CHAPTER 67: The Ashmark Scythe's Edge
CHAPTER 67: The Ashmark Scythe's Edge
Central Edyrium – Fort Blackwood, Weeks After Highcourt's Fall
The cold wind whistling through the arrow slits of Fort Blackwood carried the stench of fear. Inside, Imperial Captain Borin, a man whose loyalty to the High Crown had always been absolute, watched his dwindling garrison with grim despair. They were isolated, cut off, their Emperor captured, their capital fallen. But Borin would not yield. Not to a rebel.
Outside, the drums of the Iron Rebellion beat a slow, relentless rhythm. Not the frenzied beat of an assault, but the heavy, measured pulse of inevitable doom. Dren stood before the fort's gates, his axe resting on his shoulder, his face grim. Beside him, Theron Varkhale, his Varkhale men arrayed in disciplined ranks, studied the walls. Kael's orders were clear: those who yielded, were welcomed. Those who refused… would fall swiftly.
"Captain Borin!" Dren's voice, rough but carrying, echoed against the stone. "Your Emperor is captured! Your legions are broken! The Capital has fallen! Surrender, and your men will be given terms. Resist, and by the Ashmark Scythe, we will leave nothing but ash and bone!"
Borin's defiant roar carried back: "Never! We will die for the Emperor! For the Crown!"+
Dren simply nodded, a cold resolve in his eyes. "So be it."
The assault was swift, brutal, and utterly overwhelming. No prolonged siege. Dren's most seasoned fighters, hardened by the horrors of Duskwatch and the Serpent's Spine, stormed the gates. Theron's Varkhale men, like silent, deadly wolves, scaled the walls, their axes finding purchase on ancient, crumbling stone. The Imperial resistance, though brave, was futile. Within an hour, Fort Blackwood, a symbol of lingering loyalty, was breached. Borin, fighting to the last, fell with a Varkhale axe in his chest. His men, those who had fought beside him, were given no quarter. Those who had fled, or thrown down their arms, were disarmed and put under rebel guard.
The Offering of Fealty – House Montaigne
Not all strongholds chose defiance. Days later, the Iron Rebellion forces, under the joint command of Dren and Theron, approached the sprawling domain of House Montaigne. Lord Montaigne, a shrewd, aging noble whose lands commanded vital river trade, had already seen the writing on the wall. Reports of Fort Blackwood's swift fall, and the subsequent mercy shown to its surrendered garrison, had reached him.
Lord Montaigne met the rebel commanders at his outer gates, unarmed, his retinue clad in their house colors, but without weapons. "Commanders," Montaigne said, his voice surprisingly steady, "I understand Highcourt has fallen. My allegiance was to the Crown. But the Crown… has seemingly passed." He eyed Dren's scarred face, Theron's grim resolve.
Dren simply grunted. "The Sovereign offers terms. Loyalty for life. Your lands protected. Your people fed. Your taxes… reasonable. But any treachery, any lingering loyalty to a broken Crown… the Ashmark Scythe is sharp."
Theron added, his voice a low rumble, "Our terms are given by Kael Ashmark. He fights for a new order. For a living kingdom. Not for dead traditions." He pointed to a convoy of supply wagons, already moving through the Montaigne lands towards Ravencair, guarded by rebel patrols. "These are the blessings of the Sovereign. Life through purpose. Not suffering."
Lord Montaigne, witnessing the efficiency and the disciplined calm of the rebel forces, saw the truth. This was not a mindless rebellion. This was a new power, one that offered brutal order instead of chaotic freedom. He swore fealty, a public declaration that would send shockwaves through the remaining southern lords. His banners were replaced by the black and red of the Iron Rebellion. His lands became a new artery for Kael's growing state.
The Purge of the Periphery – Cleaning the Map
The process was systematic. In the following weeks, Dren and Theron's forces moved like a relentless tide. Small, isolated keeps, refusing to acknowledge the new reality, were swiftly crushed, their leaders executed as examples. Major garrisons, seeing the inevitable, often surrendered after a mere show of force, their Imperial commanders given the choice: join the Sovereign, or live out their days in confinement.
Kael's orders were strictly adhered to. "No more burning the innocent. No more pointless destruction." Villages that offered no resistance were untouched, their granaries secured, their wells protected. Rebels, eager for plunder after years of deprivation, were kept on a tight leash by the hardened commanders. Any act of unnecessary brutality was met with swift, severe discipline, reflecting Kael's evolving vision of justice.
Theron Varkhale, leading the final sweep through a particularly stubborn valley, found a small, isolated band of Imperial deserters trying to pillage a remote farm. They wore the remnants of Imperial armor, their faces desperate and cruel. They refused to surrender, attacking the rebels with a desperate fury. Theron's men, grim and efficient, cut them down. His axe, a familiar weight, ended the last one.
"Loose ends," Theron muttered to Joric, wiping blood from his blade. "Always loose ends." He looked at the terrified farmer, cowering in his field. "The Sovereign's peace comes to this land. There will be order. There will be justice. But only when the old order is truly buried."
Back in Highcourt, Kael received the reports. The map on his war table, once a chaotic sprawl of fragmented loyalties, was slowly, meticulously, being covered by the black and red of his dominion. The remaining pockets of Imperial resistance were dwindling. The southern territories, once a threat, were now either subdued or integrated. The military phase of the "Ash March" was progressing with brutal efficiency, leaving behind not just conquest, but the foundation of a new, terrifying order. The grimness of pacification, the cold efficiency of military might, and the ruthless enforcement of Kael's will now defined the edges of his nascent empire.