Forgotten Hero

by Brian Murray

  ***

  Rolando kept his eyes closed, concentrating deeply, adjusting his vision to the darkness. He tried to relax his racing thoughts. Suddenly pure evil and death loomed in his mind. Startled, his eyes flashed open to find a black-clad warrior facing him. Something silver flashed in front Rolando. He tried to scream a warning but blood bubbled in his throat, drowning his words. He clamped his hands around his neck to stop his life fluid escaping. His vision blurred to blackness as he slumped to the floor. So this is death, was his last thought.

  ***

  Polalic waited, pulsing images of death and smiled when the soldier’s eyes blazed open, a confused expression on his face. The general sliced the man’s throat before he could scream. He summoned his men and his smile broadened whilst watching the guard topple forward, dead.

  Polalic’s men dismounted and moved among the barracks, silently killing the sentries on guard. Five Dark Brethren stalked into each dormitory with a secondary force waiting beyond the fencing to stop anyone escaping. A third force of three hundred men entered the city. Polalic received a second psychic order from Malice and pulsed the signal to his men.

  The slaughter began.

  Polalic walked to the fence and verbally called forward the reserve force; there would be no escape. Each dormitory only had one door which was easily blocked, preventing waking soldiers from fleeing. Polalic signalled his brothers to take the city, and kill all men, women and children.

  “Keep some of the children for our Master,” he pulsed. “And I want the ginger-haired man and his family alive.”

  ***

  Gammel just settled into his cot at the far end of the dormitory, thinking about his friend Rolando and his anxiety. He peered over at Rolando’s neatly made cot next to him. A cot made in Moranton, he thought, letting out a low chuckle. Before he left his friend, he had used his powers to scan the surrounding hills. Nothing. No thoughts. He nuzzled down into his cot and immediately found the sweet spot – sleep was close. His eyes felt leaden and his mind drifted to his wife Sharn and their daughter Kreen. Happy, pleasant thoughts drifted into his mind and he pictured his wife in their thick, warm bed; a bed he had made from one of the oldest hardwood trees in Dashnar Forest. Drowsily, Gammel opened his powers and in his mind’s eye pictured his bedroom at home and his wife. Slowly, her emotions flowed to Gammel; emotions of . . . TERROR!

  Gammel woke instantly to see black shadows moving amongst the cots. Not black shadows, but black-clad warriors murdering the men sleeping in his barracks. Without a second thought, he cried out a warning and surged to his feet, grabbing his army-issued double-headed axe. Soldiers all around him instantly awoke to the alarm, only to face death. Gammel saw the first waking soldier receive a cut across the neck; a second was disembowelled for his trouble. The Evlon men wore no armour and in no time the slaughter became a murderous frenzy. Blood from slashed throats formed fountains which splattered walls and the floor, and soaked into bed linen. Gammel only had one thought on his mind: he must reach his wife and daughter. He crashed into the back of his comrades, sending two sprawling over their cots. With axe in hand, Gammel let out his distinct battle cry and rushed forward into the killers. He swung his axe with all his might at the first enemy, snapping a sword held up in defence.

  ***

  As Polalic gave the order, Uragon licked his lips, eager for his first kill, squeezing his dagger hilt tightly. He sliced his blade across his first victim’s neck and instantly crimson blood plumed from the wound, splattering against his armour and face. Tasting the coppery fluid, Uragon now understood the joy Polalic had felt earlier. After years of training, meditation and learning, he now understood the elation of killing with the intoxicating sensation from the balamine plant crystal reaching new heights within his body. He thought his mind would explode as evil pleasure surged, seeming to touch every nerve end, tingling all over. The warrior kept cutting, and with each kill the sensation reached even greater heights. His eyes widened, his breathing shortened, and pure, complete ecstasy beckoned.

  Suddenly, a burly, ginger-haired giant, the man they could not kill, shouted an alarm and Uragon reacted, drawing his sword. His dagger alone would be useless now the men were awake. The big man roared a shrilling battle cry and Uragon watched as the man bunched his shoulder muscles to swing the axe. Uragon forgot his training for a heartbeat, a heartbeat too long.

  Everything slowed.

