The Beacon

The Watchman

A lone figure approaches from the east. Sam spots him first. A Freeman from the eastern tribes, no doubt. Come begging for food, most likely. Sam hates being posted out on the cold, harsh frontier, beyond the Kingdom’s borders, guarding the Pyre Hill Beacon. Technically he was guarding Pyre Hill Camp, the small military outpost at the base of Pyre Hill. The beacon was a large unlit bonfire, right at the summit of the Hill. If lit, it would be visible for miles around, warning of the coming of the Enemy. But it has been nearly 50 years since the last reported sighting of any Enemy, and Sam doubts if they really ever existed at all. All Sam has ever seen out here were uncivilised Freemen. And it was cold. Sam hates the cold.

“Help me,” the man on the road sounds weak. “They’re coming…”

Pfft. Yeah right. Just some chancer trying to get a warm bed for the night. “Open the gates,” Sam calls down to his comrades. He turns back towards the road to signal the man inside, but he's gone. Sam thought he saw a shadow moving in the trees by the road. Strange. He hears a twang. A soft whistling in the air. A quite thud. He looks down, and sees a black feathered arrow protruding from his chest. Great, he thinks to himself as he falls backwards, I’ll die out here in the cold. He hates the cold.

The Captain

“Close the gates!” Captain Joro yells out across the camp. “To the walls! Everyone to the walls!”

The Captain himself runs to the centre of the camp, to sound the alarm bells. Once they ring out, the two guards at the top of the hill would hear the alarm and light the beacon, sending the message back along the line of beacons all the way home, thereby warning the Kingdom of the danger and calling all men to report to defend their land. With the beacon lit, the Joro’s only remaining mission would be to keep his troops alive.

The sound of the bells rings out into the evening air. As do the sounds of battle. As Captain Joro looks about he assesses the situation. So far, his men hold the walls, although at least 5 have fallen. We can hold, he thinks to himself, just see out the night. Daylight will bring relief – the Enemy never fight in the daylight. Joro turns to the barracks, where the men who had been resting were filing out, having put on their armour.

Joro gives out orders. “Davon, Shane, head to the south walls. Paul you’re with me. Shane y-”

CRASH

The gates smash wide open. Splinters of wood fly off them as they swung wide. Dark figures are massed on the other side.

Captain Joro rushes forwards, sword in hand, towards the Enemy. A few of his men, inspired by his bravery, join him. They crash violently into the ranks of the mysterious foe. Joro thrusts his blade forwards, then swings it about left and right. It is covered in black blood. But to no avail. They are outnumbered and will soon be overwhelmed.

The Sargent

Sargent Davon, seeing that the perimeter will soon fall, calls men to rally around him. He knows that with the Captain engaged, he must take command. The camp is lost, but there’s still hope of escape. There’s a second, smaller gate on the other side of camp. If he can rally enough of the troop together, they can break out through the back and try to flee west towards safety.

“Sir, look.”

“Yes Shane, I know. The walls are breached. We must escape.” Davon has little patience for his young squire right now. There are more important things to do here than comfort the boy.

“No, Sir. Not the walls. Look up there.” Shane points up to the top of Pyre Hill.

Sargent Davon turns and to see what Shane is going on about. “There’s nothing there, boy.”

“Exactly. Why isn’t the beacon lit? We should be able to see it by now.”

By the gods he’s right. Drat. Come on Davon, think. What would Captain Joro want him to do now? 8 men had been able to rally to him, the others all either engaged or gone. They could still make it out the smaller gate and run west into the woods. Some of them might survive. But without the beacon lit, the Kingdom would not be warned of The Enemy’s approach until too late.

“With me, men. For the King!” With that, Sargent Davon leads his small band of survivors away from the battle at the main gate, where Joro was now the last man fighting, albeit from his knees. They move quickly through the camp to the rear gate. It remained closed. A sign, perhaps, that there was no Enemy on the other side. Davon quickly throws the bar off the gate and swings it open. He marches out, his men close behind. Two paths lie before them. One going around the hill to the west and on towards home. The other, hardly even a path at all, is a small track leading up the hill towards the beacon.

“Men, you may take the west road home, if you wish. But I for one will light that beacon or die tryi-” An arrow pierces his armour before he finish speaking. He slumps to the floor. The last officer of Pyre Hill Camp has fallen.

