by Brian Murray
Forgotten Hero
The Chronicles of Death part 1
Brian G. Murray
Burning Willow Press, LLC (USA): 3724 Cowpens Pacolet Rd., Spartanburg, SC 29307
This edition published in 2016 by Burning Willow Press, LLC (USA)
Copyright © Brian G. Murray 2016
Cover Art © L. Bachman 2016
Editing © Donna Marie West 2016
Interior Formatting © KSowder Formatting
All rights reserved.
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Dedication:
This book is dedicated to my two girls, my mum and wife for always believing.
Acknowledgements:
This book was created a long,long time ago and so I would like to thank some people for their encouragement and support. Obviously my mum and wife, thank you for your unwavering support. Charlie, the man with the Dax swagger, and Reedie, the voice of the Chosen – our Friday nights were the best. To Justin (Zongibabes) Brown who read the original draft of this book. And to anyone back then who helped me, you know who you are – thank you.
Recently, I would like to thank my editor, Donna and my cover artist Lynn for their hard work. Kindra, Edd and the team at Burning Willow Press thank you for your trust, support and help – you are the best – I hope this is the first of many.
For those reading this – thank you for the chance to entertain you, and I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I had writing it.
Brian G Murray (2016)
Prologue
Deep within Dashnar Forest, in a dark hollow situated beside a rock face, a lonely fire battled against the awesome power of the cold night, hissing at the constantly attacking rain. Even though the smoke climbed invisibly against the rock face, the warrior knew he had been discovered. He huddled under a large, knotted hardwood tree and, in an attempt to get warm, held his hands to the fire. For three days he had not slept. The rhythmic pitter-patter of rain lightly slapping against leaves, and the crackling of the fire made him drowsy. Removing his wide-brimmed hat, he held his face up to the refreshing rain, which only slightly eased his fatigue. The warrior replaced his hat and held his hands to the fire once again. After a moment, he skulked silently back into the undergrowth, his black and brown clothing blending perfectly with the dark, dank surroundings.
He crouched close to the damp, cold forest floor so the gloom closed in around him, masking his presence. Pulling the heavy brown coat tighter around his wide shoulders to stop the rain crawling down his neck, he contemplated his situation. Was he trapped, or had he planned this? He mentally discovered the answer and like the stormy sky, his mood darkened. His pursuers, the legendary Raffton Sekkers, had been hunting him for five weeks, over one mistake, one misunderstanding.
Now he was a fugitive. Should he have run? It had been a fair fight. But people pointed at him, shouting, ‘Witchcraft!’ A warrior without equal, with many battle victories to his credit, he was now chased like a common criminal, cornered with the Sekkers stalking ever closer. He had evaded them for quite a while, but now where was he to go? He could not easily blend into any settlement as he stood out from the norm. Would his lonely existence continue forever? He sighed and cleared the melancholy thoughts from his mind. Time to make a stand and the warrior knew blood would flow during this encounter.
A small twig snapped to his left, causing the warrior to frown. Now or never, he thought. A slight rustling of grass and leaves came from his right. Bowing his head and concentrating on his surroundings, he prepared himself.
Two assassins were sneaking up on his left and three on his right; but where was the sixth? The Sekkers always hunted in packs of six.
Where was he?
The warrior drew his short swords, the blades slithering noiselessly from sheaths strapped to his back, where the handles protruded through his coat.
Realisation struck him like a blow to the face. He plunged his swords behind him, over his head and into the groin of the sixth assassin, who had silently crept up on him. Rolling onto his back, he kicked the Sekker in the chest with both feet, freeing his blades. The assassin let out a scream as he flew backwards but his death cry ended abruptly, briefly replaced by the snapping of bones, as he slammed violently against a gnarled tree.
The other assassins stopped, confused by the direction of the scream, muddled within the dense forest undergrowth.
The warrior had to move. Silently, like a ghost, he rolled to his feet, but remained low, head bowed and short swords held by his sides, blood mixed with rain dripping from their tips.
A deathly hush hung in the dark, oppressive gloom. Even the animals and birds were silent as the forest held its breath, waiting to see what happened next. Only the rain dared make a sound; its innocent pitter-patter about to be shattered.
The warrior concentrated. This was his domain. Swiftly, he darted to his right and leapt over a fallen tree, sweeping his swords up and out.
Two more assassins died without a sound, their throats slashed, their lives terminated before the warrior landed in a crouch, his swords crossed before his chest. He rolled to his left, one sword plunging forward, the second sweeping up high and across. Still moving, but not rising above waist height, the warrior dived into thick undergrowth as two crossbow bolts whistled over him.
Another lifeless assassin slumped backwards onto the forest floor, legs twitching, his throat and groin slashed by sword blades and two crossbow bolts jutting from his chest.
The warrior landed heavily yet he could not help but smile. Four down and he had not even broken a sweat. Lucky, he thought. Then he heard the clicks from the crossbow triggers just as the bolts flew with his back, the intended target, fully exposed.
It was time to take a chance. These Sekkers were not all men of honour; they could easily kill him with their crossbows from distance.
