The Midwinter War - A tale of loss and hope

This story came into existence 4 years ago, originally written in my native language German. As I am still quite proud of it and consider it one of the definitely best tales I have ever created, I thought it couldn't hurt to share it with a broader audience of AoC and Hyboria fans. If you read this now, that goal has been achieved.

I will look into translating the whole story over the next few days until christmas, as The Midwinter War clearly is a fitting release for the wintertime. I hope you will enjoy it. Leave a comment if you wish, I appreciate all kinds of praise and (constructive) criticism!


THE MIDWINTER WAR
A tale of loss and hope

Prologue: A mirthless triumph

The memories are still relentlessly fresh. A ruined field that we are standing on, only few survivors, putting a lot of effort in simply being able to stand, and hardly able to hold back the tears of wrath and the overwhelming feeling of loss. Once this had been a wheat field that we layed out in the sweat of our brows to ensure the supply of the city we called our home.

But now, after the disastrous events of the last few days, it is merely a battlefield, adorned with the battered dead bodies of many friends, and even more ravaged corpses of our enemies. The snow, just recently fallen to cover the ground in a gentle white, is now crimson-colored from a battle void of all human feeling and any kind of mercy. A falcon flies high above us, sluggish in its flight, its wings wounded like our bodies and souls. The proud and beautiful bird lets out a cry that breaks the dead silence.

Slowly, the leader of the bereaved, a vigorous warrior, strides along the scene of the recent skirmish, limping and smeared in blood. His name is Atavus. He has lost everything that had been near and dear to him within the last days. His wife, struck down by a poisoned arrow. His son, trampled to death by the enemies' horses. Countless friends with whom he had shared joy and pain over so many years.

Clearly, he recognizes the lifeless body of the man lying in the dirt in front of him. The commander of the enemy forces. A massive axe still lingers where it split his skull, his eyes are wide open, the whole face distorted in a grimace of fright. Atavus looks down on him and closes his eyes. Again, he hears the falcon's cry, the splendid bird of prey that had belonged to his son. And in the end, the warrior loses the last thing that he held on to: The last vestiges of self-control.

Fueled by rage, he jerks his battle axe from the corpse of the enemy and brings it down crashing on the body, time and time again. Blood splatters, bones crack, and Atavus' shout of rage carries over and above the field, making his few remaining abiders wince. Ultimately, he stomps onto the severed and disfigured head of the corpse with his heavy boots, over and over again, until it can no longer be recognized as human.

A hand gently settles on the warrior's shoulder. Snaplike and still furious, he turns around, yet his anger recedes as he perceives one of his own. Atavus, that hulking figure of a man, looks up to the sky and catches sight of the falcon. Memories and exhaustion let him fall down on his knees.

The war is over. But the loss they had to suffer can never be atoned for, and the scars that it left behind will keep burning forever.


(... to be continued.)

I) Threatened peace

Some days before...

Atavus drove his horse, a noble black steed, towards the gates of the city at a smart trot. Massive walls proteced his home, and the guards on the battlements greeted him as he rode by. Just in time, the gates were opened, so he didn't have to steady his stallion, and closes again right after him. The settlement offered a magnificent sight. Forges with smoke rising from their chimneys, crafting elaborate weapons and armor renowned and coveted far beyond town. High and extensively embellished towers that could be seen from far away, twice as tall as the already imposing city walls. Temples and idols of various gods. Merchant houses and taverns. Friendly faces all over the place, of citizens greeting Atavus and bowing to him. Showing both dignity and kindness, he nodded to them and let a smile appear on his face now and then.

The warrior drove his steed up the wide path to the keep, the center of his benevolent reign over this splendid city that he was so very proud of. In front of the mighty tower, he let his horse come to a stop, dismounted and handed the reins over to a young squire who tried awkwardly to take a bow, telling the boy to bring the stallion to the stables and see about feeding it.

