by Brian Murray
“Now that we are all here,” started Malice, his voice tinged with annoyance. He glared at Chaos, who sat smiling. “I will outline our plan.”
After Malice outlined his plan of attack on Evlon, Carash asked a few questions.
Finally, Carash said, “I applaud your planning, Lord Malice. However, I do not feel we need to put our lord in such a precarious position at the heart of the enemy’s stronghold.”
“General Carash, I note your concern. However, as I mentioned, he will be escorted by my brother, Chaos and myself, hence, I cannot see why you worry. No harm will come to him.”
“But Lord Malice, surely he would be safer . . .”
“My friends,” the Darklord interrupted, “let us not debate such a minor detail. Malice, I think the general needs a show of your brother’s greatness with the sword. Perhaps Chaos can indulge us after we have eaten.”
“Of course, my lord,” Malice replied, bowing his head. “General, I would suggest six of your Horde should prove sufficient.”
“Pah . . . He cannot take six of my men in single hand-to-hand combat. This will prove unwise, my lord.” Carash turned to the Darklord to continue his protest. “Killing Lord Chaos will not benefit us at all. Therefore, I cannot allow this. Perhaps the Rhaurn traitors or the Kharnacks might prove more adequate sport.”
“What?” Chaos roared, slamming down his fork, his eyes dancing with anger. “Forget the Rhaurn prisoners; they will not prove worthy sport in their weakened state. As I am to be seen leading the Kharnacks, I will not spill their blood. Therefore, elect six of your men. Besides, they are nothing but fat, lazy whoresons. Let me go now and conclude this matter. This human has spoilt my appetite.” Chaos dropped his knife on to his platter, wiped his mouth on a black silk napkin, and rose from the chair. He turned and bowed to the Darklord. “With your leave, Sire. I cannot eat knowing these mortals disrespect us so. I shall dispatch these men and return to complete my meal shortly.”
The Darklord bowed his head in return, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Return swiftly, my friend. Fury, I think you should watch the proceedings to make sure nothing gets out of hand. I have read about Chaos’s temper.”
With a knowing nod, Fury rose and followed Chaos from the hall.
***
Chaos stalked from the dining hall with Fury, Davron, and Carash in tow, the old general struggling to keep up with the warriors. After winding through a maze of corridors, Davron led the party out of the keep onto the training ground. To the left, the Horde trained on perfect ground, while refreshments awaited them on long, wooden tables. To the right, the Kharnacks trained in less pleasant surroundings, with only barrels of water for refreshment.
Chaos paused and turned to Carash with fresh anger aglow in his eyes. “Pick only your best and we shall meet in the middle.” He turned, then paused. “Oh, and one more thing . . . If I win, the Kharnacks will have your men’s training area and their privileges until we march.”
“Agreed,” snarled General Carash, then he marched towards his men with Fury at his side.
Chaos stalked towards the Kharnacks, his white hair shining in the morning sun. A small boy ran up to Chaos and bowed, “My lord, you have entered the wrong area. Your training area is behind you,” he said, panting. “If it pleases you, Sire, I will escort you back.”
***
Maldino, a Kharnack chieftain, saw the strange, white-haired man walk into their training area. He watched a boy stop the man, then both turned to gaze at him – the man pointing directly at him.
***
General Carash called over the duty sergeant and stepped out of Fury’s earshot.
“Yes sir,” answered the sergeant, saluting.
“Pick six men – good fighters, but expendable should the worst happen.”
“Sir?”
“You will see, Sergeant. Have the men present themselves to me at once.”
“Yes sir,” replied the former Raffton soldier, saluting crisply.
Six men were presented to the general and he eyed each one carefully. They looked like seasoned warriors and should pass scrutiny; moreover, they would not embarrass his company of soldiers. “Right men,” announced the general in a hoarse whisper. “You’re to teach a man a lesson in combat. Teach the whoreson how we mercenaries do things. But do not kill him.”
“Is that an order, sir?” asked one of the soldiers frowning.
“Listen, you ugly smouldering heap of dung, I said do not kill him, just teach him a lesson.”
“You mean cut him a bit here and there?”
