Cedric Hanan was born into a conflict he could neither remember nor understand. For generations, his homeland had been locked in a bitter feud with the neighboring kingdom of Fawryn, a war that had claimed countless lives, including Cedric's father, leaving him an orphan before his seventh birthday. Now, at nineteen, Cedric sat around a flickering campfire with five comrades, each lost in their own thoughts of home and the lives they might yet reclaim.
Across from him, the grizzled druid-smith Kellin Oakmantle poked at the flames, sending showers of sparks into the night sky. Beside Kellin, Vaelin Marr, the battle-scarred cavalryman, cleaned the edge of his blade with methodical care. Azzan Mac Lugh, son of the wealthy noble Valdar Mac Lugh, sat with an almost wistful expression; though born into privilege, he had fought and bled alongside the common soldiers. Finally, Rhudayn Nur, the soft-spoken archer, hummed a quiet tune as he checked his bowstring.
The men talked of home: rolling fields of Fonswyn Vale, the scent of lavender in the air, and the warm hearths that awaited them, if they survived. When the others turned in for watch, Kellin remained by Cedric's side. Under the wavering lamplight, Kellin asked gently, "When this is over, will I finally meet this best friend of yours? You speak of him as if he's a legend, a noble, perhaps?"
Cedric smiled, his gaze drifting to the at a distance. "If Fate spares us both, I promise I will. But until then… we must fight well at dawn."
As first light broke over the camp, Commander Gawdran ibn Zayd, noble of Fonswyn Vale and master strategist, summoned the assembled troops. His plan, bold in its simplicity, hinged on a small vanguard, 250 foot soldiers, among them Cedric and unexpectedly, Azzan Mac Lugh, would advance first to draw the enemy's eye. Once the Fawryn forces committed to the skirmish, the main host 2,100 battle-hardened knights, sorcerers, and mounted lancers, would strike from the flank. Gawdran estimated the opposing army at roughly 1,400, ensuring an overwhelming victory.
Azzan, angered by this plan went to the commander's private tent had pleaded with the commander to be excused from the dangerous diversion, In Gawdran's private tent. He argued that his prowess deserved a place among the knights. The commander only smiled, tapping a finger against a map. "Your role, Master Mac Lugh, is to bait the trap. You will see no true fighting, our flank will be the hammer that crushes the Fawryn army."
Comforted by those words, Azzan fell silent.
At midday, Cedric and 249 others stepped onto the blood-stained field. The Fawryn host, their bright banners snapping in the wind, charged without hesitation as the small Fonswyn vanguard held its ground. Spears shattered, shields splintered, and the din of steel on steel rose to a deafening roar. Cedric's heart pounded as he fought back blow after blow, noticing with dawning horror that no relief was coming. The main force, where the knights should have thundered in, remained invisible across the plain.
Soon, the Fawryn soldiers swarmed the tiny band. Men he'd trained with fell at his side. Pain seared his arm, but Cedric pressed onward, blade whirling. Emerging from the press of bodies was a giant of a man, helmeted and merciless. Cedric knew then that he and his brothers-in-arms had been betrayed: there would be no cavalry charge, no sorcerous onslaught, only slaughter.
Gathering every shred of courage, Cedric steadied his breath, pressing his back against the stained earth as the monstrous warrior loomed over him. His pulse thundered in his ears; each beat sent a surge of resolve through his limbs. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, feeling the worn leather straps bite into his palm. If this truly was his last stand, he vowed, he would face it with the honor his father had taught him.
The giant swung his fearsome mace in a wide arc its iron head whistling through the air like a vengeful spirit. Cedric felt the ground tremble beneath the force of the blow, but he had anticipated its strength. With a desperate twist of his torso, he slid to the right, letting the mace thunder past him and shatter a nearby shield into splinters. Flecks of metal grazed his tunic, and he tasted dust and blood, but he was alive and that single thought sharpened his focus.
In that heartbeat of opening, Cedric saw his chance. He launched himself forward, feet pounding the churned mud as he covered the ground in two long strides. Raising his sword in both hands, he drove the point low, aiming at the gap between the giant's cuirass plates. The blade sank home with a sickening crack, cutting through chainmail and drawing a ragged cry from the colossal combatant. Hot blood poured over Cedric's gauntlet and ran down his forearm, soaking into the leather.
His triumph was fleeting. As he attempted to pull the blade free, it refused to budge, lodged deep in the brute's abdomen. Muscle and iron pressed against the crossguard, tethering Cedric to his fallen foe. The giant reeled, face twisted in rage and pain, and slammed its mace hilt-first into the ground. Earth and stone exploded upward, showering Cedric with grit. Before he could wrench himself away, the warrior reached down with one massive hand and seized Cedric by the shoulder.
Time slowed. Cedric's vision blurred, but he forced his knees to buckle, rather than allow his captor to raise him bodily. The giant's other hand raised the mace overhead, and Cedric could almost hear the whet of its momentum against the tumult of battle, the cries of dying men, the clash of steel, the thundering hoof beats of the absent charges that never came.
Then, with a final, brutal motion, the giant's mace swung downward and connected with Cedric's jaw. The impact shattered something inside him. Pain blossomed like a crimson flower, spreading from his skull through his spine. Stars exploded behind his eyelids. His sword clattered to the blood-soaked ground as the world tipped sideways.
Cedric's last sight before the darkness swallowed him was the giant's gnarled fingers curled around his shoulder, the rippling sinew of its arm, and the distant flash of steel as more Fawryn soldiers closed in on the isolated foot-soldiers. Then, weightless, the world slipped away and Cedric Hanan drifted into cold oblivion, his final thoughts a vow that, should he survive this, he would see Fonswyn Vale pay for their treachery.