The regent entered the keep and followed the long and ornate set of stairs down towards the throne room. In the small arena he passed, some young warriors and veterans practiced combat. When he strode past them, they paused, the young ones bowing to him, and the proven warriors that he had already fought many battles with, simply nodding to Atavus. He left the arena behind and set foot into the heart of his regency.

In a dining hall with enough space for dozens of the most merited citizens, a set of stairs led upwards, where a modest throne had its proper place. Atavus followed the stairs to the regent's seat and then further up a curved set ot steps. His son rummaged around the archives that contained ancient knowledge about alchemy, the art of war and much more, as well as fabulous legends and tales from all known parts of the world.

As he noticed his father's presence, a smile lightened up his face and he ran towards him for a hug. Atavus knelt down to clasp the kid in his arms. Of course, his son wanted to know everything about father's latest trip and bombarded him with questions. The warrior was rather a man of few words, so he took a deep breath as the gong sounded to announce dinner. He told his son to already go ahead and turned to face the man who assorted the scrolls just a few steps away.

Draped in dark garments featuring symbols glimmering in an unnatural blue, the figure could easily be identified as a scholar. He served as a counselor to the regent, evaluating the reports of scouts and soldiers, and always keeping him up to date about recent developments. Atavus watched the man expectantly, and he could not hide the lines of worry on his face. „What's the situation?“

The other looked up to the tall warrior, and his eyes already betrayed that he had no good news. “It's bad“, he answered shortly. „Really bad.“ He indicated for the regent to take a seat, and also placed himself on a plain wooden bench.

“The hunters have chased us down. Our forces would be able to match theirs and come out victorious, alas they are not alone.“ He let out a sigh before continuing. “They have forged an alliance with mages from the southern lands, a coalition of extremely powerful wizards, famous... or rather, infamous, in Stygia as the Black Ring.“

Atavus shook his head in disbelief. He had never understood magic and never trusted those who used it. Men and women that called upon dark powers to summon unnatural weapons were an anathema to him. He forced himself to focus his thoughts on the essentials. “Where did you get this information?“

The scholar looked around and gestured for a slim figure that had eluded Atavus' observation until now. Smooth and silently, she moved towards both men and pulled pack the hood of her purple cloak, reinforced with black leather in relevant locations, revealing long blonde curls and a soft face that produced an enticing smile and sapphire blue eyes. Her skin tone was a pleasant tan. She reminded Atavus of his wife when he first met her.

The scholar's words brought him back to the clarity of the present. “Regent Atavus, allow me to introduce Tikva, ambassador of a collective known as the Nimrods of Decay.“ Invitingly, he gestured for the envoy to continue the talk.

Tikva bowed gracefully before speaking. “Esteemed regent Atavus, I have come to convey the greetings of my superior, the leader of the Nimrods of Decay. Our collective has been observing and hunting these damned spellcasters of the Black Ring for a long time now. I was sent to offer assistance to you and your forces, with knowledge as well as in battle.“

Atavus nodded to her. “Well, ambassador, then let's not waste time. If the situation is as precarious as our friend here says it is,“ he pointed to the scholar, “then for the sake of defending our glorious city, I will need all the knowledge that you have on these mages.“ He got up and easily towered almost two heads above the delicate figure of the envoy. “Let's continue this conversation during dinner.“ She bowed again, and Atavus turned around to walk off.

Before he went down the stairs, he paused to add some more words: “And I also want all the insight you can give on the allies of the Black Ring. The Hunters of the Deathsmen.“


(... to be continued.)

II) Strategic planning

After dinner, Atavus assembled his closest and most faithful abiders. His dark-robed counselor. His deputy Vinur, a warrior from the northern folk, the Aesir, who even towered above the large frame of Atavus himself. Bendis, the spokeswoman of the archers. His wife Strata, whose advice he always appreciated. And last but not least, Tikva, the envoy from the Nimrods of Decay.

