A Banner Torn (Book 1 Complete)

this is an optional chapter and is quite long. It is the original short story this project grew out of. But technically it's not directly relevant to the story. So if you'd like to continue the story proper, just click next again. If you would like to continue reading I welcome you enjoying my work :)

Kairnleid - in the deep past, as told in stories over the campfire:

The path carved downward like a wound in the earth, leading toward a valley where a massive castle stood sentinel. Dark and foreboding, its ancient stone walls bore the scars of forgotten wars. Towers reached skyward like accusing fingers, crowned with flickering flames that cast an orange glow across weathered stone, giving the illusion of life to something long dead.

From his vantage point, the fortress appeared abandoned, a tomb of shadows. Yet the smoke rising from within betrayed its secrets, curling upward like the breath of a slumbering giant. Where there was fire, there were watchers. Waiting.

Kairnleid paused at the hill's crest, surveying the castle below. Cold air filled his lungs, carrying the scent of damp stone and soot that seemed to weigh him down with each breath. The twin great swords strapped across his back felt heavier than usual, a constant reminder of the task ahead. Get in. Find the heart of this place. End it. This war had consumed enough already.

But first, the guards.

Four sentries patrolled the visible perimeter, with others likely concealed in shadow. The main gate, too obvious, too dangerous, stood watched by two broad shouldered men with gleaming spears. Three more guards marched along the wall, boots crunching rhythmically on gravel. To the east, a smaller door offered potential entry, but even it had a solitary watcher, ears pricked for any disturbance. His lips twitched. Nothing worth doing was ever easy.

He began his descent, each step placed with surgical precision. His dark attire melded with the night as he navigated the uneven terrain, aware that a single misstep would announce his presence to every ear below. The drop of a stone. The rustle of fabric. Death came in many forms, and tonight, it moved on silent feet.

As he neared the wall, the guards' conversation drifted toward him. He pressed himself against a boulder, breath shallow, fingers finding the hilt of his dagger. The patrol of three passed by, one laughing, another adjusting his blue sash. For a heartbeat, his focus wavered, memories surfaced of comrades wearing similar colors, of days before blood had soaked the earth. He shoved the thoughts away. Sentiment was a luxury for those with futures.

When they moved on, he seized his chance. Sliding toward the smaller door, he kept to the deepest shadows. The lone guard stood with his back to the stone, alert but unsuspecting. Cupping his hands, he released a low, guttural hoot that mimicked the night owls haunting the valley. The guard's head tilted, brow furrowing as he stepped away from his post, muttering about spirits as he peered into darkness. Kairnleid slipped past, the wall's shadow swallowing him whole.

Inside, the outer bailey was cluttered with barrels, crates, and military supplies. The air hung thick with the stench of oil and blood, evidence of recent conflict. He pressed deeper, senses hyperaware. Another patrol emerged from a side passage, forcing him behind stacked crates until their footsteps faded.

The passage narrowed into a corridor bristling with rusted spikes and neglected traps. He navigated carefully, stepping over a tripwire that would have sent him plummeting into some unseen pit. Ahead, a guard stood at a chokepoint, spear at rest but eyes alert. Nearby, a rusty tripwire connected to a jangling bell mechanism caught his attention. With his dagger tip, he nudged it from safety's distance, then retreated around a corner. The bell rattled faintly, and the guard cursed, rushing to investigate while grumbling about vermin. Kairnleid glided past in the opposite direction, his cloak barely whispering against the wall of spikes.

The corridor opened into a courtyard dominated by a fractured statue, some forgotten deity whose severed arm pointed toward nothingness. Two guards patrolled the far side while a stairwell loomed ahead, a risky but necessary ascent. He counted their steps, waited for their passing, then slipped across the open space, his cloak brushing against cold stone as he climbed.

At the top, a narrow ledge overlooked the inner ward. Below, more guards moved through the fortress's heart, a landscape of stone and smoke where his target waited. The iron on his back felt heavier with each passing moment, a constant reminder of what lay ahead. The gates yawned like a predator's jaws, ready to snap shut, while the air hung thick with the acrid scent of burning pitch, torch smoke, and the distant, metallic tang of blood.

