The log of Cornelius Ruberungulus Castus
42nd Day at Sea
We sighted land today, after six weeks away from Bregus. Our ship’s master is hopeful that this is the land we have sought, although after such a long time we can only put our trust in Uscorius the Wavelord to tame Locorina and in Ancomius the Lord of Beasts to intercede on our behalf. May all the gods guide us to our new home.
The ships’ provisions remain at a critical level. My fellows and I have gone without for some days now, to allow the bipeds, whose constitutions are less robust, to survive. My haruspex will give an offering tonight. I pray to the gods that this will be the place we have been doomed to seek.
Eight months prior to the forty two days at Sea, on the Dragon Plains of Wickhigh…
The battlefield by the cliffs was scattered with the corpses of centaur, human and Draken. The fighting had been going on since the Legion had cornered this particular warband at dawn, and now the sun was high in the sky. The air was laced with the agonised screams of the dying, the impatient screams of the buzzards overhead, and the maniac screams of frenzied Draken warriors. They fought like dervishes, giving no thought to their own safety or that of their comrades. Most were painted from head to foot in a dark sticky substance which smelled like brimstone and ash. Dragon’s blood.
The centaur warriors and their human cohorts now vastly outnumbered the two thousand Draken, who fought with their backs against the steep slope which led to the edge of the cliffs. They too had their war cries, but in comparison to their berserk enemies they seemed methodical, disciplined. The reality, Cornelius Ruberungulus knew, was far different. He did not find combat came naturally to him, and had to force himself to remember his training and sink into the mode of the soldier whenever battle came. There were always a few moments when he doubted himself, when he was convinced that this would be the time he turned tail and galloped away, sobbing at the horrors he had witnessed. He assumed others must feel the same. How could all this bloodshed and killing come naturally to anyone?
From the battlefield, Cornelius could look to the north and just about see the ruined turrets of Castle Dagora. The Draken had been great once, like so many on the Fifth Isle. The offspring of the great dragons of thunder and fire and the elder ancestors of humanity, they were strong and ferocious, but also loyal and wise. Or so the ancient stories said. Cornelius had never seen a Draken that wasn’t ravening for his blood and swinging some sort of weapon at him. Thankfully these days only one or two in a thousand manifested the were-dragon powers that had once been nearly ubiquitous. Otherwise the pacification of Wickhigh would be a great deal more difficult.
Cornelius watched the battle with experienced eyes, his cohort behind him eager to get back to the fight. The general kept the cohorts in rotation against Draken, both to watch for other incoming warbands and to make use of the Legion’s superior numbers. “No sense in letting them get at all of us at once,” was his habitual reply when his younger officers objected to watching their comrades fighting for their lives while they waited their turn.
An ululating howl ripped through the noise of battle, combined with a terrible sound of shredding skin and shattering bone. “There sir, look!” came the horrified shout from behind Cornelius, but he had already seen. One of the Draken was a were-dragon, and he had just undergone transformation. What once might have been a breathtaking transformation was now the stuff of nightmares. The thing stood about twenty feet tall, and its features were an awful mix of draconic and human, with mismatched eyes and two mouths jockeying for position. It still shrieked at the top of both its voices. Its hands, still human-looking, had stretched and sprouted jagged talons, which it now used to rake around it, killing a man at each blow. The Draken rallied around it, though they were as much at risk from its attacks as their foes, and began to ravage the left flank.
Cornelius’ childhood friend Ennius Tibius held that flank with two cohorts, but now the legionnaires struggled to maintain their position, as they saw the monstrosity bear down upon them. Ennius bellowed at his troops, “Hold firm, it is a mortal creature, and can die like any other!” Cornelius saw Ennius hold his greatsword high and yell, “Forward!”, throwing his massive bulk into the oncoming Draken. Ennius was broad-shouldered and muscle-bound, and below his waist he had the body of a draught-horse, built for brawn. As he landed amongst the berserkers he broke bones by the impact alone, scattering them for a moment before more piled in on top.
At last the blessed order came. “Fifth cohort, to the left flank!” Cornelius’ own sword was out of its scabbard before the full order was given. All he had to do was heft his shield and begin to canter forward. His men followed. Well, not all men. Like most cohorts, he had thirty centaurs apart from himself, armed with lances and shields and swords for after the charge. These were followed by seven hundred human legionnaires, mostly Meridies or Southlanders, once the hated foes of centaurkind but now the real backbones of the Legions. The legionnaires were normally armed with javelins as well as swords and shields but they had already thrown theirs today, when the Draken first charged.