They discussed at length about what kind of action needed to be taken, how they should prepare for the inevitable events to come. Tikva reported about the demonic magic that the Black Ring wielded, and the worries about it were visibly written in all their faces. She also gave a full account of her knowledge about the Hunters of the Deathsmen, even though most of it was already well-known to all those present.

The Hunters of the Deathsmen were a brotherhood that had been hunting down the collective that now resided in this city for ages. Once they had suffered a crushing defeat in the southern kingdom of Zingara, yet up to this very day, they were driven by the heretic belief that they needed to exact revenge on their enemies, and to completely obliterate them once and for all.

Tactics were discussed, plans forged out, even unconventional measures considered. The vicious spellcasters from Stygia were usually clad in woven fabric, giving them only little defense against cold steel or a well-placed rain of arrows. Surely they would be surrounded and thus protected by the Hunters. Overly complex strategies were soon discarded. They all agreed that a straightforward approach would be their best chance for success.

The warriors were assigned to infantry and cavalry. The archers would be deployed to the battlements, for lack of better alternatives, and instructed by Bendis, Strata and Tikva. Atavus would lead the troops on horseback and Vinur take command of the foot soldiers.

A preemptive strike was meant to call a halt on the imminent threat. It was crucial not to let the enemy take the initiative but to keep control of the upcoming events. An all-out frontal attack from the infantry was the first step, a move so obvious that it could not completely be expected by their foes. During the assault, the troops would divide, with the main part of the troops continuing onward, while two smaller detachments swerved to the flanks to strike from there with the assistance of the swiftly charging cavalry.

Conclusively, Vinur muttered: “Let's just crush these bugs. The beginning of winter is in a few days. So we'll celebrate the midwinter feast to top off our victory.“ And all of them nodded to him, smiling consent.

So far, so good. The rest of the evening was spent aligning their warriors to an inexorable battle, and making the citizens feel that they would be safe and in good hands. Atavus spent time with his son, reading old heroes' tales to the boy. In the night that followed, the regent belonged entirely to his wife.


(... to be continued.)

III) Crimson sunrise

The light of the rising sun burned in Atavus' eyes. He had hardly gotten any sleep. Long before dawn, his troops already took up positions. Suspense and anxiety wiggled their way though the ranks of his people like a snake. An enemy that was almost impossible to predict naturally provided lots of discomfort. Even more so as that enemy had nothing less but the complete extinction of its foes in mind. Atavus made an effort to greet every soldier he encountered and comfort them with a few words. Vinur did quite the same, trying to boost morale in their comrades-in-arms, giving a slap on the back here and a friendly headbutt there.

Atavus took a deep breath. He knew all these people, he valued them and deeply regretted that many of them would to live to see the next sunrise. Tikva, the envoy, approached him and asked his permission to give a short speech. The regent granted her request, knowing well that she had the most experience in fighting the spellcasters of the Black Ring.

Tikva climbed up a rock to be visible to most of the troops, and began her address after Atavus had gained her the necessary attention. Her magnificent head of blonde curls amplified the illusion of a delicate and vulnerable woman, but everyone who had dealt with her so far had quickly realized that she was an experienced and very skilled combatant.

“Dear fellow soldiers“, the envoy rose to speak with an uncommon but very pleasant accent in her voice, “for countless winters the Nimrods of Decay, which I belong to, have already been fighting the Black Ring. It is important that you understand what to expect.“ She stretched out an arm in a sweeping, circling move. “The mages of the Ring will stand together at all times, protected by their allies, the Hunters of the Deathsmen. They will combine their spells and summon tremendous storms in the sky. They will attempt to enter your minds and drive you to distraction or even insanity. All the mental efforts you can muster are required to resist.“

She let her gaze wander through the gathered troops. Vinur, the tall warrior from the north, stepped up to her side. He cleared his throat, seemingly still looking for the right words. “Men. Women. These damned dogs want to take your lives. So you will take theirs first! Kill them all, as that is all they deserve.“ Isolated cheers came up before Vinur continued with his firm and powerful voice: “Let's win the day, and then we'll celebrate the midwinter feast like never before! We will drink, we will sing, and we will piss on the dead bodies of the enemy!“

The yelling from the crowd became truly deafening. Atavus managed to force a smile. Once again, even before the fighting had started, Vinur had proven that he could be depended on implicitly. The troops gathered. Archers took up positions on the battlements. The tension was almost tangible.

