, invisible to the naked eye, that they pelted against before falling into the water in dead weight.

The battle was completely one-sided, with the enemy ships each finding their way to the bottom of the water, leaving its soldiers to swim to shore.

The Highelves abandoned their armor and weapons that would weigh them down in the water, and they crawled out of the ocean and onto the beach, drenched down to their briefs and at the mercy of the tip of the Innah'vadan soldiers' blades.

"Congratulations." Erik spoke out, his words aimed at the Drow within his ranks, toward the Drowvish elders who stood front to the crowd, and to his people stood behind. "Your former oppressors aimed to oppress you once more, but, we, have managed to thwart them. Consider this a result of your decisions until now. Do you regret them?"

His gaze directed itself to the elders, who upon meeting it, responded in haste. "No, Lord Fall. Truly, you are a king, true to his word."

"Good. Now fish the soldiers out of the water!" He commanded. "Strip them to their undergarments, bind their hands with rope, then bring them to fire to warm. The workers, you will salvage all that you can from the battle."

"Yes, my lord!" His men said in unison before storming off to do as ordered.

"Vsha'myrule, man." The Highelf soldier, uttered behind his back in a most spiteful tone as he then spat on the ground while leering toward his way.

Erik raised his hand, halting his men who were grabbing hold of the elf.

("You think I can not understand you?") Erik sudden use of Elvish brought about a sudden change in expression of bafflement. ("You are now a prisoner of war, so unless you want your balls cut off and your genitalia fed to dogs, I suggest you follow willingly, and perhaps you will see your homeland again.")

The soldier's face turned pale as he was dragged off to be stripped and bound, flailing and uttering words in elvish as Erik turned his back and made his way toward the city.