The twin greatswords pressed against his spine, urging action, but caution tempered every step. This was no place for a frontal assault, survival depended on stealth. The ward opened into a cluttered area of barrels and crates, their shadows stretching like misshapen sentinels in the flickering light. He moved with predatory grace, his dark cloak blending seamlessly with the darkness as he wove between obstacles.

Four guards emerged from a side passage, boots scraping against stone, lanterns casting wild patterns across the ground. He froze, squeezing into a narrow gap between crates, barely breathing as the light skimmed past his hiding place. One guard, broad-shouldered and scarred, paused, his head tilting as though sensing something amiss. His hand hovered near his weapon, but after a grunt, he moved on, rejoining his companions. Their voices faded into the distance.

The path narrowed into a low tunnel, the walls slick with moisture and etched with battle scars. Two sentries stood at a junction, spears propped against the wall as they focused on a dice game, the scene illuminated by a single lantern. A blue sash tied around one spear caught his eye, fabric fluttering in the draft. Memories surfaced unbidden, sunlight filtering through oak leaves, identical blue draped over weapons amid laughter, camaraderie now buried beneath years of bloodshed. His chin dipped, eyes momentarily unfocused. He forced the scowl away, blinking hard. Nostalgia was a weakness he couldn't afford.

He observed their rhythm, noting how they argued over each roll. When their voices rose in predictable dispute, he slipped past on silent feet, their distraction masking his shadow as he edged along the damp wall. The tunnel opened into another courtyard centered around a dry fountain, its basin cracked and overrun with weeds. Three guards patrolled the perimeter, lanterns swinging in slow arcs. He ducked behind the fountain, breath shallow, tracking their movements.

One guard fell behind, adjusting his armor straps. Kairnleid seized the opportunity, darting across open ground to a shadowed alcove. The alcove led to a spiraling stairwell worn smooth by countless footsteps. Climbing meant exposure, but it was also the clearest route toward the keep.

He ascended, testing each step for balance, one hand trailing the wall for support. Halfway up, torchlight glinted off a tripwire stretched across the stairs, connected to a concealed blade mechanism. He froze, tracing its path before stepping over with exaggerated care, boots clearing the trigger.

At the summit, a narrow ledge offered a vantage point over the inner ward where more guards moved below, their voices a distant hum. From this height, each step forward felt like a gamble against discovery.

A side passage branched from the ledge, half hidden behind a tattered banner. He slipped inside, where the air grew colder and the walls pressed closer. A lone guard stood at the far end, back turned, spear planted firmly. Direct confrontation remained too dangerous; the clash of steel would draw unwanted attention.

A loose brick in the nearby wall caught his eye. With a flick of his dagger, he pried it free, letting it clatter into the debris with a soft, shifting sound. The guard turned, frowning as he investigated. Kairnleid dropped through a rusted grate into a drainage channel, the metal groaning faintly under his weight.

The channel emptied into a storage room lined with oil barrels and weapon crates. Two guards lounged near a brazier, their laughter a jarring contrast to the tension coiling in his chest.

He emerged from the drain, staying low behind stacked crates, every movement deliberate. Noting the brazier's flickering light, he shifted a crate slightly to cast an elongated shadow against the wall, a phantom figure moving in the distance. The guards fell silent, hands inching toward weapons as they stared at the far end of the room. Kairnleid slipped to the rear door, its creak masked by their whispered debate about what they'd seen.

The corridor beyond stretched like a beast's gullet, lined with rusted spikes and the skeletal remains of ancient traps, a grim testament to the fortress's merciless design. A patrol of three approached, lanterns casting elongated shadows that clawed at the walls. He pressed himself into a stone niche, body flush against cold rock as the light passed mere inches from his face.

One guard paused, nostrils flaring as he sampled the air. Kairnleid's grip tightened around his dagger's hilt, knuckles whitening. But the man moved on, muttering about the pervasive damp, oblivious to how close death had come. The fortress's defenses tightened as he pressed deeper, the passage twisting like a wounded serpent, each step drawing him closer to his target.