Hardly any sound came through from the outside. In the distance, the sound of horse's hoofs on wet soil could soon be heard. The snow of the last few days melted as it was touched by the rays of the sun that seemed to glimpse through the scattered clouds in the sky.

Bendis, the leader of the archers and scouts, gave the signal for departure. The heavy gates opened for the army of the regent Atavus, and the soldiers got under way. The battle that would enter the history books as the Midwinter War had begun.


(... to be continued.)

IV) Annihilation

These are the records of the advisor to honored regent Atavus. I have created an arcane seal to protect the underground chambers of this glorious city, which barely escaped the annihilation of the Midwinter War's final events. One day in a distant future, may a collective of brave men and women once again settle here and call this place their home. Once their glory reaches its peak, the seal will be broken and the chambers revealed to them. The archives in which this account will be found contain myriads of documents about the proud and colorful past of the guild Orda Boia.

Keep our traditions alive and let the order's star shine anew in unequalled brilliance, chasing off the darkness and all those longing for eternal night. This place, this city, has a very special meaning to us, and we will always return here. It is not the first time that a fortress was destroyed at this very location... but that is another story. Orda Boia will never perish. Our order is destined to unify honor and strength, standing up for all that is good in the world. This shall never be forgotten, never be buried in oblivion.

Blax, advisor and scribe to regent Atavus


“The sun had just risen above the horizon, sending a few first cautious beams towards the field that would shortly be colored in a dark, sanguine red.

The messengers of war which we reckoned as our enemies, the Hunters of the Deathsmen and mages of the Black Ring united, were about to expose their true nature soon. A day full of anguish, sorrow and death – but not without hope. Maybe I should have let the others know about my visions. Yet, it would not have changed a thing. At most, it might have eroded morale even more.

Our forces were steeped in their confidence in their own honor and strength. They wasted not a single thought about their own possible extinction. And that was how it should be, even though our chances were mediocre at best.

No-one of us ever conceived the idea of having to fight this war alone. The solidarity of this collective was amazing. Together at the front, inspired by the spirit not only to attempt defeating the enemy, but to simply make it happen. They followed Atavus, their regent, who was always good to them, who had provided peace and prosperity, implicitly.

Even though the innocence of this city was about to be torn now, attacked by the wild beast that was war... it was a necessity. A new page in the history of the order would be opened and written. Memories would heal the pains of loss, slow but steady. They say that time is a great healer... although some might wait for relief forever.

From the battlements I could see the forces of both sides clashing. The battalion of archers drew their bows, anticipating the signal to strike. The screams of war's horrors pervaded the air, and cold shivers ran down the backs of more than a few of us. We all tried our best to hide our true emotions, worries and fears. Determination was written in all the faces around me.

The attack proceeded as planned. A frontal assault, flanked by the cavalry and smaller units of the infantry. No, this was no battle. It was a bloodbath. Countless soldiers were cut down on both sides, a grim slugfest with everyone involved fighting their heart out. The first wave of attack was terminated by a shrill whistle, courtesy of Vinur. At the same time, it was the signal the archers had been waiting for. The ground forces quickly retreated in an overall circular pattern, exposing the enemy. Without cease, the bowmen let their arrows rain down. The first volleys hit their target. But then, the Black Ring entered the fray, making it unmistakably clear that it was us for whom the bell tolled.