  Everything around Uragon became crystal clear, even in the heavy, murderous darkness. He could hear the sounds of flesh being slashed, blood splattering on wood, his own heart pounding, and the whistle of an axe blade slicing through the air. He raised his sword in defence. Clang. Clink.

  Uragon’s sword blade snapped under the axeman’s power. The axe blade loomed closer. In the next heartbeat, Uragon pulsed Polalic for help but did not receive a reply – no time. Only now, in this moment of terror, did he understand the balamine plant’s true toxic power. In the moment before death . . . The blade touched his throat. Ecstasy.

  Uragon fell to the floor, decapitated. He was the first, the only Dark Brethren to fall that night.

  ***

  Gammel felt his axe blade pass through skin, soft flesh, sinew, and bone as he beheaded a black-clad warrior. Without a second thought for his victim, he stepped over the fallen, twitching body and bolted for the door, shouldering past anyone in his path. The blacksmith had to get to his wife and daughter – had to protect his family. As he stepped outside, fear for his family gripped his heart. The shock of emotions, fear, terror, and death in the air caused Gammel to stop, reeling, in mid stride. A metal gauntlet struck his left cheekbone, scraping away skin, causing blood to flow. Gammel fell to his knees, dropping his axe. He sensed sheer terror from his wife and struggled to rise, but a savage kick to his face rendered the big man unconscious. Gammel’s attacker stepped over the blacksmith’s motionless body and joined his brothers to complete the killing frenzy inside the barracks.

  Screams from the barracks shattered the tranquil stillness of the night, but all too soon all was quiet and the silent shroud of death settled upon all.

  ***

  Baron Chelmsnor gripped the throne’s wooden armrests tightly; his knuckles white, his mouth wide open in astonishment. Within minutes, every Evlon man in the hall lay in his own blood. All but the baron were dead, lifeless eyes staring accusingly at him.

  If thoughts could kill, the men standing in front of Chelmsnor would be burnt alive, consumed by their own flames. But this was not to be; the baron lacked any magic.

  Suddenly a crossbow, aimed at the Darklord, fired from behind the seated baron. Chelmsnor felt delight as the iron bolt breezed by his cheek.

  ***

  The people of Evlon awoke to shrilling screams coming from the army barracks and the edge of the city. The sounds of death drew closer and closer, getting louder and louder. Many, in their confusion, ran from their homes, where murderous horsemen in black armour stopped their flight, hacking them down and impaling others on long, metal tipped lances. Terror, fear, and confusion consumed the people as never before.

  Where was their army? Dying . . .

  The screaming reached a crescendo, as men, women, and children were slaughtered with the same ferocity, the same heinous passion. Then . . . Silence.

  ***

  Malice’s hand shot up and caught the crossbow bolt, the metal point a hairsbreadth away from the Darklord’s heavily creased face. Malice held the projectile in front of his Master’s face for a moment, then snapped the iron bolt in half, letting the pieces drop at the Darklord’s feet.

  “Now, Baron Chelmsnor, that’s speed. You can see your personal guards are dead, whereas all mine live,” the Darklord sneered. “And as promised, you can hear your city being razed to the ground. Your people are dying. Listen.”

  The Darklord paused as the screams from the city wafted through the large, arched windows. He raised a hand. “Chaos, the would-be assassin, if you please.”

  “
Yes, my lord,” answered Chaos. The warrior stalked towards the baron’s throne and disappeared behind thick, dark blue curtains. A dull thud on the wooden floor meant only one thing – death. Moments later, Chaos emerged.

  “It is done,” he announced, cleaning his dagger on the curtains.

  Chaos returned to his place behind the Darklord. The screams filtering from the city slowly petered out, and silence once again filled the hall, silent except for the cackling fires. Chelmsnor’s mind raced through the options; there must be a reason why only he was left alive. Being a politician, his negotiation skills would save his neck, he reasoned. Suddenly, Chelmsnor dropped to his knees before the Darklord and started blubbering.

  “Please, my lord, please do not kill me. I can be of use to you with the Kingdom and the Empire. Men in power know me there. Please, I beg you, do not kill me.” Chelmsnor grabbed the bottom of the Darklord’s robe and kissed it. “Please!”

  Malice kicked the baron’s hands away from the black robe. “Do not touch your betters,” he ordered, glaring down at the whimpering figure.

