Chronicle of Alogarth

“Who were the first knights?” Aliarra asked that evening, when they stopped to rest.

The fire crackled softly between them. Taatos glanced at her as if he’d tried to read the answer on her face. It had been a long time since he’d last heard their legend.

“Ailon and Blega,” he began at last. “They were the first to call themselves Moonlight Knights. The first chapterhouse was built in their honour. Long ago, in the Elder Days, the Citadel of Alogarth stood proud in the northern reaches, wrapped by a humble town at the foot of a jagged ridge. Its walls were forged strong to repel the mountain hordes. Yet one bitter winter, food grew scarce, and the orcs united to strike against the town.”

He spoke slowly at first, his deep voice steady and calm. But as the flames danced in the dark, the tale took hold of both of them. His words grew vivid, painted with firelight and memory, and soon it felt less like a retelling, more like witnessing.

They could almost see it: the wind-swept peaks, the shadows of the fortress, the frozen breath of men awaiting battle...

The people hoped the orcs would give up and move on – but that winter was different. The orcs built makeshift catapults and rained boulders and stone upon them. They dug tunnels beneath the town and poisoned the wells.

Alogarth did not have enough fighters to launch an attack from the fortress. The orcs did not press up to the walls. They waited, knowing thirst would drive the people out, or madness would take them if they drank the poisoned water. One evening, while the king and his council discussed the terms of surrender, a breathless courier stumbled into the throne room.

“Your Majesty, two knights are coming.”

“From where?”

“From the south. Killing orcs as they come,” the young man panted.

“Two? They won’t make it to the gates.”

“Your Majesty... you need to see this.”

The king and his council hurried to the inner wall. Every soldier stood frozen on the battlements, stunned. The orc catapults had fallen silent. The fan-shaped orc army spread out before the walls now showed a rift forming at its centre.

In the full moonlight, Alogarth saw orcs fleeing from two riders, though the ones further back blocked their retreat. They piled up, trampling each other. The two knights pressed forward without pause.

The one in the lead carved a path with a broad sword, and the slower orcs were crushed beneath his horse’s hooves. Even from afar, the king could see the moonlight gleaming sharply on the blade and the knight’s shield.

The second knight didn’t appear to carry a weapon, but every so often he threw something when the orcs tried to close in. The soldiers on the wall saw tiny flashes in the air – and each time, a dozen orc heads tumbled beneath mutilated bodies. No one dared strike at them. Few dared look at them at all.

“But... they’re just two men,” the king breathed in amazement.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Sire,” one of the councillors murmured.

The knights had broken through the orc ranks. Only a hundred paces of trampled grassland now lay between them and the gates.

“Open the gates!” Alogarth commanded.

“Sire, forgive me, but are you sure this is wise?”

“I’d rather welcome them with open arms as friends than face them at my walls as enemies.”

By the time the knights reached the inner gate, the king was already there, waiting for them.

“The gods have sent you in our time of need,” Alogarth greeted them.

“The moonlight guided our steps,” one of them corrected gently.

A crowd had gathered just inside the inner gate – news of the knights’ arrival had spread quickly through the city. People pressed in behind the riders, holding torches aloft. The king motioned for the two knights, inviting them inside.

“It would honour me if you accepted my hospitality.”

“The honour is ours, Alogarth.”

Later, in the great hall, they told their tale: they were Ailon and Blega, calling themselves Moonlight Knights, for the Moon always guided them to those in need of help.

“We could use some help here,” the king admitted. “We won’t last much longer.”

“What does that rabble of orcs out there want?” Ailon asked.

“Our food stores. But if I give them up, I condemn the city to starvation.”

Meanwhile, the orcs had recovered from their confusion. The catapults were operating again. Even from the great hall, they could hear the whistling of stones and the dull thuds as they struck the palace roof. The streets were empty – everyone had taken shelter.

“If I don’t give it to them, then we’ll all end up crushed beneath the rubble,” the king sighed. “But there’s worse. Two days ago, they poisoned our wells. Anyone who drinks the water first feels queasy, then rages like a beast – and if they’re lucky, they kill themselves before they slaughter their own families. We had to seal off the wells. The gods were with us – it snowed heavily yesterday. We gathered as much as we could into an empty cistern. But it won’t last long.”

“Perhaps two days,” one of the councillors added when the king looked at him.

Ailon turned to him. “Why not cut them down?”

“We haven’t even a tenth of their number. They’re too many. If we attempt a sortie, most of our warriors will perish, and it will accomplish nothing.”