Taking a deep breath, the warrior stood and stepped out from the undergrowth into the small hollow where he had lit his fire. He waited with head bowed and swords held at his sides, letting heavy droplets of deep red liquid drip from the blades onto the sodden ground.
Rain lightly slapped against leaves, while the fire hissed and danced, forming ominous, almost palpable shadows.
Movement.
Leaves rustled and small twigs snapped as the final two assassins emerged from their hiding place. Without talking, they stalked into the orb of orange glow from the fire and halted opposite the warrior, their eyes searching, their weapons ready.
“What is an assassin’s golden rule?” the warrior asked casually, his voice deep and cold.
The two assassins glanced at each other, then to ensure the odds of victory favoured them, they slowly shuffled apart, sliding their feet on the loamy soil. Neither spoke.
“Take the easy kill.”
How could he be . . .? one of the assassins thought as he raised his crossbow and levelled the primed weapon, aiming at the warrior’s chest.
In one fluid motion, the darkly clad warrior dropped to one knee, sweeping his arms up, then down and forward. His two swords covered the distance of the hollow with incredible speed, simultaneously impa
ling the two assassins’ chests and exploding out their backs in a fountain of crimson.
Blind . . . was the assassin’s last thought as the cold, wet forest floor struck his face. Then blackness . . .
Chapter 1
In the southern regions of the Great Mountains sat an ancient grey castle, built against a high granite cliff face. Inside the high grey stone walls, buried within the keep, was a small windowless room, where a grimy brown rat scurried silently along the skirting. Casually discarded ancient scrolls and decomposing human body parts littered the room, the aftermath of many morbid sacrifices. The air was thick with the pungent, fetid stench of death and the room appeared alive with demonic evil, as oozing, gelatinous slime covering the walls glistened in the dancing candlelight. Long stalactites of pus and blood hung from the ceiling, dripping into viscous puddles around the floor and on the cluttered table. It seemed as if the room itself was part of some gruesome sacrifice.
A solitary man shuffled from the room and into an adjacent hall, carrying an ancient scroll with six unbroken seals. He stopped and glanced back into the room, gazing at his work. A crooked smile creased his craggy face. His endeavours had been worth the effort and now that he had mustered enough dark magic, it was time. He tried to remember the very first victim to step into the room but in his mind, faces blurred together; it had been decades since that wondrous moment. Now, he could not be sure if it had been a woman or a child . . . he could not remember. The number of deaths he had enjoyed since then . . .
What would my brother think? he mused, but quickly cleared the thought from his mind.
Turning back in the doorway, he faced the hall, bare except for two circular markings in white chalk; one on the floor in the centre of the hall, the other on the facing wall.
There were no windows; light was gained from several torches held in iron brackets high on four thick granite pillars, forming menacing, almost palpable, dancing black shadows. There were three doorways; the first was the one he passed through. The second was a set of large, thick wooden double doors leading down long corridor to a balcony that overlooked the castle grounds. The third, comprised of a single, solid wooden door, lead to a winding corridor which provided access further within the keep.
The hooded figure shuffled to the middle of the hall, between the pillars. His knees cracked in protest as he knelt inside the white circle on the floor in prayer. The brown rat scampered into the hall, passing to the left of the motionless figure. The man sensed its presence and raised his left arm, causing his long black sleeve to rise up to his wrist, revealing leathery, ash-grey skin pulled tight to the bone. He uttered a short spell and released some of the dark magic. Instantly, the rodent curled into a ball in pain, squealed once then died, shrivelling into a crisp, withered husk.
The man reverently unravelled the scroll, lowered his head, and began to chant in an ancient language, in a coarse and guttural voice. The temperature in the hall started to drop as he continued to recite the passage from the thick parchment. Ice crystals formed around the man’s hood and his words now became visible as mist in the frosted air. The hall filled with an acidic odour as yellow gas began to billow from the centre of the chalk circle on the wall. He continued to chant as the yellow gas thickened, closing around but not touching, the kneeling man. The dark magic he had spent so long cultivating, slowly flowed out from him.
A single white dot of light sparked in the centre of the circle on the wall. He continued to chant. The light began to expand outwards, intensifying in brightness, casting a long black shadow behind him. It grew to the edge of the circle and flames licked out where it touched the retaining chalk border. Now from the blinding light, black smoke oozed, hugging the floor. That was the sign; the portal had opened. It was time. The hooded figure raised the scroll and broke three wax seals. Slowly, he rose from his knees and stood facing the circle so the white light bathed his front. Stretching out his arms, two words now became audible. “Come forth,” he said, unleashing the dark magic within him. The black smoke crawled up the walls and pillars like a creeper, engulfing the torches, extinguishing their flames.
The chant continued and his voice rose in volume as a grey-silhouetted figure appeared in the light, then a second, and a third. As if in slow motion, the first figure stepped out of the light through the portal and into the hall. The man, a warrior, was dressed in shimmering silver battle armour with an ankle-length cloak. Slowly, the warrior gazed around, left then right, not looking at the hooded man within the chalked circle. After what seemed an age, the warrior took a deep shuddering breath, and then stared at the hooded man, who was a full head shorter than him. He removed his black-bladed broadsword from its sheath, placed the blade-point on the floor with both hands on the hilt, and waited. For a long moment, time seemed to stop.
