Forgotten Hero

by Brian Murray

  ***

  Chaos led the small convoy down the western road leading to Evlon, leaving behind the main force of Dark Brethren. In billowing tan dust from Chaos’s stallion, Malice followed, just ahead of a black windowless carriage surrounded by six Dark Brethren. Eight more warriors brought up the rear, one carrying the Darklord’s Black Banner. Chaos keenly watched as a huge ginger-haired man donned his helm and ambled to the middle of the road with one hand outstretched, the other resting on his sword hilt.

  “Halt, who goes there?” called the guard.

  Malice urged his massive mount forward and answered, “This is Lord Naats Flureic’s convoy. We have been invited to meet Baron Chelmsnor, to talk peace and trade treaties.”

  “Aye, you are expected,” announced the guard, bowing. “Follow this road and it will take you directly to the Great Hall where the baron resides.”

  Gammel let the procession pass, admiring the two warriors on their huge stallions, their silver armour glowing rosy-red in the setting sun. He returned to his sentry post beside the road, puzzled by the lack of emotion from the warriors. Looking up the road, he stared at the fluttering black banner and shook his head. “No good will come from this,” he muttered to himself with a shrug. “None.”

  ***

  The cortege made its way through the plain wooden buildings of the army barracks and stables. The new part of Evlon, the furthest distance from the Great Hall in the centre, was built in the last hundred years to accommodate the population growth. Being the poorest part of the city, it contained the blacksmith’s forge, bakeries, taverns, servants’ quarters, and pay-maidens’ residences. The buildings in new Evlon were all the same: whitewashed, single storey, along straight and open roads. Here, the children playing in the streets stopped their giggling and games when the warriors rode by, their mouths hanging open in awe and innocent fear.

  In contrast, the old city housed the rich and powerful, and it was here that all commerce and trade was conducted. The streets were cleaner but cluttered, tighter and winding, with no sounds of children playing. Children in this part of the city were not seen, and definitely not heard. The houses were highly decorated, each trying to outdo its neighbour with grander statues and ornate flower gardens.

  The convoy passed though the city without incident and stopped at the Great Hall steps. The building was a monstrosity, once the keep of a mighty castle, now the baron’s residence, where he also conducted court and held formal gatherings.

  The two warriors driving the carriage dismounted, opened the door, and pulled down carpeted steps. The remaining Dark Brethren tethered their horses and took up defensive positions around the carriage; each facing outwards with hands on their weapons. The two warriors facing the carriage bowed deeply as a black-robed figure emerged from the gloomy interior. Malice and Chaos dismounted last and tethered their stallions to the carriage. Malice led the way up the steps, the Darklord next, followed by Chaos, with four Dark Brethren bringing up the rear.

  As the men reached the towering, guarded wooden doors, the sun finally descended below the horizon and darkness engulfed the city.

  Two guards stepped out and crossed decorative spears before Malice, blocking his path.

  “Who goes there?” asked one guard formally.

  Malice stared at the soldier for a moment before answering. “We are here to see Baron Chelmsnor.”

  “Naats Flureic’s party?” asked the guard, swallowing nervously as he stared up at the warrior.

  “Yes,” hissed Malice.

  “We’ve been expecting you. I’ll show you to the main hall where the other guests are waiting.”

  The guard raised his spear and led the way, escorting the party through gloomy corridors lit by many decorative lanterns giving the exposed stone walls a warm glow. When they reached the main hall, the guard opened one of the large doors, stepped inside, and bowed.

  “Gentlemen,” announced the guard, “Naats Flureic and his guests.” He stepped to one side, allowing the newcomers to enter the main hall. Once they were inside, the guard left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Inside, silence hung in an air of uncertainty.

  The vast rectangular hall was lushly carpeted and eight columns lined each side near the wall, arching up and forming the ceiling. Four large hearths, one in each corner, warmed the room. The party walked down four steps, passed more guards, and crossed the full length of the hall to where Baron Chelmsnor sat on an ancient wooden throne in front of thick, flowing curtains. The group stopped before the baron; the Dark Brethren several paces behind Malice, Chaos, and the Darklord.