The two knights exchanged glances.

“They’re just orcs,” Ailon said to the king. “All we need is a solid plan – confuse them, break the mob, send them fleeing back to the mountains.”

Alogarth shook his head in resignation. “Believe me, we’ve considered everything. Their catapults are too far out, and those among us who know magic can do little against them. We’ve mounted catapults inside the city, but from behind the walls it’s nearly impossible to aim accurately. If we fire too close, they just drag their machines further back – out of range. Kill one, and two more take his place.”

“Shall I speak with my brother – alone?” asked Blega.

Only then did the king notice that he wore no armour – only a long surcoat of coarse cloth, richly embroidered with silver thread. From afar, it gleamed like his brother’s armour.

Alogarth nodded. The two knights stood and stepped aside. The king glanced at their shared crest embroidered on the cloak and engraved on the other knight’s breastplate – the same motif repeating again and again on Ailon’s shield. The overlapping shields, one within the other, seemed to go on endlessly. Alogarth felt a strange dizziness, as if the pattern pulled him inward – not with magic, but with sheer, unsettling depth.

“My lord,” Ailon’s voice pulled him back into the hall, “my brother says it might be possible to purify the wells.”

“Might be?”

“It’s not certain,” Blega admitted, “but there is a chance. It’s worth trying.”

The king thought for a moment. “I’ll have you escorted to one of the wells in the morning. Frattier will know if the water is clean.”

“It must be done tonight. I need the Moon’s light.”

“Then we go – now.” The king rose to his feet.

“Sire, Blega will handle that. You’d better summon your captains so we can plan the attack.”

“No need to summon – they’re already here. Frattier, take Blega to the inner well. Zalaver, bring the maps! Krusha, step forward! The rest of you, leave us,” the king commanded.

Frattier was a wiry little man. With a torch in hand, he led the young knight through the corridors.

“Are you a priest? Or perhaps a wizard?” Blega asked as they walked.

“I’m just a simple healer.”

“Have you studied poisons?”

“I know many… and I remember a few remedies. But this one – I’ve never encountered anything like it. It’s like living madness. As if it shows a man something that doesn’t exist… or something that exists beyond this world. And it’s so incomprehensible that it shatters the mind – and with it, the world around it. In the end, they turn on themselves. If anyone tries to restrain them, they kill. But they’ll kill anyone nearby – be it a babe or their own grandfather.”

Blega nodded slowly. He didn’t say whether he’d heard of such a thing. They reached the well. The knight seemed satisfied – an inner courtyard surrounded by tall pine hedges, softly illuminated by moonlight.

“No torch,” he said to Frattier, who stepped back into the corridor and placed his torch into a wall bracket.

Meanwhile, Blega stepped up to the well, glancing up at the moon several times – it now hung high in the sky. If the water wasn’t too deep, the light would reach its surface. He pried off the planks covering the well’s edge and peered in. He smiled when he saw the moon’s reflection beside his own shadow.

“The well is deep – and connected to the city’s other wells. How do you plan to purify that much water all at once?” the healer asked sceptically.

“I can’t purify it. Only the Moonlight can.”

That was when Frattier noticed the strange sickle-shaped blade in the knight’s hand. Its inner edge seemed to glow under the moonlight. Blega held it over the well and let it drop. Frattier followed its descent with his eyes as it sank with a soft splash, faintly gleaming as it drifted deeper and deeper.

“What do we do now?” the healer asked quietly.

“We wait,” Blega replied simply, stepping back and drawing him gently away from the edge. Before long, a faint glow began to rise from the depths of the well. Frattier tried to step closer, but Blega stopped him.

“I wouldn’t recommend looking into it,” he said, then turned his gaze upward towards the moon. “Thank you, Allius,” he whispered.

The light suddenly intensified, shooting up into the sky before blossoming outward, spreading across the city. Those still awake gathered by their windows to watch the silver light streaming from the palace. In every part of the city, even through the nailed-down covers of the other wells, narrow beams of light broke through the cracks.

The night watch turned in confusion, staring at the silvery shafts emerging from every direction. Outside the walls, the orcs fell silent, gaping in bewilderment at the strange phenomenon. The light seeped into the council chamber too, illuminating the figures hunched over the city’s map. Then, as suddenly as it came, the light vanished. Only the red flicker of torches and the full moon above remained.

Blega stepped up to the well, reaching out his hand. The glowing sickle materialised in his palm, its form outlined in silver. His fingers closed around it and, with a single motion, it disappeared. Frattier watched closely, but couldn’t see how – or where – it was hidden. The knight dropped the bucket, drew up some water, and filled a cup.