Once of Ennius’ junior officers must have heard the order for the fifth cohort to advance, because as Cornelius and his centaurs prepared to charge the Draken, the scattered legionnaires bunched together to clear a path. Some of the centaurs behind Cornelius began to laugh, clearly carried away by the terror of battle. He never laughed in battle, and saw no joy in it. That others could be affected to seem like they actually took pleasure in the death of others just confirmed the power of the fear in his mind. He held his sword high, then swung it down. The cohort charged.
The were-dragon was even more hideous up close. Its human-dragon features had now fused into an awful amalgam, with human teeth on the top and draconic tusks on the bottom, and a long slavering tongue hanging down, spilling corrosive saliva upon the ground and the bodies of those who had fallen beneath its claws. As Cornelius ploughed into its side it hissed malevolently and spun around, deceptively quick despite its size. As it moved, something slick and malformed slid along the ground behind it. Cornelius realised that these wretched piles of membrane were its wings. Thank all the gods it hadn’t managed to grow those properly!
He chopped his blade down on the monster’s outstretched arm, and was rewarded only with an annoyed rasp from the creature. The thick scales that now coated its body could cast aside normal blows. Desperate for a moment as its claws scythed down towards him, Cornelius tried to step backwards out of its range. But the press of bodies behind him was too great, and he risked being speared on his own men’s lances. With a frantic yell, he leapt over one of the were-dragon’s tree trunk-like legs and into the midst of the Draken horde, swinging his sword down on the head of a bearded and blood-covered warrior as he landed. He felt his left rear haunch bleeding where the monster’s claws had cut deep, but he could spare no time to look. Kicking with his hind legs and lashing out with his heavy front hooves, he carved a swathe around him. He dared a glance over his shoulder to see how his cohort were doing against the thing.
Not well. Two of the centaurs were grievously injured, and their less-sturdy human comrades were either being crushed by the creature or attacked from the side by the other Draken as they focused on the larger foe. Cornelius gritted his teeth and prepared to fight his way back towards the monster. Better to die alongside those he must lead than to live and watch them be killed. He smashed the nearest Draken in the face with his shield and skewered another with his sword, gritting his teeth and throwing his full weight against the warriors that stood in his way. They laughed hysterically and spat upon his shield, chopping at his armoured flanks and trying to leap onto his back. He was in serious danger. He had let go of his training and allowed himself to be separated from his troops, and now he would die.
Suddenly the pressure from behind was gone. Cornelius heard the gurgling screams of men being killed, but he could not turn around to see, having to concentrate on the two in front of him doing their best to split his head open with their axes. Then from the edge of his vision he saw a blurred motion, and the Draken to his right fell, clutching his spewing intestines with one hand while the other fell to the ground, hacked away from his body. With this distraction, Cornelius lashed out with a hoof, catching his enemy on the knee and inwardly wincing at the snapping sound the bone made. He plunged his sword down into the Draken’s neck as the man slipped on the gore-matted ground, down into the heart. As a fountain of ichor shot up along the blade, Cornelius glanced around to see who had saved him, half-knowing who it would be.
Amphis Truxiubus stood beside him, the centre of a ring of whirling centaurs, the personal bodyguard and the elite cohort of their general, Rufus Fulvus Mugitus, the Bellower. Amphis was not as big as Ennius or Cornelius, but he was lithe and frightening to watch in battle. He carried two light swords, similar to the tulwars sometimes wielded by aristocracy amongst the Southlanders. Both his hair and the mane that ran down his back were black as night. His lower torso was grey and he wore only leather armour along his flanks unlike the others surrounding him. He regarded Cornelius silently, his heavy brow and dark eyes unreadable in the heat of battle. But where Amphis went, you would generally find…
“That was a close scrape, Ruberungulus!” roared a hearty voice just by his ear, and a massive hand slammed down on his shoulder. General Rufus Fulvus Mugitus had just come through the ring of protecting centaur, covered in gore himself and wielding his enormous double-headed axe. Cornelius nodded and shrugged, turning his gaze towards the were-dragon, where it still carved its way through his cohort. Mugitus growled under his breath. “We’ll soon deal with that one. Amphis! Forward!” The general’s deadly bodyguard gave no sign of assent, he just flicked the blood off his swords and leapt into the fray, followed by his equally grim companions. Mugitus yelled, “For the Beastlord!” and galloped after them, his enormous axe sweeping and slashing Draken from his path as he went. Cornelius kept behind the general, guarding his back.
