Losses swept through Eistoriel's ranks, such that two of the warlords appeared before the king, pleading.
In truth, the knights of Eistoriel had done more numerical damage than the ten nations had. One knight was equal to at least four to five of their enemy's soldiers, and this shocking truth was evident on the battlefield.
Unfortunately, the sheer difference in number meant their enemies could swarm them with multiple waves without needing to recuperate as often as the Eistorians had to.
This tactic led to harsh results, and soon deaths began to pile up. Most deaths occurred due to fatigued soldiers, as opposed to actual weakness.
Despite the magnitude of losses their opponents suffered, they did not bother to change tactics—leaving the Eistorian Knights horrified, knowing those soldiers were nothing more than mere numbers in the eyes of their greed-blinded leaders.
This made even their small victories taste sour
War was cruel.
Every Eistorian knight—it didn't matter the rank—was valuable to the Warlords, who could only show grim expressions every time news of deaths reached them. Their men were losing their vigor, and they needed to do something about it.
Their friendly relations with other nations had failed to secure them any help. Not even one!
The warlords threatened to feel bitter about it, but their understanding of these matters wouldn't let them.
Those nations could not risk the livelihood of their own for a nation like Eistoriel. Against such odds, no wise government would.
In fact, it would serve them more if Eistoriel were defeated. They all lusted after what that kingdom had, after all.
It was this precarious situation that pushed the desperate warlords. Hence their appearance before the king.
"My lord, this battle is senseless! Our men die for nothing!" One of the two Warlords cried, prostrated flat before the King who sat unfazed by the genuine emotion in his subject's voice.
"The armies of our enemies are too great; there is no sense in watching our knights perish!" The other continued, equally prostrated before their king.
A wave of silence washed over the throne-room after that. They were in the same one they had gathered in just half a month ago.
"So? What is that you want me to do?" The king eventually spoke, his tone exuding the depth of his languor.
His words struck like swords, though, piercing the hearts of the two warlords and hurting them in ways they had never thought he would. Why did he appear so distant? Why did he feel so foreign?
Deep pain choked their throats as both were unable to answer for fear of crumbling in tears. They had known the King all their lives, but now they wondered if he really was the same man they had adventured with.
"You desire that I go back on my decree?" The king pressed, sounding slightly offended now.
"MY LORD!" The oldest of the two roared, raising his head to cast a glare at their king. Tears streamed out of his pain-stricken eyes, and his breathing shook. It felt like his world spun!
He and the king locked gazes, but his soon softened when he saw that the king did not react visibly. He appeared at peace with his subject's anger even.
The old Warlord sighed; he had already struck the eighty-year mark and was getting too old for wars and battles, even if his strength hadn't diminished.
"This is your kingdom, and these are your people. If you insist on watching them get slaughtered by our enemies, then there is nothing more I can do to convince your Lordship otherwise," the Warlord said, his voice hollow. He rose after he had spoken, with the other warlord doing the same.
They turned to leave, but after a few steps, the old warlord turned to make an announcement. "Today, not only have you wounded one of your oldest subjects, you have sent him to his death. " They left right after.
Silence returned to the chamber after the two left, and the king even remained in the same posture for a while, but a tremor soon shook the whole structure, with the walls and ground suddenly shattering when a deep frown appeared on the Kings features.
The sound of that occurrence had not been heard from beneath the mountain, but something changed in the atmosphere that caused the inhabitants of Lorshdel to lose their peace.
A certain chill swept the entire region, but none could discern why that was.
The warlords, already miles away from the king's quarters, sensed that change but did not bother stopping.
It seemed their words had indeed touched the king, but that didn't mean he would move. He lived by his words, unwilling to bend them for any.
"What should we do now, Lord Karai?" the younger warlord addressed his subordinate.
Amongst the twenty warlords, they were some of the oldest and most experienced still alive. Their fighting prowess was almost equal, only that Lord Karai was slightly weaker than he. That didn't stop him from retaining an attitude of reverence, nonetheless.
Only being sixty-two himself, he understood the difference between himself and the aged warlord who was old enough to be his father.
"I will step into the battle," Lord Karai declared, and his words caused the expression of the other to tremble. Still, he understood.
"Our young perish, and for what? An old man like me cannot bear to behold it any longer," he added as they tore through the skies, flying faster than any bird while the winds screamed in their wake. They appeared as blurs zipping through the sky.
The warlords had stayed away from battle due to the silent agreement between them and the enemy forces.
The wave tactic had clipped the wings of the warlords, for they feared interfering would cause the enemy to unleash all their offensives at once—an event that would overwhelm them without fail.
Plus, there weren't enough of them to protect every major settlement, so even if they could wipe out thousands themselves, there would not be enough time to stop the inevitable wave of deaths that would unfold in areas outside their immediate reach.
It had been Lord Karai's idea to restrict the activities of the warlords in hopes that maybe they could limit the deaths.
But things had changed now. Before the battles even began, Lord Karai's experience as a soldier confirmed that their chances of survival were grim; as such, he had steeled his heart, knowing losses were inevitable.
Unfortunately, he had underestimated the emotional impact the war would have on him; he felt unworthy to have lived a long life only to watch the younger generations perish merely because of a 'hope.' A hope that was no more than a pipe dream.
"You and the others must refrain from rash actions. You must feign ignorance concerning this matter and let me die at the hands of our enemies. However, I will take as many with me as possible," the aged warlord explained after a moment of silence.
They had been flying for a while now and were approaching one of the biggest, most brutal battlefields.
Objections appeared in the eyes of the other, but before he could voice them, Lord Karai spoke again.
"Ishnal," he said, suddenly stopping. The winds bent and howled thanks to that abrupt action; traveling at those velocities made them flying devastations.
"Please," he begged, "let this old man redeem himself of his mistakes." Tears choked his words, but they came out nonetheless, and the weight behind his resolve wrecked Ishnal, who could only bow his head.
Lord Karai placed his hands on Ishnal's shoulders and smiled. "You'll be an excellent leader of the Warlords. I entrust them to you."
Ishnal raised his head to look at Lord Karai at that point, but the man was already gone.
The only evidence of the elder's initial presence were the rapid winds birthed by his flight.
Tears streamed down Ishnal's face, but he did not move for a while, but when he did, rather than fly in the direction his elder had gone, he charged towards a different destination with conviction burning in his eyes.
He would honor the last wishes of his leader.