  Baron Chelmsnor was a bulky man with a round, red face, and a blond, silver-streaked beard. Too many years of feasting had changed this once slim warrior to a lardy lump. Now, instead of gleaming armour, he wore baggy silk clothes, in an effort to hide his size. On his head sat a single gold ringlet crown controlling his wild blond hair. To his left, on a small table, was a goblet of wine and fresh fruit. Around the hall stood his bodyguards, mighty warriors dressed in gaudy, highly polished, impractical steel armour that reflected the various fires. The wealthy and powerful residents of the city sat behind two long tables that stretched out before the baron. There was a specific pecking order, with the wealthiest, most powerful men sitting closest to the baron. The only women allowed in the hall were maids, all personally hand-picked by the baron, as he liked to surround himself with young feminine beauty.

  Malice stepped forward, removed his helm, bowed and addressed the baron. “Your highness, Baron Chelmsnor, I am Malice, General and Warlord for Lord Naats Flureic and his army marching under our Black Banner. We come here to seek a new pact and settle new levies for the Black Banner. The tribute will be for your city’s protection by the armies under the Black Banner in turbulent times to come. Furthermore, you will also agree to pledge your army and its allegiance to the Black Banner.”

  The baron sat stunned for a moment, the information, or rather demands, slowly sinking in. “This is preposterous!” he stormed. “I have treaties with all the surrounding nations, including the Rhaurien and Phadrine. You come here at my invitation and threaten Evlon. How dare you come to my home and threaten me? A Black Banner, what nonsense is this? No one marches under such a colour.”

  “The Kharnacks march under this banner, Baron,” replied Malice softly.

  “Again, preposterous. My friend, I have known the Kharnacks all my life, battled with many of their kin and even have treaties with some of the larger clans. Feisty bunch, but these are clans who hate one another more than anything. They can never be united into one force – your talk is folly.”

  “That was in the past, Baron, so it seems you are not well informed concerning current events,” sneered Malice with a mock grin. “The Kharnacks have been united by Lord Naats Flureic, under his Black Banner. Now, a simple question – do you accept our offer or not?”

  “You come straight to the point, warrior, I respect you for that. However, I am a baron and will not negotiate with a mere warrior in such discussions. Where is this Lord Naats Flureic of whom you speak?” challenged the baron. “I will only discuss such matters with him. I find the etiquette and manners of your lord lacking, bordering on rudeness.”

  Malice held his anger in check, his red eyes ablaze with hate, directed at the fat baron. He pulsed a telepathic command.

  ***

  General Polalic, who led the Dark Brethren, received the psychic order. He turned to his brothers and through their telepathic link, gave his commands.

  “It is time to show these people the might of the Dark Brethren. Mount up and complete your missions. Let this be a dark day, fitting for our Master,” he pulsed.

  The five hundred strong force climbed onto their black horses, split into two groups, and headed off towards town.

  ***

  Uragon, a Dark Brethren warrior, smiled inside his helm, his eyes dancing with delight. The thought of the blood spilling to come and the toxic effects of the ba
lamine plant flowing through his body caused him to shiver with pleasure. Uragon pulsed mentally to Polalic, “I sense your happiness.”

  Polalic boomed a psychic response almost causing Uragon to fall from his horse. “This is your first blood encounter; you will feel the joy. Now leave me to my private thoughts.”

  Uragon looked at his mentor’s back and felt ashamed. He scanned the thoughts of his brothers. Their bloodlust was high, to the point of madness just kept in check from their years of training and iron discipline.

  The first squad of horsemen crested the hill and Polalic peered down at the barracks. Threatening storm clouds hid the moon; all shrouded in blackness – perfect camouflage. The Dark Brethren stopped. Polalic gave thanks to the Dark One and pulsed the Prayer of Blood . . .

  “For Him we will spill the blood of the non-believers

  Let it saturate the soil to purge Her foulness

  When the dark times come, we will be ready

  When He comes, He will show just the way

  Death to those who do not follow Him

  Let blood of those not worthy stain the ground to guide His coming.”