  “Yes, yes I am mistaken, you are quite right, I’m sorry,” whined the baron.

  The Darklord stared down at the baron. A powerful man brought to his knees not by his magic, but by the physical power of the Dark Brethren. What damage would the Dread cause? thought the Darklord.

  “Rise Baron, I do have a use for you,” the Darklord said softly. “You have a message to take to your king. Tell him Rhaurien is under threat from my forces which will, by then, include the Phadrine as well as the Kharnacks. Tell him the might of the Rhaurn army will not be able to defeat such a combined force. Remember, Baron Chelmsnor, head straight for Teldor. Ubert is under siege so there is no use travelling there. Head for Teldor and tell your king; by then Phadrine will be in tatters, a distant memory. When we are through with the Rhaurns, he will be at my feet begging for mercy just like you. Can you remember the message, baron?”

  Chelmsnor rose from his knees, nodding furiously. “Yes lord, I will take your message.”

  “Good, now come, follow me outside I have another use for you. Something for you to witness.” The Darklord pointed to the throne. “Ah, Malice, retrieve the pieces we have come for; they should be in the throne. Baron, you have no idea what you have held within your grasp all this time. Now, the power will be ours and the Dark One will be able to come again. Nothing can stop us . . . Nothing.”

  Drawing his sword, Malice approached the ancient throne. With one mighty swing of his broadsword, he smashed the large, wooden chair. In the middle of the seat, within a leather pouch, were the relics. The Darklord came forward, waved his hand over the ruined throne, and uttered the three words of power that removed the magic protecting the pouch. Reverently, he reached inside and held the small bag aloft.

  “Soon, Master, soon you will come again,” the Darklord added, shivering with pleasure.

  ***

  A sharp slap to the face woke Gammel. He felt the ache from his head wound and groaned as he sat up, rubbing his jaw and cheekbone.

  “You do that again and I will kill you.” Gammel felt the breeze of a hand swinging to his face. He blocked the blow and threw a stiff right jab, catching his attacker square on the nose. Cartilage crunched under Gammel’s fist and blood spurted as his attacker’s head snapped back. The Dark Brethren crumpled to the ground before the blacksmith.

  “Ah, he is awake I see, and still full of fight,” Polalic said aloud in a humorous tone. “Gammel, I believe that is your name, my friend. You have been of some trouble to me by killing one of my brethren.”

  Gammel focused his eyes and gazed onto face of his inquisitor as the unconscious warrior was hauled away. “And you are?” he asked hoarsely, rubbing his head.

  “I am your better, and my name is General Polalic.”

  “Well, know this, General, you will die,” said Gammel, spitting bloody saliva at the general’s feet.

  “I killed your friend at the stopping post. He was too easy,” announced the general. Gammel’s eyes darkened but he said nothing. “Ah, I knew you would be game. You hate me, but not quite enough,” Polalic said joyfully, narrowing his eyes. His voice turned cold. “I will give you something to truly hate me for. You have a choice my friend. One lives, and one, therefore, must die.”

  Polalic stepped to one side. Gammel’s eyes filled with tears as his wife and daughter were dragged forward. The blacksmith surged to his feet and lunged towards Polalic, but two Dark Brethren held Gammel back, pinning his arms behind him. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he stared at his kin.

  “No, please,” the blacksmith whispered. “Leave them be.”

  “Do it now,” Polalic ordered. “CHOOSE!”

  “Oh Gam, what is happening?” called his wife, while Kreen hid her face in her mother’s grey nightdress, now covered in grime.

  “Be brave . . .” called Gammel. Hearing her father’s voice, Kreen looked up and charged for her huge father, the safest place in the world for the little girl. Polalic allowed the four- year-old to reach Gammel but his men held Sharn back. Gammel wrenched his arms free and wrapped them around his daughter, lifting her up.

  She hugged him and buried her face in his chest. “Puppa, Puppa,” sobbed the terrified young girl.

  Gammel hugged his daughter close. “I choose myself to die,” he whispered softly.