Mugitus was also frightening to watch as he bellowed and killed, but for a different reason. While Amphis was intent and skilful in a fight, he kept silent. Mugitus roared with laughter and fury, appearing to be completely swept up, too close to the berserk Draken for comfort. His Legion loved him, and Cornelius was no exception. But he was unsettled by the general’s obvious lust for warfare, however much he tried to pass it off as the effects of the same sort of tension that gripped his own heart.
They fought their way through the maniac throng until they reached the were-dragon’s back, and then the real work began. Cornelius strove to protect Mugitus’ back, but the whirling currents of the struggle took him and the Draken assailants a far distance away from the general and his bodyguards, so that he could see everything that followed even as he fended off the yelling madmen.
Amphis and the general’s guard began to hack the were-dragon to pieces. They aimed for vulnerable spots, the joints and the head whenever it came in range. They were soon freshly covered in stinking dragon’s blood, and the monster began to concentrate its attacks on them, flattening one with its enormous feet, and tearing the centaur to pieces. As it was occupied with this vengeance, Mugitus hammered into its side, raising his front hooves and ending up on top of it. While it fell with his immense weight on top of it, the general hefted his axe and clambered up to the thing’s shoulders. With a roar, he let the axehead drop, and the hideous head fell free.
There was a blast of energy which knocked everyone on the battlefield flat on their back. The same potential magical energy which had driven the Draken mad now raged free from the body of the were-dragon, washing above Cornelius’ eyes like waves of heat, though he knew if he stuck an arm into this wave it would be roasted away in seconds, or transformed into some horrible mockery of its former self. He remained on his back and prayed to Ancomius. A sound like the crashing of the sea upon a beach of broken glass followed the wave, and then as soon as it had started it was gone.
“What is happening?”
The voice, cracked from long disuse and strangely accented, cut through the silence that followed the wave of magic. Cornelius cursed under his breath, and he was not the only one at the battlefield to do so. This was what he had prayed against, but it was usually inevitable following the death of a were-dragon. Whatever energies that had collected to induce the transformation had dissipated, and now the Draken at the battlefield would briefly come to their senses, regain a portion of their former selves. This was never good.
The speaker wasn’t far from Cornelius. In fact, he was sure that the stout, bearded man had been one of the ones who had tried to climb on his back to break his neck just a minute beforehand. Now, however, the light of reason was in his eyes, and the Draken had just begun to look at his own body, visibly disgusted by what he found. The man was covered from head to foot in dragon’s blood, wearing only a loincloth, which was drenched in filth and gore. Cornelius saw his nostrils flare for a moment, and felt a moment of overwhelming pity for this man. I wish you had remained as you were, friend. Better that than know what you and your people have become.
“Dragon’s blood? Has one of our kin died this day?” The man seemed confused, which would not last long. Usually some memory of what they had done remained with the Draken in this state, and even if they completely forgot as this one evidently had, it was not for long. He stood, shaky on legs which had probably been running for days straight. “Centaurs, here? But these are the Cliffs of Dunfarrow, what are you doing here? Have we fought a battle this day? Where have the enemy gone. I…cannot remember.”
As other Draken began to get to their feet and look around, Mugitus approached the speaker. The rage and exultation which had suffused his features were now gone, replaced by sorrow. “My friend, before I tell you, my name is Rufus Fulvus Mugitus, of the 3rd Legion, the Hammer of Rundus. What is yours?” Mugitus held out his hand, and the Draken grasped it reflexively, halfway up the wrist in the traditional manner. “Well met, Rufus Fulvus Mugitus. My name is Krohur of the First Flight, Clan Banehide. Now please, tell me what has happened here.”
Mugitus’ chest heaved with emotion, and for a moment he hesitated. Then, with a shake of his head, he began to tell the tale which he and his soldiers dreaded. “We fought against you and your brethren, Krohur. Some time ago, perhaps as long as two centuries, there was a…cataclysm. The gods warred amongst themselves, and rogue magic raged throughout the land. Your people were driven into madness, becoming little more than animals. Castle Dagora stands as nothing but an empty shell. The Baron of your time reigns still, but as a demon-possessed husk in the caverns beneath Failti, with a horde of yidduri at his command. We centaurs were spared because we were closer to the natural world than any other magical creatures, and we have forged an alliance with the remnants of Fabon and Ecosse to combat the Baron and to…pacify these regions. Which means to purge them of you and your kind, because in two hundred years we have found no cure, save for the inexplicable return of sanity whenever we have killed a were-dragon.” He motioned to the still-twitching corpse he had so recently dispatched. “I pray that you do not remember much of what you have done, but if you do, believe me that your current condition is only temporary. You will return to the beast which you were in a matter of minutes, if not sooner.”