The Squire

Shane had never been in battle before. Never seen death before. He didn’t much like it so far. Far from the glorious tales he’d heard, it is scary, chaotic and so far he hadn’t even unsheathed his sword. As he sees his master fall to the ground, he knows the fight is lost. The men left around him are not much older than himself and begin to panic. A couple turn back into the camp, as if that offered any safety at this point. Others take off along the westward path into the forest, ditching weapons and armour on the way to enable them to run faster. The fastest amongst them might, might, just make it to safety. But no. Shane would not be following them. Sargent Davon had been clear. The beacon needs to be lit.

Shane turns to face the path that lay between him and the beacon. It is narrow and winding, through barren, rocky ground. He can’t see any foes on the hillside yet, although that could just be because the evening light was fading fast and visibility is poor. Like his comrades racing off through the woods, he too ditches his helmet, sword and shield. He still has his short dagger in it’s scabbard on his belt, but all he really needs are the two stones in his pocket that would create the spark needed to light the beacon. Beyond that, he has no further plans. He is completely focused.

Up, and up he climbs. He can’t bring himself to turn back towards the battle. That is perhaps not the right word for it at this point. It had truly been a battle, at first. The sounds of steel clashing with steel had rang out into the night; shouts of men calling down curses on their dark, shadowy foe; appeals for aid at a particular rampart or redoubt. But soon enough into his hike, the noises rising from below him had changed. Now Shane hears less shouts of men and more harsh, hissing noises, like some reptilian predator searching for prey. What human voices he does hear were no longer curses on the Enemy, but cries for distant mothers.

This is indeed a dark night. The moon is less than half full, and illuminates only enough of Shane’s way as to keep him from falling. But not enough to know how far he’s come, nor how far is left. On and on he trudges. At times he thinks he sees something moving to his left or right, but it could easily be the wind stirring the dust, or his imagination.

Silence now. He has climbed too far to hear the hisses or sobs below. He would be able to hear the alarm bell, if it were still sounding. Or the clash of steel, if there was still fighting. But evidently, Pyre Hill Camp is no more.

Crack.

Umph. Shane reaches a hand down to clasp his foot. He’d hit it against some unseen obstacle on the path. His fingers scape against the object. It is cold, and smooth. Not a rock. Metal. A helmet. He dare not look to see if it is empty or not, but either way it explained why no one had lit the beacon when the bells had sounded. There is no man left at the beacon. He is close now though, at last.

That’s when he hears it. The hissing. Not an aggressive snarling hiss, like he’d heard down below. No, this is calmer. More satisfied than angry. An Enemy was here, but it seems not to know that Shane has arrived. He freezes. Perhaps he could still slip away unnoticed into the night. Perhaps he could still walk away from it all unharmed.

No. He can’t. Sargent Davon needs him. The folks back home need him. The Kingdom needs him. He has to light that beacon fire. And he's close. He creeps on, just a few more paces. He still hasn’t been seen. Of course, there would be no hiding once that great bonfire was lit. He’d be spotted then for sure.

Shane reaches into his pocket and pulls out the two flint stones that would allow him to make the spark to light the fire to send a warning home and save the Kingdom, the same fire that would draw the attention of every Enemy creature on this hill to his location.

Tap tap tap.

Nothing. No spark. No fire. He only barely touched the stones together, but it seems to him that all the earth would hear them, such is the deep, dark silence of the night at the summit of Pyre Hill.

Tap tap.

No. He needs to go harder.

Crack.

A spark. Then a flame. The beacon is lit!

A screech. Shane turns. The shadows seem to be moving. Coming closer. Are they really? Or is it just the flickering light from the now roaring fire behind him playing tricks on him?

Something grabs his leg, pulling him to the ground. His right hand goes instinctively to his belt to reach for his sword, before he remembers that he dropped it some time ago. His left and grabs his dagger. He plunges it downward into the deep shadow that now embraced his leg.

HSSSSSS

The shadow recoils away. Then something pounces back, grabbing his left hand.

“Get off me! Get away!” Shane grunts. Other shadowy figures seem to be creeping ever closer, even as the grip on his left arm tightens. Panicked, his right hand reaches around behind his for anything he can use a weapon. He fingers finnd something. A log. He grasps it, swinging it forth towards the tentacled beast on his left arm.

Fire. The other end of the log is on fire. The fire crashes into the shadow, and the shadow jumps back. Shane swings the flaming log to and fro, and the shadows dance back. They fear it, he realises. They fear the flame.

Shane keep his back to the burning beacon fire, staying as close to it as he can bare. He keeps the burning log in his hand and jabs it desperately forwards into the dark of the night. In the corner of his eye, he sees it. Hope. Many miles away, over on distant hill in the west, a fire burns bright orange flames in the darkness. The warning signal has been seen and passed on. The Kingdom will survive. The Beacons are lit.