by R J Hanson
On the northern side of the pass another blast ripped through Daeriv’s forces and another twelve men and three ogres were consumed by an arcane power that pulled their very skeletons apart. A loud roar came from the south side of the battle and many men could be heard screaming. Eldryn looked back to the south and saw a large, white war cat that he recognized, in fact it was the only one he had ever seen. Gallis Argenti was here.
Roland was thinking furiously. When your weapon and strength fail you, it is you brain that will save you. Velryk’s words echoed in Roland’s mind. Shrou Demons have never shown much imagination, but their practice of the accepted arts of the shrou-sheld is without the slightest imperfection. That was it! They practiced the ‘accepted arts.’ Roland was not a master swordsman, not yet. However, he did understand the use of the sword, and knew all of the accepted maneuvers, attacks, and parries.
Roland stood in the bladed fashion with his left foot and left arm forward with the point of Swift Blood held in the low guard position. The Shrou Demon, for all of its raw, furious emotions, also assumed the bladed stance with its right arm and foot forward and its deadly black shrou-sheld pointed directly at Roland’s left eye.
Roland brought the great sword up high over his head with his left hand and called upon the speed of the majestic blade. Roland felt the power of the sword surge in his veins. As he brought Swift Blood forward in an overhead arc, Roland pivoted his blade in a horizontal swing over his head, instead of the vertical swing that would have been logical, accepted.
He drove the point of the great sword to the inside the Shrou Demon’s defenses. It was a modification to the move that he had used to win against Eldryn during their practices so long ago when two boys played at war in a field of grass and flowers. A one-handed thrust. Swift Blood’s point slid just past the Shrou Demon’s blade as it had already begun its path to intercept a slash that was not coming. Roland shoved forward with everything he had and drove the point of his blade deep into the fallen champion’s breast. Swift Blood’s tip emerged from the demon’s back as shock was painted across its face and the Holy symbols of Bolvii on Swift Blood’s blade shined brightly. Roland stumbled forward with the effort, dangerously off balance.
To thrust with such a heavy weapon with only one hand, your off hand, was ridiculous. The only way to attack in such a predicament was the slash. The slash was, of course, the best manner in which to use a Great sword after all. It was such an absurd attack that the Shrou Demon did not expect it.
Roland pushed forward, for his momentum gave him no other choice, and stabbed the Shrou Demon to the ground, twisting his blade all the while. The unholy creature was dead even before its knees began to buckle. Roland pulled Swift Blood free from the smoldering corpse. He stepped back and watched the creature disappear into ash and scorched grass burning its twisted and unholy symbols into the ground.
Roland’s knees nearly buckled. He shook his head violently and focused himself. You got lucky, but you still have a lot to do, Roland thought. He heard a loud cheer come from the knights and squires still fighting at the mouth of the canyon. Despite their own situation, most had managed to watch as Roland had dispatched the Shrou Demon with what appeared to be absolute and superior skill. Roland smiled. He was not fooled into conceit, he knew luck when he saw it, and this was nothing but pure fortune.
Roland scabbarded Swift Blood and stopped to retrieve the black mercshyeld shrou-sheld that lay among the ash of the fallen champion. Roland began running toward the battle that continued nearly two hundred yards away. The knights, paladins, and their squires were not the only ones to witness the Shrou Demon’s demise. Daeriv’s forces fled from the battle as fast as their feet could carry them. A huge war cat pursued the fleeing troops into the forests.
For several long moments the embattled troop stared around them barely hearing the distant screams of those who fled the battlefield over the sound of their own heavy breathing. Many dropped to their knees in a prayer of thanks and others dropped from exhaustion.
Then, the knights and squires began gathering their wounded and dead. Eldryn whistled in his high-low pitch three times rapidly. He repeated the whistle twice more and Lance Chaser and Road Pounder appeared from the tree line trotting toward the group.
Gallis Argenti and KyrNyn were walking toward the point where the knights were gathering. Roland walked out toward them.
“I am glad to see you,” Roland said.