“Aye, but you did not hear that from me. Oh, and if one cut goes too deep, so be it,” added the general softly with a sly smile. He turned and swaggered back to Fury, the smirk still creasing his face. “These men ought to do the trick.”
Fury merely nodded.
***
Without looking at the boy, Chaos pointed to a clansman carrying two short swords. “That man there with the short swords, send him to me.”
“Chieftain Maldino,” the boy spluttered nervously. Maldino was Chieftain of the Silverswords, one of the largest Kharnack clans. The boy hesitated and looked up into the warrior’s red eyes. Instantly, he became more frightened of this man than the infamous Maldino. The boy ran towards the clan leader who now had his eyes locked on the white-haired warrior. As he approached Maldino, the boy’s run faltered. Now, in close proximity to the prodigious chieftain, his fear of him rose. Before the boy could utter a word, Maldino marched past him towards the white-haired warrior.
Maldino stood in front of the warrior, holding his red gaze. The Kharnack was a head taller and wider across the shoulders than Chaos, a daunting figure with his trident beard, and torso criss-crossed with battle scars creating a unique map of an unknown land. Chaos calmly loosened his black sash and removed his robe, handing it to Davron, who leant forward and whispered something to his master. Chaos nodded in acknowledgement.
Maldino gazed beyond the warrior, at the Horde, and watched them gather in the centre of the training ground. “Kharnacks, to me!” the chieftain bellowed over the sound of clashing steel. “NOW!” Without his armour, Maldino did not recognise Chaos. He was just another foreigner trespassing in the Kharnack training area.
“I believe you’re on the wrong side of the training ground, my lord. We Kharnacks do not mix well with them,” hissed Maldino, gesturing towards the gathering Horde. “I would think it wise if you returned now before any trouble starts. I mean, of course, with due respect,” finished the chieftain with a wry grin. He held Chaos’s gaze as the warrior calmly removed the cord holding back his hair. Maldino’s eyes shifted again to the Horde, who waited in the middle of the training area.
Chaos chuckled. “I understand you are Maldino. May I borrow your short swords? I will return them shortly.”
Maldino’s eyes blazed with anger. In Kharnack custom, only a clansman’s better or friends could ask for his weapons. Being a clan chieftain, Maldino had no peers. “Who are you to ask for my swords?” roared Maldino, feeling the weight of Kharnacks’ eyes burning into his back.
“I like you, Maldino; a man of steel and iron principles. No moving you, is there? You will be at my right hand side. Let it be known that I am Chaos.”
Maldino turned to Davron with a questioning look and was answered with a single nod.
“No disrespect intended, Sire,” answered Maldino, lowering his head but maintaining eye contact. He then drew his swords, dropped to one knee and proudly recited the Kharnacks’ Battle Oath. “With axe, sword, blood and heart, yours am I.” The battle oath was the Kharnacks’ acknowledgement that they were facing death.
Maldino stood, turned to face the Kharnacks and bellowed, “This is Lord Chaos. Kharnacks let him hear our Battle Oath.”
The Kharnacks drew their weapons, dropping in unison to one knee and bowing their heads, holding their weapons across their chests. “With axe, sword, blood and heart, yours am I!” came the roar like rumbling thunder
.
Maldino turned back to Chaos, his face full of pride. Reversing his swords, he presented them to Chaos, hilt first. “You honour me. My swords are yours, Sire.”
Only now, with swords in hand, did Chaos turn to face the Horde. Six men stood in a semicircle some twenty paces in front of the rest, but still they did not cross the training ground. Chaos turned to Maldino, “Come with me. Davron informs me you are the Silverswords Clan chieftain.”
“I am,” answered Maldino with pride.
“Then today I fight for the Silverswords. Bring forward your standard.”
Maldino called for his clan’s standard and with pride marched on Chaos’s right hand side towards the gathered mercenaries. The Kharnack clansmen ambled forward, knowing there would be a duel; all looked excited save Shalamar, whose face was red, his knuckles white. Behind the chieftain buzzed a hive of activity as the Kharnacks began betting on the outcome.
Chaos stopped ten paces from the six men and turned to face Fury.
“Have you made sure these are worthy, brother?”
“They are good enough,” answered Fury in a bored, noncommittal tone.