  “Now that’s not how the game works,” Polalic jested. “But I do see a man of pride! You did not beg, but what of your wife?” Polalic moved to stand in front of Sharn and he gazed into her wide, light blue eyes, reddened from tears. “It appears, my dear, that your husband’s strength has vanished. That may answer a question I have longed to know the answer to. Is it true that Evlon women wear the trousers in your households? If so, you tell me who dies – you or your daughter?” Polalic sneered, enjoying the moment.

  Sharn glanced over the general’s shoulder to look at her family for the last time. As the question was asked, she knew what her answer would be. She thought of past joyous times and nodded to Gammel. Sharn took a deep breath to compose herself, wiped away her tears, and stared the general in the eye. “I will,” she boldly answered, accepting her fate.

  Without a second thought, Polalic drew a dagger and plunged it deep into the woman’s chest, piercing her heart. Sharn felt a sharp pain and grunted. She fell forward against the general, her life ebbing away. Slowly, she fell to her knees then pitched forward, her eyes locked on her family. Her last thought – live.

  A scream ripped from Gammel as he stared into his wife’s dead eyes.

  Polalic turned and laughed at Gammel. “It is true, they do wear the trousers! Now, my friend, do you really hate me? Aye, I can see the hate in your eyes. Revenge is there, but not unblemished hate. Is it, my friend?” asked the general, tilting his head to one side.

  Gammel held his fury in check. His rage and his want for vengeance brew like a thunderous storm but with his daughter in his arms, revenge would have to wait. He shielded Kreen’s face from the sight of her dead mother as a low rumbling growl rose from deep inside his throat. His battle cry urged forward, the wild beast inside him wanting to be released.

  Polalic stepped forward to stand face to face with Gammel, his eyes hardening. “Now,” he said, removing his black metallic helm. “Let’s see true hate. Let’s see how much you can really hate another man.”

  Kreen screamed in pain and her body jerked in a violent spasm as the knife blade pierces her lung. Gammel raised a hand from around his daughter, total disbelief in his eyes.

  Her breathing became ragged. “Dadda, it hurts.”

  Gammel glanced at his hand only to see his daughter’s crimson life-fluid freely running. “Oh, my God, no,” he whispered, holding his daughter closer, hugging her deeply, willing his life into her.

  “Dadda, the pain has gone. Please hold me tighter, it’s getting cold. I cannot feel you,” whispered Kreen through ragged breaths, her head resting against Gammel’s chest. Gammel held the ba
ck of Kreen’s head, bringing her face into his view. Tears filled his eyes when he saw blood dribbling from the corners of her small, perfect mouth.

  “I love you, princess. Daddy loves you so much,” he whispered, tears tumbling free.

  “I– I– love . . . you . . . too . . . D– Dadda,” she replied, smiling weakly. Her head went limp and she let out a last, shuddering breath.

  Gammel embraced his daughter tightly, rocking her from side to side. “I love you, princess. I love you.”

  Polalic moved out of the way as Gammel stumbled over to his dead wife and placed his daughter’s body next to her. He kissed his wife’s head and whispered, “I love you always, see you soon.” He kissed the head of his daughter. “You will be with Mummy now; be good. Your Bear will see you very soon.”

  Gammel rose above his dead kin, his shoulders hunched. Slowly, he turned to face Polalic head down, breathing deeply. Gradually, he gazed up, his eyes stopping at the sight of the dagger in the general’s hand, dripping with the blood of his family. Lifting his head further, his hooded eyes held the warrior’s gaze. Then, coldly, he said, “I see you can kill a woman and a babe. My wife and child are dead and now you can see true hate. Aye, I can feel the fear in you. I am now a man without a soul. You have taken that away from me. I have only one future, one mission and that’s to see you dead.” Gammel wiped the tears from his eyes and continued, “Come. You murdered a woman and a child, now try a man.”

  The blacksmith stepped forward, holding the general’s gaze. “Yes, you see the hatred, don’t you? You can feel it; your men can feel it. Hate you created. The hate you cannot destroy. Hate against you – hatred that will build with every passing moment. This hate will haunt all your living days. I can taste your fear; taste your apprehension. Your bowels are weakening as I come closer to you. You cannot destroy me; you cannot, will not, kill me. I will be your ending. I will terminate your life.” Gammel advanced a step. “Your dark powers are failing you, old man, and your dark lust is ebbing away. You cannot kill me, I know it and you know it.”