“I am glad I could return the favor,” Gallis Argenti said. “I never got the chance to thank you before and I don’t like to be in any man’s debt.”
Roland could still see the pain in Gallis Argenti's eyes.
“The helm is only a quick fix to a deeper problem,” Roland said. “I would gladly give my helmet to you, but you and I both know you won’t be free of your troubles until you speak with a priest. They can help.”
Gallis Argenti nodded. He was unconvinced, but he’d had this very argument with KyrNyn many times and did not wish to have it again.
“You there,” Sir Fynyll said as he approached Gallis Argenti and Roland. “What do we owe you for your services?”
“This man is a friend of mine,” Gallis Argenti said gesturing toward Roland. In Gallis’s mind that was the only explanation necessary.
“Regardless,” Sir Fynyll continued in his ever-condescending tone, “how much do you want?”
“You insult me, mortal,” Gallis Argenti said. “If it happens again you won’t live to regret it.”
With that, Gallis Argenti turned and walked from them heading toward the tree line. Quick Claw, the large war cat, appeared from the forest and he climbed up on her back.
“Is that Gallis Argenti?” Sir Fynyll asked.
“It is,” Roland replied.
“He is wanted! There’s a King’s Warrant for him!”
“Then you go get him,” Roland said with thick hate in his voice. “I warn you, Sir Fynyll, keep yourself clear of my path.”
Sir Fynyll began to reply and then looked at the mercshyeld shrou-sheld Roland held in his left hand. The shrou-sheld taken from the dead Shrou Demon. Sir Fynyll decided that he had talked himself into enough trouble for one day.
Roland turned and walked to Eldryn, who was just catching Road Pounder and Lance Chaser. Roland took Prince Ralston from the horse while Eldryn took Tindrakin down. The Prince was conscious, but just barely. Roland and Eldryn began attempting to treat the wounds of both men. Lady Angelese saw the Prince and Tindrakin and ran toward them.
“I can help,” she said simply.
Lady Angelese removed her helm and knelt down next to where the Prince and Tindrakin lay. She placed her hands over their chests and began to pray. She continued to pray for several minutes. Roland and Eldryn watched in amazement as Prince Ralston’s many minor wounds and Tindrakin’s one major wound were healed. The injuries closed in on themselves under a light blue glow that drifted from the paladin’s hands.
Sir Brutis walked to their side.
“Daeriv will know of this soon, if he does not already,” Sir Brutis said. “We should get back to Skult as soon as possible.”
“Whatever you need from us,” Roland said, “you have but to ask.”
One of the squires that wore bandages on his right leg and arm walked over to the group.
“That was a magnificent fight,” the squire said to Roland. “You were amazing. A Shrou Demon in one blow! While your right arm was in a sling no less! I am honored to walk the same battlefield with you, Sir Roland! You are truly a master swordsman!”
Eldryn felt sick. He looked at Lady Angelese who was praying over the fallen men. Hopefully she wouldn’t hear this drivel.
“It’s just Roland,” Roland replied. “No ‘Sir’ to it. And the victory with the fallen champion was luck, and a lot of it.”
“May I touch the blade that took the Shrou Demon?” The squire asked, seemingly unaffected by what Roland had to say. The squire extended a trembling hand toward Swift Blood and ligh
tly touched the scabbard that carried it.
“I am truly honored, Sir Roland,” the squire said. “I thank you.”
Roland began to correct him, again, but just shook his head instead. The squire trotted off to speak among the other squires that were gathering supplies and building travois for the severely wounded. Sir Brutis laughed a cheerful laugh.
“It was luck,” Roland said.
“Well, I would take luck over skill any day,” Sir Brutis said as he clapped Roland on his uninjured shoulder. “You should get that looked at.”
“I’ll be fine,” Roland said. “For now, anyway.”
They turned their attention back to Lady Angelese. Her prayers were coming to an end and both wounded men were breathing normally, and resting easily. Roland saw something that Eldryn did not intend. Roland saw the way Eldryn was looking at the lovely paladin while she prayed to Fate. Eldryn’s expression changed when he realized that Sir Brutis and Roland were still there with him and the lady.