  The Dark Brethren were motionless, their cloaks alone moving in the breeze, waiting for the command to attack. Everything was silent.

  ***

  Rolando could not sleep. Something did not feel right. The air seemed charged with something he could not put his finger on. He tossed and turned, trying to find the sweet spot for sleep, but his cot felt uncharacteristically uncomfortable. With a deep sigh, he sat up and peered into the evening gloom, trying to make out the other forty-nine men who slept in the dormitory. Might as well get up, he thought; only one hour before sentry duty. He dressed silently and muttered a curse. After making his bed he left the dormitory, his mood as black as the night sky.

  Rolando stepped out into the darkness and shivered; something was not right. The only light came from lanterns scattered along the barracks. He frowned, gazing towards the rolling hills that blended with the black sky, and a feeling of dread swamped his mind. What bothered him so? He pushed the thought from his mind and approached the sentry post at the western gate facing the hills.

  What is it? What?

  ***

  Polalic pulsed his command. “Brothers, empty your minds. They seem to have a Watcher searching for us. When we reach the barracks, on my command, project images of blood, fear, terror, and death.” Polalic scanned his brothers and not a single thought could be detected. Then he blanked his own thoughts but could not suppress his smile.

  ***

  Gammel sat idly rubbing his bare chin and chuckled. He would not grow a beard, now fashionable in Evlon, as he kept singeing it at his forge. When they were courting, Sharn had announced there was nothing more revolting than the smell of singed hair, so he never grew a beard.

  “Gam, it’s me, Rolando,” the soldier said, announcing his arrival.

  “You’re early, my friend,” said Gammel, turning and running his thick fingers through his wild, curly hair.

  “I could not sleep,” admitted Rolando miserably.

  “I hope your mind is not becoming strained, my friend,” chuckled Gammel, slapping his smaller friend’s shoulder. “You would not be on foot soldiering duty if the ‘crests’ believed you had lost your talent.”

  “You should not call the officers ‘crests’,” snapped Rolando, peering around fearfully. “You know it will be ten lashes if you’re caught using the word.”

  “Hush now, who would be up at this time of night? You know all the crests are tucked up in bed, or at Great Hall. You worry too much. Anyway, what brings you here so early?”

  “It’s my damned cot. I believe it hates me more each day. It must have been made in Moranton itself.”

  Gammel could not hold back and he let out a deep, rich chuckle. “My friend Rolando, a cot is a cot. It must be your sensitive skin.”

  “Oh shut up, you fat ox, and be off with you before I change my mind and leave you here for the rest of your watch.”

  “Ah, thank you for coming early, Rolando. I could do with the extra sleep,” said Gammel, yawning and stretching.

  “Aye, you do need all your beauty sleep, you ugly horse,” barked the smaller man.

  Gammel pinched his friend’s cheek. “Well, you misery, I will be off.”

  “Sorry Gam, I just feel . . . well . . . something is not quite right.”

  “I sense nothing. I don’t think there is a mental shield out there, so relax, my friend and I’ll see you later. We can break our fast together.”

  “Aye, you’re right, I am being an old woman. I’ll see you at dawn.”

  Rolando watched his friend amble back to the barracks in anger. He felt a little shame for snapping at Gammel, then he smiled as Gammel turned and waved. Rolando waved back, his annoyance evaporating. Rolando scanned the hills for any thoughts. Nothing. So what was wrong?

  ***

  Polalic held his fist aloft to halt his men as the guards were changing early this evening. He watched the friendly exchange and saw the large, ginger-haired man stroll away. “The large man lives,” pulsed Polalic. “I like his hair; it looks like fire. I want his family; they are mine.”

  When the new sentry settled, the Dark Brethren general lowered his fist. Behind him, his mystical warriors resumed their slow march.

  ***

  “Lord Chelmsnor,” continued Malice evenly, “we wish a union between the Duchy of Evlon with the people currently under Naats Flureic’s banner.”