For a moment, it seemed like time was standing still. Arcane energy erupted from a sphere of lightning that swelled quickly and encased our enemies' troops. An unnatural green shroud soon covered the magical shield. A bright green light lit up the ball of energy as the next volley of arrows hit. The shots could not breach the protective shield. To the contrary, the unholy magic sent the arrows right back to where they came from at an insane speed, poisoned by the magical green shroud. The death cries were all but deafening, pure horror showing in the archers' twisted expressions. Hiding behind the walls, I closed my eyes, unable to stand the sight.

I cannot tell with certainty for how long my lids remained shut, but when I opened them again, I was surrounded by lots of dead bodies, all of them coated in shallow green fumes. I directed my view towards the battlefield. Like out of thin air, riders appeared and headed straight for the city gate. The Black Ring's arcane sphere changed its color from green to fiery tangerine and began to glow perilously before sending a massive stream of fire towards the gate, ruthlessly shattering it and thus laying open the entrance to the city.

The enemy cavaliers entered and came riding through the streets at full speed. Everyone in their way was trampled down – civilians, elders, women, children. With thrusts of their swords, they also struck down those that would have barely escaped otherwise.

In the distance, a single figure stood facing the magical sphere of the Black Ring. A vibrant white glow surrounded her, and energies of the same dazzling bright color encompassed the spellcasters' orange-red ball. Tikva, the envoy from the Nimrods of Decay, used powerful theurgy to call a halt to the efforts of the mages, bestowing a shimmer of hope on her allied forces.

At the same time, Atavus' cavalry arrived at the city, forcing their horses at the greatest possible speed. Gasping noises of dismay about the death and devastation the men now had to lay eyes on broke the silence. Quickly, the gasps converted to sharp cries, fueling an outrageous thirst for revenge. Relentlessly, they beared down on their enemies, slaughtering them without wasting a thought. The Hunters of the Deathsmen, far from being as well-equipped as the local forces, never stood a chance against the furious attacks from our soldiers – they were downright executed.

From afar, a black explosion broke through Tikva's white magic. And all of a sudden, the mages of the Black Ring had vanished, same as their antagonist. Puzzled, I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Yet the startled cries of Atavus' abiders made me spin around. The sorcerers had not simply disappeared. Instead, they had cast a teleportation spell! Their energy sphere now took on an alarming black hue of pure malevolence, darker than the deepest night. The soldiers that were the swiftest to react, dashing for the ball of energy, were instantly crumbled into dust.

Tikva had also been carried with the teleportation spell, luckily hitting the ground out of the sphere's reach. Having run towards the scene all the time my thoughts had raced just as fast, I went to help her up. Her initial surprise soon made way for quick and clear instructions to keep away from the mages. Something tremendously powerful and infinitely evil was emerging here, that was plain to see even for someone with rather limited magical abilities like me. And we had no chance to prevent it.

It happened within seconds. Tikva surrounded herself with a bright white glow once more and let a pillar of light ascend up to the sky. One at a time, few of our people were wrapped in a vivid light. Atavus, Vinur, some other warriors and me... there was no time for more.

The dead black of the magical sphere was slowly streaked by fine red lines and the construct began to tremble. Eventually, the ball burst asunder, releasing its lethal destructive energy to lay waste to everything and everyone in its vicinity. The mages themselves turned to dust, the buildings of the city were razed to the ground and everybody who was still alive then did not even have the time to let out a scream before the skin burned off his body and he was consumed by an unnatural fire.

Only the few of us who were steeped in the protective light provided by Tikva's theurgy survived the apocalypse. Even the surrounding soil and rocks turned an unnatural dark gray. Animals, trees and plants perished just like the people of this glorious city.

The Black Ring and the Hunters of the Deathsmen were defeated. Only the puny remains of our forces still filled this scene of utter destruction with signs of life. Most of them sank to the ground, gazing into empty space. Nobody could conceive what had happened, and just barely they could grasp that they had lost everything but their lives.

This was not a victory. A massacre like this had to be considered a defeat for all those involved.