“Lady Angelese,” Eldryn said. “I must know how you survived that spear. Was it a similar healing prayer?”
“Yes, a healing prayer, a potent one.”
Eldryn was confused. He did not know why she would, but he did know that she had just lied to him. There was much more to this beauty than met the eye.
The remaining nineteen knights and twelve squires collected what supplies and equipment the fleeing army had dropped and they stripped the bodies of the dead foes that laid all around them. Then they began back toward their encampment accompanied by Roland, Eldryn, and Tindrakin.
As they walked, Kodii jogged out from the tree line and joined them. Roland noticed several small cuts and a few bruises but no serious injuries. He also noted a fair amount of blood on Kodii’s spears.
“I take it you were the distraction we so desperately needed at the far end of the canyon,” Eldryn said.
“Tribe,” was Kodii’s simple reply.
“For one man you make a very good distraction,” Eldryn said.
Kodii shook his head and pointed to the forest.
“Others,” Kodii said. “Two. Quiet, fast.”
“Who?” Eldryn asked.
Kodii only shrugged.
They were met half way back to the encampment by well-meaning ferriers and other servants. The wounded were treated as best as time would allow. The camp was packed and the rescue party started back toward Skult with the first major victory against Daeriv behind them.
Chapter XII
No ‘Sir’ to it?
“How could such an incompetent man have taken my Shrou Demon, in single combat, and Prince Ralston right from under my nose!?” Daeriv yelled. “I thought you said he wasn’t that skilled?”
“I did say that master,” Engiyadu said in an even tone. “And it remains true. He is lucky beyond reason. He is also a child, by years anyway. I understand that he held the Hourglass and survived. He looks like a grown man, but is not even twenty years yet.”
Daeriv paced the stone floor of his richly furnished throne room. He was taller than the average common man, and was very thin. His skin bore a sickly tinge of yellow and his once black hair was graying fast as it hung limply down to his collar. There was, however, dangerous magic that rested in his tongue, behind his clear green eyes, and at the tips of his skeletal fingers. He threw back his silken robe and stomped to his throne. Daeriv dropped into the seat and glared at Engiyadu.
“Why were you not there?”
“I had to traverse the marshes trying to catch him before he made it back to Skult,” Engiyadu said. He barely beat me there, but still he arrived there before I did. I immediately began my return trip but it is a long and dangerous road to travel through the dead spaces of that marsh.”
“I have plans about your problems in travel,” Daeriv said. “I will set them into action. In the mean time I want you to kill this boy. My spies tell me the men rally around him. I almost had their will broken! Then you let a boy defeat my Shrou Demon!”
“He will die,” Engiyadu said simply.
“How can you say that?” Daeriv spat. “He beat the Shrou Demon, didn’t he?”
“Master, you of all understand the Shrou Demon and his skills. I am a master of the blade. I talked with several of our men that witnessed the battle between this Roland and your fallen champion. It is doctrine that if a weapon is slightly unwieldy, or a bit too heavy, that the best way to attack with it is to use the weight of the weapon in your favor. The attacks with a weapon like that would typically be limited to hard, broad swings intended to do more damage with their force and momentum rather than by any amount of skill or art. Roland had his right arm in a sling and was attempting to wield his Shrou-Hayn with only one hand, his left hand. I would assume that the Shrou Demon did not expect the thrust and was more prepared for a hack or a chop. The demon was likely waiting for the first strike to over-balance the fool and then kill him quickly. There is also his speed. This boy, Roland, moves like lightning. It is some sort of magic, of that I am sure. However, that doesn’t change the fact that he moves almost as fast as I do.”
“You will kill him, Engiyadu. Kill him and make sure that he stays dead!”
“There is another thing, master.”
“What?!”
“When I went after him with the Soul Stalker, he had a hidden ally,” Engiyadu said. “It was a demon that I did not recognize. It was invisible and moved almost too fast for the eye to catch. The creature made no attacks at either me, or the Soul Stalker, but he defended Roland. He would push or pull the boy each time my sword was set on a killing path. That is how Roland got away from me.”