The shaft clutched at him jealously, metal edges scraping against armor as he inched forward on elbows and knees. Voices grew distinct ahead, forcing him to pause at a grate overlooking a guard post. Three men huddled around a table below, dice clattering against wood as they gambled away their watch. Blue sashes tied to nearby spears stood in stark contrast to surrounding stone, the sight tearing open buried memories. Sunlight filtering through oak leaves, identical blue fabric draped over weapons, laughter rising from throats now forever silent. Brotherhood. Purpose. Connection. His chin dropped involuntarily, eyes unfocusing as the past rushed back unbidden. A scowl flickered across his face before he violently pushed the memories aside. That life had been sacrificed to the insatiable god of war, only the mission remained.

The blue sash he'd plucked from a crate earlier found purpose now, tied around his arm with practiced efficiency. He loosened the grate silently, then dropped into shadow before striding past the guards with head lowered, muttering convincingly about shift changes. They glanced up without suspicion, grunted acknowledgment, then returned to their gambling, deceived by the simple badge of belonging. He slipped through the opposite exit, heart pounding beneath the thin veneer of deception. The passage beyond spiraled downward, steps slick with pale green moss, descending into the keep's bowels. He navigated carefully, one hand trailing the wall for balance, until a faint click froze him mid step. A pressure plate, edges barely perceptible in the gloom, promised violent death. He shifted his weight with dancer's precision, stepping over the trap before continuing downward into increasing cold and narrowing stone.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The stairwell bottomed out into a corridor stretching into darkness, walls festooned with rusted spikes and shattered mechanical remnants, testament to the fortress's layered defenses. Two guards prowled the distant end, lantern light stretching before them like probing fingers. Kairnleid pressed himself into a recessed niche, body flattened against stone as illumination passed within a breath of exposure. One guard sniffed audibly, complaining about persistent damp, while his grip tightened around his dagger. They continued onward, oblivious to death's proximity.

When silence returned, he crept forward into a second courtyard centered around a dry well with cracked rim, surrounded by scattered crates offering precious concealment. Four additional guards circled the perimeter, voices a low, continuous drone. He ducked behind the nearest crates, breath measured and even despite mounting tension.

A shadowed archway beckoned from the courtyard's far side, promising deeper penetration into the fortress. He calculated their patrol timing with mathematical precision, darting across exposed ground when their attention focused elsewhere. A loose stone shifted traitorously beneath his boot, and he froze instantly, pulse thundering in his ears, but the guards' conversation continued uninterrupted, his presence still undetected. Inside the archway, a narrow passage climbed upward, walls inscribed with faded runes worn smooth by time. Halfway up, a tripwire gleamed faintly in ambient light, connected to a concealed crossbow mechanism. He traced its deadly path visually before stepping over with exaggerated care, boots clearing the trigger by deliberate margin. The passage summit revealed another balcony overlooking the keep's inner sanctum, gates reinforced with bands of dark iron, torches blazing above in defiance of surrounding gloom.

Below, movement intensified, six guards now, lanterns bobbing as they tightened formation like a noose closing. His eyes narrowed in assessment. The fortress heart lay tantalizingly close, yet the final approach remained a gauntlet of blades and vigilant eyes. A side tunnel branched from the balcony, entrance partially obscured by a fallen structural beam. He slipped inside where air hung motionless and walls pressed closer, as if the fortress itself sought to crush intruders through stone embrace. A solitary guard stood at the tunnel's terminus, back turned, spear planted firmly against the ground. Direct confrontation remained too risky, steel meeting steel would echo through the keep like a death knell.

Kairnleid spotted a discarded spearhead and wedged it strategically into a wall crevice behind the guard. With calculated precision, he sent a small stone rolling past the man's feet, suggesting a fleeing intruder had dropped their weapon in haste. The guard spun with a curse, scanning shadows for movement, and he seized the moment to drop through a loose drainage grate, the splash of his landing muffled by his cloak's absorption.

The channel proved a tight, fetid crawl through liquid filth, walls slick with organic slime, decay's stench filling his lungs with each careful breath. He advanced on belly and elbows, great swords scraping faintly against the ceiling until the passage widened into a storage chamber. Two guards lounged near a brazier, their casual laughter an abrasive counterpoint to the coiled tension in his chest. He emerged cautiously, staying low behind stacked crates, every movement deliberate and measured. One guard stood to stretch cramped muscles, and Kairnleid tensed for discovery, but the man merely returned to his seat, danger passing like a shadow. A door at the chamber's rear offered escape, and he eased it open with minimal noise, freezing as the guards' conversation faltered momentarily before resuming. Beyond lay a final corridor terminating at the keep's inner gate, iron surface gleaming with reflected torchlight like a promise of blood to come.