Chaos turned to the Kharnacks and raised his swords in a cross above his head. “With axe, sword, blood and heart, yours am I!”
Their reply was a simple thunderous roar, “CHAOS!”
Chaos spun on his heels and took a further four strides towards the six mercenaries. Each man stood firm, watching the white-haired warrior. The men, like Chaos, were stripped to the waist and carried their favoured weapon, the broadsword.
Silence hung over the courtyard. A gust of wind blew across the training ground, wafting Chaos’s hair across his eyes.
“Now!” bellowed Carash quickly, expecting his men to have the edge.
But Chaos reacted first. In a blazing silver blur, he attacked the men. Taking two strides forward, he dove through the six men, his sword cutting and slicing, completing a mid-air forward roll. He landed on his feet in a crouch, then rolled forward, spun and rose to face the men as they turned. Three of the men did not turn as fountains of crimson plumed into the air, splattering noisily on the dusty ground. Three men dead, their throats slashed without the sound of clashing steel.
A roar of delight erupted from the Kharnacks when the three soldiers fell.
Chaos moved to his left as the remaining soldiers, now wary, fanned out. The first attacked, letting out his native Raffton battle cry. Clang. Chaos blocked with the sword held in his right hand, and stabbed down into the man’s groin with the other. The man fell to his knees with a scream. Chaos stepped forward, dispatching the man with a savage, backhanded throat cut.
Chaos stepped over the body, giving himself room to move while the remaining two soldiers circled him; one to his left, the other to his right. Suddenly, they both attacked. It took a little longer but the outcome was the same.
Chaos kicked the soldier to his left under the chin, sending him sprawling to the ground in a cloud of dust. Blocking a chopping hack from his right, Chaos sliced the soldier across the neck, then slashed him a further eight times with both swords before the corpse hit the ground. The floored man rose warily to his feet and watched Chaos stalk towards him, his blades dripping blood. The man let out a cry and attacked. He too swiftly perished.
Chaos knelt down, thrusting his swords forward and up into the soldier’s belly. Time seemed to slow as Chaos gazed into the dying man’s eyes. Chaos then yanked his swords free and rose. Spinning on his heels in a full circle, he used both his swords to cleave through the dying man’s neck. Then, before the body fell, and continuing his spin, Chaos executed a roundhouse kick, decapitating the body. The head arced through the air with a spray of crimson before striking the ground with a dull thud, rolling and stopping at General Carash’s feet. The general gazed down into the terrified dead eyes speechless. Chaos turned to the Kharnack clansmen, hoisting his bloody swords aloft and absorbed their wild cheers, ignoring the blood running down the hilts, soiling his hands.
Suddenly, Chaos spun and faced General Carash, his eyes blazing with excitement mixed with unbridled madness. He held the old man’s gaze for a long moment. Slamming the blades into the earth, Chaos stalked from the training ground without a word or backward glance.
***
The month past swiftly and the army started to march with a small force heading towards the Darklord’s first target, Evlon.
Chapter 2
The small Duchy of Evlon, situated in the north-eastern corner of the Rhaurien Kingdom, was a haven for merchants. Virtually independent from Rhaurien and its capital Teldor, Evlon had its own laws and army. Three hundred years earlier the king had granted independence so that the duchy, and more importantly, Evlon City, could freely trade with other nations. Without the normal Kingdom trade restrictions, Evlon had trade treaties with the Phadrine Empire, the Kharnack clans, and on rare occasions, with the Rafftons. However, the Rhaurns took care of their own, and even though independent overall, protection and governance came from the Rhaurien King.
For this ‘service’, tributes were paid to Teldor every month, but these were only a fraction of the total coin collected by the Baron of Evlon in taxes. For three hundred years, the city’s way of life and prosperity flourished and with a large treasury from taxes on trade, the baron, and local businessmen remained rich. The current baron, Chelmsnor, had tightened his grip on the trade of spices, pipe-leaf, and cloth between the nations. All transactions, both legal and illegal, were completed solely in Evlon and more importantly through him.