Daeriv’s eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched.
“Described this demon.”
“It was invisible to the eye, and gave off no heat. It moved very rapidly. It could have been no more than two or three feet tall but it flew through the air more swiftly than my blade. Its skin appeared to be ashen and it seemed to have either four or six arms. As I said, it was very difficult to see.”
“You must be mistaken,” Daeriv said.
“I am not, master.”
“There has not been one of those guardians seen since shortly after the Battles of Rending,” Daeriv said.
“I saw what I saw,” Engiyadu confirmed.
“They are called Teplis Guradas in the old tongue,” Daeriv said. “Translated it means A Templar’s Guard. What you are describing is a champion, and no minor one. Priests of old could summon them to watch over their charges on the battle field. They were very useful against assassination attempts for they see everything. They also make excellent spies.”
“Did you have anything to do with Roland’s fight with the Shrou Demon?” Fate asked Bolvii. She was pacing the marble floors of her astral home as her hair of quark fire flowed behind her, barely restrained by her crown of cobalt blue. Her face was calm and her voice serene, both belying the anger that burned just below the surface.
“No,” Bolvii said as one hand scratched through his wild black beard while the other rested on the first Shrou-Hayn, Oath Keeper, at his waist. “I’m just as surprised as you are.”
“I am never surprised!” she roared, shattering her mask of control. “I decide! I create! They can make their choices but I shape the circumstances!”
Fate took a deep breath and unclenched her fists.
“So, you had nothing to do with the Teplis Guaradas either?” she finally asked.
“No,” Bolvii said, wisely keeping his answer short and averting his sky-blue eyes, eyes that had charmed many, to the floor.
“Do you realize how many things that boy’s actions have changed?” Fate roared again.
“Please, my dear, be calm,” Time said as he entered the room.
Both Fate and Bolvii dropped to a knee and bowed to their King, averting their eyes. Time was hard to look upon, even for a god, for he was always changing and always in motion. Even his words were difficult to endure because of the constant change of tone
in his voice. Time focused his energies and his form settled on that of a young, handsome man with golden blonde hair, light blue eyes, and skin as pale as the moon.
“I sent the Teplis Guradas due to the fervent prayers of a follower,” Time said in the voice of the same young form. “As to his defeat of the Shrou Demon, we should look upon that event with delight. It is so rare that one of them can surprise us. So rare that one of them becomes even more than we expect. Bolvii, you may go. Answer prayers as you see fit, within the confines of Fate’s purview of course.”
“Yes, my King,” Bolvii said.
Bolvii made his exit quickly. He did not know what was about to be said between Time and Fate, but was certain he didn’t want to be present for it. He did know there would be storms on the surface of the world below this night.
Sir Sanderland rode hard along the trail of knights that went to Prince Ralston’s aid. He had pushed his mount, his men, and their requisitioned horses to the breaking point. If the horses died then so be it. The church would always provide another and the ones taken from local farms could easily be replaced. The templars, some of whom still had blood seeping through their bandages, could push on as he did. If Silvor thought them worthy then He would heal them. If they died, well the church would always provide more of them as well.
The journey into the edge of the Marshes had not been for the faint of heart. He faced many creatures there, some of this world and some summoned back to it by unnatural means. Two of the younger templars gave their lives on his quest. A quest, he had recently learned, that had been a fool’s errand. While he, the Great Sir Sanderland the Strong, was sludging through waist deep swamp some unknown vagabond had apparently tripped over the sword and brought it to Skult to sell for wine money.
Of course, that’s not how the rattling tongues in Skult told the story, but they were the sort that wouldn’t allow the truth to get in the way of a good story. Sanderland was confident he had surmised the actual events accurately.
Now he rode hard to lead the rescue, or avenge the death of, Prince Ralston. It mattered not to him either way. It was imperative that he be there to take that glory for his own and to make High Cleric Barnam proud.