"Care to test it?" he asked the old man – then drank the whole cup before Frattier could answer.

Frattier wasn’t so easily convinced – an entire city’s fate hung in the balance. But before long, he filled a jug at the bucket and returned to the king.

“The water is clean,” he said, placing the jug on the table.

“Incredible. My city owes you a great debt.”

“You owe nothing to us – but thank the Moon.”

By morning, the plan was ready. Alogarth ordered the soldiers to rest, leaving only a small guard detail at the walls. They would need fresh, rested men by nightfall. The wells were reopened. The townspeople waited in long lines with jugs and buckets. Many spoke of the miracle from the night before, though few had witnessed it, all spoke of its power and agreed it was thanks to that wonder that they could drink fresh water again.

The city was almost inaccessible from the north. A high cliff rose above the outer walls, sloping steeply beyond the narrow ridge – perhaps even steeper than the city side. The founders had not chosen the location by accident. They had taken advantage of the natural barrier and built their walls against it. Because of the cliffs, the orcs never fully encircled the city. They only stretched in a crescent shape around it. The densest part of their forces lay in front of the gates; near the mountains, their lines thinned.

After sunset, the soldiers assembled behind the gates. Most were light cavalry, with a few in heavy armour astride powerful warhorses. Only a few catapults were still operating, and even they were more of a nuisance than a real threat – they seemed to have run out of large stones. The two knights waited behind the king at the front of the formation. Alogarth turned to his soldiers.

“The time has come to strike back against the horde! Enough of hiding in our homes, afraid of rocks falling from the sky! Enough of not being able to drink! Enough of not being able to live our lives!” – With each sentence, his voice grew louder. “Enough of burying our loved ones! Enough! Tonight, the orcs will die!” He raised his sword high and turned towards the gate.

In unison, the soldiers shouted:

“Enough!”

The wings of the blacksteel gate swung open, and the soldiers charged out with a fierce battle cry, following their king. The commanders knew their roles – the flood of warriors spilled through the gate and spread out, forming five wedges that struck into the orc horde.

The mob reacted slowly. Many were still rousing from sleep, scrambling to grab their weapons. Scuffles broke out in places as they trampled over one another in their panic. The worst chaos was in the centre, where the king charged forward, flanked by the two knights.

They cut down countless orcs, and the horses trampled many more. The savages only managed to mount real resistance at the tips of the wedges. Several men fell to thrown spears and the sweep of broad orcish blades.

Within moments, the attackers had broken through. The king turned, and the commanders signalled a halt. The troops re-formed into a line behind the orc horde. From within the city, the catapults roared to life again. There was no shortage of rubble to hurl. They didn’t bother with precision – human soldiers stood out of range. The orc army was just beginning to regroup, preparing to attack the scattered human lines, when destruction rained down upon them.

It caused chaos greater than before. The falling stones didn’t kill many, but that hadn’t been the point.

Once more the king raised his sword high – and the rain of stones ceased. He surged forward; the two knights veered off towards the left and right flanks. Now the charge formed a triple wedge, cutting through the disoriented enemy ranks, splitting them apart and leaving an escape path behind them. At the base of the city wall, the three wedges spread again – but no more charges were needed. The hillside before the city was littered with countless bodies. Only small, fleeing groups remained visible, their backs retreating into the distance, leaving behind their abandoned catapults.

Cheers erupted from the walls and among the soldiers. The king’s name rang out everywhere, shouted with joy.

Alogarth did not forget the two knights, nor the miraculous moonlight. He built the first Moonlight Chapterhouse near the palace. Frattier was appointed its master. Ailon and Blega did not remain long in the city, but returned every few years to train young knights who wished to follow in their footsteps. Then, one moonlit night, they departed once again.

But one night, Blega returned alone. He entrusted his brother’s sword and shield to the chapterhouse. He only said Ailon had been murdered – betrayed. He set off alone to avenge him. He never returned.

“After the Great Desolation, our order searched long for the city of Alogarth before finding its ruins. The northern cliff had collapsed and buried the city beneath it. It took years before the sword and shield were found at the bottom of a well. Those who had lived in the chapterhouse must have hidden them there before the city was lost,” Taatos concluded the tale, his voice low in the flickering firelight.

He looked down at Aliarra sleeping beside him. Yet somehow he was certain she had heard every word — and that, on some moonlit night, she would tell it again. As he did.