Evlon was a neutral city, off-limits to invasion. That meant the Duchy’s army was unique, only a token force, and the officers needed no experience of open warfare. With the exception of the baron’s personal guards, only the officers were non-permanent members of the army with a commission lasting only a few years. New recruits had to be well bred in coin terms or of noble birth to enrol and quickly progress to the rank of officer. The rich nobles of Evlon and beyond paid for their sons’ commissions in the army so they could interact with other nobles and their sons, building relationships. In some cases, marriages were arranged to form bonds between powerful families.
Only the baron’s personal guards were not of noble birth, an elite force of seasoned warriors, totalling five hundred men, who were well paid, solid, and led by Chelmsnor. The remainder of the army were men from the duchy, part-time soldiers, and City Watchmen. All of these men had trades or professions outside the army but under the duchy’s laws, they had to spend one month in every twelve performing civic duties, as soldiers. At twilight, one such man sat glumly by the gate on the western road at the edge of the city, close to the army barracks.
Gammel, a giant of a man, had huge broad shoulders and strong thick arms, born from his trade as a blacksmith. Gammel was the best weapon maker in Evlon; in fact the only weapon maker in Evlon, but regardless was a very fine blacksmith and armourer. He employed an apprentice who did the basic work, while he concentrated on the development of his craft. Born the son of a blacksmith, his grandfather a blacksmith as well, forge life flowed in his blood.
His father had been the best sword maker in Rhaurien and Gammel still had his father’s sword. While he watched the fading light, Gammel thought of his father. Son, this sword is perfect, one of a kind and the best sword I have ever made. It will not go to a king, or to the baron or to a duke. This sword is yours, my son. Twenty years had passed since that day and Gammel still had the ‘Great Sword,’ as he called it. The death of Gammel’s father broke his heart. The huge, gentle man had contracted a fever and his body wasted away to nothing; at the end his waist was the size of his once massive biceps.
Gammel had a rare talent that was seen as a valuable commodity. One in ten thousand Rhaurn males had this talent, the ability to sense the presence of people and read their thoughts, be they good or evil, joyous or sad. Even rarer was the skill that Gammel possessed to pick a person leagues away and sense their emotions. However, under great stress, s
uch as bereavement, this power could be lost.
This skill was hidden from all except Gammel’s wife and his best friend, Rolando, who shared a similar talent. To openly admit to having his talent would mean increased army duties, including scouting. With his rare ability, Gammel would undoubtedly be asked, or rather ordered to directly advise the baron on trade matters, concerning enemies, and negotiations. The alternative was a lifetime of studying the arts of magic at a monastery or abbey, and his family life and forge would have to be forgotten. And so this remained their closely guarded secret.
The blacksmith sat at his sentry post, pondering over the problems he had left at the forge, and wondered how his apprentice was coping. His rotation of military duty finished in two weeks and then he could return to fix any disasters. He sighed deeply, then smiled to himself at the thought of returning home.
Gammel’s mind drifted back to an outing with his family the day before his army rotation commenced, a trip to the local falls. It had been a beautiful summer day, the sky a light pastel blue with fluffy clouds drifting on invisible currents. Gammel and his four-year-old daughter, Kreen, had just finished swimming below the falls in crisp, clear water and were drying off. Even now, the memory of Kreen’s high-pitched giggles made the proud father smile. His wife, Sharn, let her go and she ran off, tripped and grazed her knee. Both Gammel and Sharn jumped when she screamed. Their daughter came running back, crying and as usual, when hurt or scared, she ran to her father for protection, storming straight into his chest so he could wrap his massive arms tight around her. After some calming words of comfort, the crying would stop. Gammel then kissed her and she would scurry off to Sharn for mending. Only when Gammel was on duty would she run directly to Sharn, but the child took longer to soothe and she would always call for her father or ‘Bear’ as she called him. Gammel smiled, only he could calm his ‘Princess’.
The blacksmith’s thoughts jumped to his last conversation with his wife. She hated him going away to do his rotation. Their arguments always upset the big man; making him unable to tell his wife he loved her before he left each time. Sharn would give him one peck on his cheek before shooing him out the door. It was the opposite when he returned; a huge family hug followed by an evening by the fire, catching up on gossip while Kreen slept on his lap. Gammel tried to remember the reason for their last argument but he could not. He gazed down the road and saw riders approaching. Putting on his helm, Gammel stood to greet them.