The hooded man lowered his arms to his sides, stopped chanting, and held the warrior’s gaze. Neither man could see the other’s eyes; one set hidden within a full-face metallic helm, the other, heavily shadowed beneath a deep woollen cowl. The room remained silent, except for the warrior’s echoing breaths. Suddenly, red light blazed from the thin eyelets in the helmet. Smoothly, the warrior, unhampered by his body armour, dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
“Rise, my friend, welcome to our new world,” greeted the hooded man.
“Thank you, Naats Flureic,” replied the warrior, his voice a rumbling echo from deep within the metal helm. He rose and strolled inside the chalk circle to stand behind the smaller man’s right shoulder. “Come forth, my brothers!” he called.
Two more armoured warriors stepped from the light, leading three raven-black stallions, each sixteen hands tall. In unison both knelt on one knee, bowed low in front of their host, then leading their horses, moved to stand behind the robed man’s left shoulder.
The small man raised his right hand. Instantly, the black and yellow smoke evaporated and the circle of light collapsed, plunging the room into utter darkness. He gestured with his left hand and torches burst into life, again bathing the hall in a warm but unwelcoming, orange glow.
“Come, my friends, before we rest, let me introduce you to our followers,” the Darklord said proudly, turning towards the large, double wooden doors, his hands clasped in front of him hidden within the sleeves of his flowing black robe. They walked down the long corridor in silence.
***
Naats Flureic, a self-proclaimed Darklord, gestured at the wooden double doors which flew open, allowing blazing bright sunlight to flood in. He and the three warriors stepped out onto the balcony into fresh mountain air. The balcony, two floors above ground level, faced the colossal, pyramidal mountain to the southeast, called Kalkar. Outside the keep, below the balcony, the Darklord’s army dropped to one knee and bowed in respect upon seeing him. The sound of thousands of armoured men in motion was deafening, echoing within the castle walls.
In front were black-armoured men called the Dark Brethren. They were the Darklord’s guards, five thousand strong lancers, mystic men who could destroy an army many times their size. Behind them gathered the Horde, well-disciplined cavalry and seasoned foot soldiers, some ten thousand strong. Most of these men were mercenaries from the Raffton army to the north of the Great Mountains, and a few deserters from the Kingdom’s forces to the south. Forming a crescent around the Horde were the sparsely armoured race of men known as Kharnacks: rough, bloodthirsty, murderous, battle-hardened cutthroats. This race loved and lived for war, spending most of their time in the midst of blood feuds among their various clans. Over twenty thousand clansmen – the army’s battle fodder, first in the charge, first to die – waited in silence.
The Darklord raised his arms and the army rose, looking up at their leader.
“Followers!” called the Darklord, his voice deep and rumbling, belying his slender size. “Beside me stands the next segment of our circle. These three men are warriors without equal, and worth an army in their own right. These men will form the focal point of our campaign and wil
l lead us to triumphant victory and beyond. Let me introduce them to you.” The Darklord lifted his right hand and the tallest warrior stepped forward, his dark blue cloak billowing in the breeze.
“This is Malice, our general and warlord. He is the perfect strategist and has had more experience of battles than any man in the world. He will lead our army on its victorious path.”
The army cheered. Malice bowed in response, then stepped back behind the Darklord.
The Darklord raised his left hand and the nearest warrior stepped forward. “This is Fury and he will lead my Dark Brethren. Not only a great strategist himself, he is also an assassin beyond compare. Watch him and learn.”
Again, the army cheered. Fury bowed then stepped back behind the Darklord.
The third warrior stepped forward. “Finally, let me introduce Chaos, who will lead the Kharnacks,” continued the Darklord. This announcement received the loudest cheer from the thousands of clansmen.
Chaos’s response was simple but effective. He reached for his two short swords, which were strapped to his back, hidden under his deep green-coloured cloak with only the hilts exposed. Rolling the hilts in his hands, he made a cross with the blades, raising them above his head. Just as quickly, he rolled the swords in his palms and returned them to their sheaths.
In response, the Kharnacks bellowed his name, “CHAOS!”
“I do not have to tell you about Chaos’s strengths, they are plainly visible. You will all have a chance to witness my friends’ skills when we march.” The hooded man paused. “We are now complete and it is time to show the Kingdom and the Empire our wrath – death and destruction will be left in our wake. We will sweep all who stand against us, like a feather in a storm, and crush them. But who will stand against us? We will prove to be, as we are, invincible. With my three friends, we will be triumphant!” The army cheered in agreement. When the din quietened, the Darklord continued. “I have sent word to our inferiors at Evlon, stating we are to march. They will be the first to feel our power, and through their defeat we will send a warning to the rest that we cannot be stopped. When we march against the Empire, and against the Kingdom, you, you and you,” the Darklord pointed randomly at his army, “what will you do?”