As Mugitus finished, Krohur bowed his head, tears flowing freely down his face. “I…begin to remember,” he croaked, his shoulders heaving with emotion. Cornelius felt his own chest burn, his throat tighten. Other Draken continued to rise, and they had all heard what Mugitus had said, the general’s booming voice had covered the entire battlefield. Some cried out upon recognising dead brothers-in-arms, but their cries were if anything more sorrowful as they embraced their living comrades. “We have fallen, and from these depths there is no return. Even now I see you spoke the truth, the madness threatens to rise up and conquer me again. On behalf of my people, I must offer you our deepest regret.” Mugitus shook his head vehemently, “You owe us nothing, friend. We have failed, and this is why your people still suffer as they do.”
“Nevertheless,” Krohur said, and by now Cornelius could hear a trace of what he must have sounded like, before his voice was taken by decades of rage and insanity. As Krohur spoke, his hands appeared to have a life of their own, running through his hair and over his face, where a matted beard hung low. “We cannot allow ourselves to sink so low again.” He looked about him, and saw that he had the attention of his brethren. “Draken! We know what we must do. These centaurs and these men have done their best to save us, but now that we own ourselves once more we can die with pride.”
Many of them nodded, as if such a thing was obvious. Cornelius was confused. The centaurs would not kill them as they were, it would be a grievous sin. He saw Mugitus’ face, and knew the general was thinking the same thing, his eyes already set upon a refusal. But the request never came. Instead, the Draken began to gather together. Some of them had already begun to revert, and they were constrained by their fellows, whom they did not instinctively attack.
“Rufus Fulvus Mugitus,” Krohur said, as the Draken began to walk towards the cliffs, away from the battlefield. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have given us a few precious moments, from the horror of centuries. As I die, I will remember my mate and our children, and the glory of days long past. When we are gone, please burn our fallen brethren as was traditional, on a great pyre. We would be honoured if your fallen would burn with us, so that they may all meet again in Calaspir.” Then he went to join the rest of the Draken, who had linked arms.
Mugitus nodded his consent, and stood staring at the ground for a moment, where the grass was now dyed purple with blood and entrails of all sorts. Cornelius regarded his general for a moment. The request to die had not been given. The one time before that Cornelius had fought and seen a were-dragon killed, Mugitus had had to refuse the plea, and the Legion had waited until the last light of reason had faded from the Draken’s eyes, and they once more took up their weapons. Cornelius had not been the only one to weep as he fought that day.
But now, was this any better? Cornelius stood alongside Ennius, who was still bleeding from a deep wound in his side. With their cohorts, they watched the Draken walk in a line towards the cliffs, which Krohur had named Dunfarrow. There were already a few trills of furious laughter rising amongst them, but as they approached the edge they began to sing in a strange language. Even though the sounds were strange, and the words unintelligible, it could not be mistaken for anything but a dirge.
“Draconic,” Mugitus rumbled somewhere behind Cornelius. Everyone else remained silent, they understood that this was a moment to remember. The dirge came to an end, and the Draken stood in a long line along the cliff-face. Fifteen hundred of them, gazing out across the northern seas. It seemed that the Legion stood watching them for an eternity, seeing for an instant the nobility of these warriors whom they had been forced to consider as dangerous monsters. Then, as one, they stepped out in oblivion, and left behind the evils of the present. Cornelius closed his eyes. May you find peace on the other side, Draken. I fear that Calaspir no longer stands, but I pray that you find it standing still, its pennants flying in the divine breeze, and the eternal feast still within. May the Sun bless you with her light, and Earth keep you in her warmth.
Later that day, when the grim business of collecting the dead and building the enormous pyre was complete, the Legion stood assembled in parade formation. They had all done their best to repair and clean their equipment, but there was a certain rag-tag look to them all. Nothing that could be done about that, after a three-month campaign and a hard day’s battle. Still, their discipline and silence showed their respect for both the legionnaires and the Draken who had died that day.
Mugitus walked up and down before the Legion, nodding to each of his commanders as he did so. He seemed to hold Cornelius’ eyes for a long time, although it was probably just his imagination. The fluttering of the Legion’s banner was the only noise apart from the crashing of the waves against the cliffs far below. No-one had had the heart to look down and see if the Draken had been washed away yet by the surf. The general halted between the centre of the formation and the pyre.