And is not every war a loss for the souls and the humanity of all participants? There is not much good to say about the Midwinter War. The enemies of our order were vanquished, but no-one can tell if there are still more of the Hunters of the Deathsmen lurking in the wide world and the Black Ring is still numerous and powerful. Nobody knows which dangers Orda Boia will have to face in the future. But one thing is for sure: We will return here, once the magical contamination subsides. We will find our way back to our former power, and maybe even more. The descendants of Atavus and his remaining followers will rebuild a city that is in no way inferior to our obliterated home.

For each time we fall, we will rise again. We will return from obscurity like a phoenix from the flames. That is the way of Orda Boia.“



Epilogue: An End as a new Beginning

Only about a dozen men and women were left over from the populace of a city where brisk business was still common a few days ago. Vinur, the huge warrior with a heart just as big. Blax, the wise adviser to the regent. Tikva, the envoy of the Nimrods of Decay, who had saved them. Two young siblings who had to watch their parents' cruel deaths. A badly injured warrior who had lost his arm. Two archers. Two little children who could not understand a thing... what was probably best for them at this point. And Atavus, the leader of the collective, who had just ravished the dead body of the enemy's commander with furious axe blows, fueled by feelings of loss and immeasurable sadness.

In a low voice, Blax declared that the city was lost. It would be many years until grass would grow in this place, until flowers and trees would blossom and cows graze again. For a long time, the soil would be contaminated by the demonic magic unleashed by the spellcasters of the Black Ring. The underground chambers below the keep, which were surprisingly almost completely spared by the destruction, were magically sealed and obscured by Blax. On the very day that a community would settle here again and reached the climax of its power, the seal would open and grant them admission to the subterranean heart of the city.

Vinur, the blond giant from the North, stepped up to this friend Atavus to embrace him, an earnest gesture of friendship and solidarity. This man, at most time even more lost for words than the regent of the annihilated city himself, now raised his voice for a speech that would forever burn into the minds of the Midwinter War's survivors.

“Even though the grief almost destroys you, it is time to allow the past to rest. Let your hearts find the peace that your are yearning for. True, all of us are sinking in unimaginable depths of anguish. Some might think that it was all for nothing.

But I say: Celebrate the Midwinter feast with me. Let us celebrate the arrival of Winter. Let us celebrate our survival – and remember all those we loved and lost with the most wonderful memories. Celberate with me a new beginning, a new day. Pain and grief are the witnesses of the past, but we are looking at a bright future.

One day, a new city will emerge in this place, surrounded by massive walls yet still welcoming to all those looking for a home. Towers will rise up to the sky once again, joy and laughter will find their way into a community of people who always stand together and successfully fend off any kind of threat.

And the banner of Orda Boia will waft in the winds once again, even more glorious than ever before.“


* THE END *



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Author's note

This story details a fictional legend from the past of our guild OrdaBoia which has been active since AoC was released. The tale of the Midwinter War came into existence at the time when the underground chambers below a guild city's keep were introduced, so that part was quite fitting back then. It is also some kind of "encore" to the original OrdaBoia legends I had already written before. Today, only few of us remain in Hyboria...

I hope you enjoyed the story of the Midwinter War. :)


PS: Sorry if some things might have come across a little weird... details get lost in translation sometimes. For example, the Hunters of the Deathsmen were originally "Die Jäger der Henker" in German, a play on our Guild Name which is Italian-inspired and should mean something like "Executioners of Evil" (Henker des Bösen). I just thought the rather archaic term "Deathsmen" sounded better.


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Trivia

I enjoy giving characters in my stories names that have a hidden meaning as to what they represent. So, Atavus is Latin for "grandfather" or "ancestor", Tikva is Hebrew for "hope", Vinur is Icelandic for "friend", and Strata is Polish for "loss". Bendis was a Thracian goddess of the hunt whom the Greeks identified with Artemis. And Blax is the original founder of our Guild whom I included in every legend.

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