He paused, exhaling deeply to release accumulated tension from overworked muscles. The fortress depths had proven a labyrinth of steel and shadow, but he'd penetrated deeper than any had right to expect. His objective lay tantalizingly near. Fingers brushed the twin great sword hilts at his back, their comforting weight a covenant of violence soon unleashed. Below, guards shifted positions, lanterns casting erratic light patterns across stone as he steeled himself for the final push into the stronghold's beating heart.

Then waiting ended, and the world exploded into a maelstrom of steel and righteous fury.

Kairnleid stood at the storm's eye, a living tempest of controlled strength and practiced blades. His twin great swords carved through air with mathematical precision, each arc calculated to the width of a hair. The universe contracted to the reach of his arms, everything beyond becoming an indistinct blur of motion and formless shadow, irrelevant until crossing the killing radius of his blades.

Metal screamed against metal, birthing a symphony of violence that echoed through stone halls. Each impact resonated through his bones like thunder, stitching the primal rhythm of combat into the marrow of his being. He wasn't merely fighting amid chaos, he had become chaos incarnate, a living weapon forged in the unforgiving furnace of endless war.

Seven men surrounded him, their shapes flickering at the edges of his sight like evil spirits made of smoke. They attacked all at once, a wave of gleaming weapons rushing toward him. Swords, spears, and axes flashed like lightning against the dark battlefield.

Kairnleid met the first strike with a sweep of his right sword. Steel hit steel with a shriek, sending sparks flying that lit up his enemy's angry face. The blow sent a jolt up his arm, but his left sword was already moving, slashing downward at flesh and bone. His enemy barely blocked it with a desperate move that rang out like a hammer striking an anvil.

He spun like a whirlwind, his legs blurring as he rolled his shoulder to dodge a spear. It barely scraped his skin, leaving a cold feeling where it passed, but he hardly noticed. Time had slowed down in the heat of battle, where instinct was faster than thought. Every muscle moved with a knowing born from years of blood and training. He saw attacks before they came, reading the slight twist of an enemy's hip, the small bend of a knee that showed what they planned. An axe fell toward him, a heavy blow meant to split him in two.

Too slow.

His swords rose together, blocking the weapon mid swing. The crash vibrated through his hands, numbing them with its force. But he didn't falter. He turned with the force, flowing into a spin while ducking low as his right blade cut out in a wild arc. Leather tore like paper, flesh ripped like wet cloth, and blood burst forth in a bright red arc that hung in the air against the gray battlefield. The guard stumbled back, holding his ruined stomach, and fell against the mossy edge of an old well. His weight knocked over a rusty bucket, sending water spilling across the bloody stones, briefly reflecting the chaos above.

A scream pierced the air, sharp, then gurgling, then gone. A body dropped from his awareness, its life snuffed out as quickly as a candle in strong wind. A cut torch clattered to the ground nearby, its embers dying in pooling blood with a faint hiss lost under the noise. He pushed forward, his momentum like a god he served with every fiber of his being. The battlefield behind him was just a blur of shifting pressure and distant torchlight, but his focus burned here, where a sword's gleam became a falling slash three steps away.

A man in far shinier armor stepped forward swipe from a blade that looked like it had never seen real combat. His body reacted before his mind could name the danger: a lunge forward, a block with his left blade, a turn that drove his right sword deep into the attacker's ribs. The counter strike cut through muscle and bone like a butcher's knife.

The monster that had caused all of this. Not smirking from a balcony as countless others dies at his whim. Not sneering at him as he ran a blade through Kairnleid's beloved. Just a scared overweight man in polished armor grabbing at the wound, his breath catching in a wet, choking gasp as blood steamed in the cold air.

Time seemed to hold its breath, the world balanced on a blade's edge.