“A lot of good men died here today. Once, the Flights of Castle Dagora soared overhead and guarded these lands for the Dragon Knight. Once, the Draken were a proud people, as we have seen today. What has been done to them is evil, and our appreciation for this evil is only increased because we were spared. Krohur of the First Flight, Clan Banehide, was a great man, I knew it when I looked into his eyes. He absolved us of blame, but he has not seen the Fifth Isle as it is today. As we have seen it. So we must still bear our burden, not because we caused the great evil which consumed the Draken and so many others, but because we have survived it. Our federation with the Fabonaar and the Ecotch will endure, and one day we will return peace to the Fifth Isle. Until then, we have our duty. Until then, every day, we must mourn the passing of Krohur and his brethren. Until then we will fight the dark things that have awakened in our own age. That is our purpose. By the Beastlord Ancomius, by Rundus the Smith, by Dovarca the poet, and by all the gods, I swear that this shall be my purpose. Third Legion, Hammer of Rundus, is it yours?!”
The Legion roared in approval. There were many oaths to Ancomius and to Rundus, and Cornelius found himself cheering along with the rest. His heart wasn’t in it, though, and he soon stopped. Mugitus spoke truly, but this talk of fighting and war always left a sour taste in Cornelius’ mouth. Centaurs were supposed to be teachers and advisors, like the Ancient Kiron. That was why they had been spared from the fate of the Draken, to lead the world into a brighter future. The idea that they would have to fight every step of the way…it disturbed him.
When the cheering had died down, Mugitus gave the order for the pyre to be lit. Torchbearers stepped forward from all sides and soon the flames were crackling. Then the Legion got ready to move. They would be making camp some miles away to the south. Not only to avoid the terrible smell of the roasting flesh, however. The enormous pyre was almost certain to attract further bands of Draken, and the Legion was not ready to fight a second time that day.
That evening, when the Legion was camped, its watchfires making an orderly pattern on the stretching Plains, a group of centaurs met in secret atop a nearby hill. They were shrouded, not to hide their identities, but to make the proper respects in the rites they would conduct that evening. One of them had brought a young hind with her, led by a rope. The animal was frightened, as if it could sense the fate that soon awaited it.
Amphis Truxiubus was the first to speak. He held his arms up, with the elbows crooked. “Great Lord Veradroon, Bear of Slaughter, we hail you and give you praise.” The rest of the group intoned after him, “Hail and praise to you, Lord of the Hunt, Lord of Blood.” The centaur holding the hind dragged it forward, into the centre of a circle the others had marked out with red stones on the hillock. She drew out a wicked-looking dagger and held it in her left hand as she grasped the hind’s throat with her right.
“To you, Great Lord Veradroon, we give this sacrifice as thanks for our success in today’s battle. We pledge this and more blood in the days that come, for your continued protection of our people from the madness of the Draken.” With a practised motion, she drew the dagger across the deer’s throat and held it out over a bowl which another of the group held out to collect the blood.
Amphis continued, “So that you know we still uphold our compact, as we did during the Fall, we share now this blood of the Hunt with you, O Great Lord.” The bowl of hot blood was passed from hand to hand, and the centaurs each drank. The rest of the hind’s lifeblood poured out onto the earth inside the circle of red stones, as a tribute to the god.
When the ritual was complete, one of the centaurs drew back his hood. “That was a close battle today, but by the Bear I hate it when they regain their senses,” rumbled Rufus Fulvus Mugitus, “It unsettles the men and makes it all the harder to get them to see the reason for what we do up here.”
“They need not fight for our reasons, General, so long as they fight,” said Amphis. “The Great Lord requires only that we give offerings to him, he does not truly care why the offerings are made. Our race will endure.”
“Very well. I wonder sometimes, if a few of the younger ones are not growing suspicious. That Ruberungulus lad looks at me strangely, his eyes seem to grow sadder by the day. Today he threw himself into the middle of a bunch of Draken and he didn’t even seem ready to fight them!”
“I saw. He does not have the Rage, as many do. It will come to him, or he will die. These are not pretty battles we fight, General. Our enemies are not misunderstood, they are consumed by evil and madness. If he feels too much pity for them, he will soon discover how much pity is left in their souls.”
“Harrumph. Precious little. Still, he fought well when he fought! A fine young lad, he and the elder Tibius did well to hold the left for as long as they did. Did the Hammer proud.”
The rest of the gathering of nine centaurs stayed quiet. Many of them had just come along for the ritual, exhausted by the day’s events they were unwilling to discuss them in detail. The general and his bodyguard talked over the disposition of the cohorts for another minute or two, then as chief ritualist, Amphis dismissed the gathering. They returned to the camp, to sleep amongst their individual cohorts.
It had been a long day.