  “I will not have my people ruled under your Black Banner. If what you say is true, I will not have Evlon associated with barbarians such as the Kharnacks. They are a despicable race and have hounded the Rhaurns since the dawn of time. I only trade with a few larger clans, as they have coin, the rest are nothing more than potbellied, uncouth swine.” Baron Chelmsnor paused to calm his rising anger. “That is my answer. Now take that answer to your Lord Naats Flureic. I will have nothing to do with him. This conversation is over.” The baron’s entourage chuckled at the last comment, though the laughter sounded nervous.

  The small hooded man shuffled forward to stand before the baron, and Malice took a step back, replacing his helm, deferring discussions. Chelmsnor felt a rise of panic from deep in his soul as he stared at the small man. The laughter choked.

  Silence hung over the hall, feeling ominous and dangerously charged.

  “Who are you?” demanded the baron, frowning.

  “It seems I am now your enemy, Baron Chelmsnor,” replied the Darklord casually.

  “How dare you threaten me in my own home? How dare you! Guards to arms!” On his command, the Evlon Guards drew their swords and took two paces forward, closing in on the Darklord and his party.

  “A grave mistake, Baron. Now you will watch your men, their families, this whole miserable city, die. I will raze it to the ground.”

  “Brave fighting words, sir. However, these are my personal guards, the best in the whole of Evlon, second only to his liege’s Royal Lancers. They are seasoned warriors who, if you cannot count, outnumber your men by over six to one. Aye, I think not.” Chelmsnor sneered with glee.

  “Then give your command,” the hooded man dared. “Give the order!”

  “Who are you? Name yourself before you die,” stormed the baron, trying to hide his rising fear.

  The hooded man raised his hands and slowly pushed back his hood to reveal a menacing grin. “I am your demise, you foolish man.”

  “ATTACK!” screamed the baron, staring wide-eyed at the sinister, skeletal face before him.

  His guards surged forward.

  ***

  “What does not feel right?” pondered Rolando aloud as he sat at the sentry post staring out towards the hills. Nothing. He warmed his hands at the coal stove and looked at the glowing chunks. Stupid, he thought, closing his eyelids for a moment. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Nothing.”

  ***

  Polalic silently dismounted his horse and ha
nded the reins to one of his brethren. Carefully, he stalked towards the guard, drawing his long dagger. He stopped in front of the sentry who had his eyes closed and hands outstretched to an iron coal stove.

  ***

  Chaos smiled when the baron barked the order to attack. There were two priorities: kill all in the hall and defend the motionless Darklord. The latter he would leave to Malice, the former was his expertise, his speciality. There was only one better than he.

  Chaos drew his short swords and turned to face the charging guards. He slashed high, and blood sprayed from the first guard’s throat. He stabbed low, lancing a second guard in his groin, releasing his dark life-fluid. Chaos roundhouse-kicked a third guard off his feet, at the same time hacking his swords through two others’ throats. Landing in a crouch, he bowed his head, avoiding a wild slash, and swiftly stabbed forward, swiping outwards to disembowel two more guards, his enchanted swords easily cutting through the soldiers’ thin armour. Drawing back and reversing his swords, he plunged down into the open mouth of the soldier he had kicked to the floor.

  Seven down – seven seasoned warriors slaughtered in the matter of a few heartbeats.

  Chaos jumped up, completing a spinning kick that sent his next victim barrelling backwards, his neck snapping like a fine, dry twig. Landing softly, he dived forward, spinning his body, dodging hacks from two guards, one aimed for his neck and the other his stomach. Twisting in the air, Chaos swiped one sword up and the other down, cutting his two would-be killers with gashes to the groin and face. Landing again, Chaos crossed his swords above his head, stopping a carefully aimed, arcing chop. This enraged Chaos. Defend. NEVER! Attack.

  ***

  The blur of Chaos’s black swords cutting, carving and hacking was mesmerising. Every cut, every slash lethal – never injuring – death touched all within his reach. Suddenly, Chaos halted his display; twenty more lay dead at his feet, each corpse releasing thick, crimson life fluid, forming pools that soaked into the carpet. He stepped clear, sheathed his swords, and swaggered back to stand behind the Darklord. The only difference, his armour was now spattered with blood. But beneath his helm, his face bore an expression of disappointment. He had hoped for a greater challenge.