In a moment of rage he brought the second blade around catching the mans helmet under the edge where the straps held it and sent it sailing with the upper half of the dukes head still in it.

Then he realized it had been a mistake.

That second strike to the duke cost him the time to get his blade back in position to parry cleanly. His right sword caught against an enemy's hilt, tangled in the chaos of clashing steel. It was only a tiny error, a crack in his perfect rhythm, but it was enough. The shadows sensed weakness and fell upon him in a storm of blows, metal raining down. He spun, he weaved, he turned, but his godlike flow was slipping away under the relentless attack. A spear's shaft slammed into his side, too quick to dodge, too heavy to ignore. Pain exploded, a white hot burst that stole his breath in a silent gasp. His shoulder couldn't turn against the next strike, a sword that stabbed into his thigh, shallow but burning, a poisonous bite that made his vision waver.

Time rushed forward, and the world snapped back into brutal, racing speed.

The slow motion clarity that had protected him shattered into a jagged mix of blurs and half formed images. Grace abandoned him, there was no elegance now, only the raw animal instinct to survive. He roared, a primal scream that shook the air, forcing his wounded leg forward as his left blade drove through an enemy's throat. The sound was awful, a wet, gurgling rip as steel cut through flesh, a spray of red where a battle cry had begun to form. The man's eyes widened, then went dull, his body dropping as the sword was yanked free.

The remaining shadows tightened their circle. They had seen it, the stumble, the breaking of his rhythm, and they pressed forward without mercy. Kairnleid hacked wildly, his strikes losing their precision, his blocks born of reflex rather than skill. His arms felt like lead, his breath a rough rasp tearing at his chest. An overhead swing aimed for his skull, he raised both swords to block. The clash drove him to one knee with a bone shaking impact. His arms burned, trembling under the weight of the blow. Blood ran down his leg, a warm river against the cold stones, pooling beneath him as he fought to stand.

The shadows loomed closer, their blades a flickering pattern of death. He swung wide, missing one attacker by a hair's width, then lunged to block another, his movements sluggish, his strength draining with every heartbeat. A mace grazed his shoulder, a glancing blow that numbed his arm, but he twisted away, slashing blindly at the air. The battlefield was now a broken dream, torchlight smeared into streaks, shouts and crashes blending into a single, deafening roar. His lungs heaved, his vision swam, but he pushed forward, a wounded animal refusing to give up.

Then came the blow that broke him.

A warhammer crashed into the side of his head, weight and force packed into a single, world ending moment, like a star collapsing into iron. The world exploded into blinding light, sound warping into a high wailing that stretched across an endless agony. His vision cracked, splitting into overlapping images, real and phantom enemies dancing in a twisted kaleidoscope. His body became distant, swaying on the edge of collapse, still striking but hitting nothing. His hands felt far away, as if they belonged to someone else, swinging swords he could no longer fully control.

He tried to step forward, to reclaim the momentum that had been his god. His knees gave way, betraying him. The ground rushed up, the world tilting sideways as he fell, his swords clattering against the stones. Another blow landed, a shockwave of pain that rippled through his skull, his chest, his soul. Something fundamental broke inside him, as perception itself crumbled under the flood of broken light and sound. The battlefield dissolved into vast nothingness, a void where sensation drowned.

Kairnleid hit the ground, or what had been the ground. It was no longer solid, no longer real, just an abyss of cold and chaos. Blood pooled beneath him, a fleeting warmth against the growing darkness, its copper taste the last link to a world slipping away. His swords lay beyond reach, their hilts glinting faintly in the flickering torchlight, mocking his failure. The shadows closed in, their shapes unclear, their blades poised for the final strike. His breath rasped once, twice, then stilled, swallowed by the silence of the void.

Black.

thu-thump… thump.

His body was a distant thing, an outline in the dark, blurred and smudged like a charcoal sketch smeared by a careless hand.

thu-thump.

There was nothing but the drifting pulse of thought, the edges of his mind floating loose, unmoored from weight or form. Pain flickered in and out, not sharp but hollow, like an ache in something long dead.

Th-thmp, THUMP, thhhhmp

thhhmp.

thhhh…

…mp, - -

One last flare of agony, a searing white rupture in the fabric of awareness--- -

--- Nothing.