by R J Hanson
The wizard whispered the last syllables of his spell and unleashed a ball of fire that encompassed the small group. Roland felt the heat steal his breath and singe his beard. Two more soldiers were consumed by the flame. Ungar spit several dwarven curses as his cloak burned all around him. The dwarf dropped to the ground and began to roll about as if he had gone mad.
Roland knew he couldn’t cover the ground between himself and the mage before another killing spell would fall, so he took two steps that brought him out of the ball of flame. He drew the flame blade from his belt and hurled it at the wizard. The dagger struck the mage in the collar bone. At first, the injury seemed not to affect the mage too severely.
The wizard winced through the pain and began another spell. Then flames erupted around the blade and fire tore at the wizard’s neck and face. The wizard’s screams told of his agony. The guards around the mage dropped their crossbows and drew their swords.
Roland, with Tindrakin at his side, started toward the guards.
“We don’t have time for them,” Sir Brutis said from behind. “Move on!”
The remaining five warriors gathered into a tighter grouping and turned east. They began to cut their way back toward the main fray.
“What other mage could there be?” Ungar asked. “I see no more balls of flame!”
“Their troops are too well organized and are responding to changes in the battle too quickly,” Sir Brutis said. “There must be a telepath, a mentalist, near the center that is guiding their captains.”
Eldryn’s cavalry had been cutting through the regular infantry moving from east to west. However, a wall of ogres and giants coming toward them threatened to halt their charge altogether.
The evil infantry parted leaving open ground between Eldryn’s cavalry and the opposing wall of monsters. Huge rocks hurled by the creatures fell among the mounted men and broke apart the charging force. Eldryn maneuvered his horse well and was agile in the saddle, however, there were too many stones to dodge. A rock the size of his shield struck him solidly breaking bone and deeply bruising muscle. The stone did something to him that had not happened to Eldryn often; it knocked him from his saddle.
General Maditt saw the terrible blow the cavalry suffered. He knew the monsters that had been diverted to stop the cavalry would now be turning on his already beleaguered infantry. Something on the edge of his vision caught his eye and, when he turned, pride billowed within his chest.
Prince Ralston was afoot now, fighting next to his men. He led a remaining nine knights toward the spearhead whose tip was General Maditt himself. It was a foolish move, Maditt knew, but he was proud to serve such a fool. Prince Ralston and his men reached Maditt’s position. The Prince fought side by side in the blood, snow, and mud with his men with Blancet Shrou-Sheld held high.
They were overpowering Daeriv’s regular infantry. They had pushed forward several yards when Daeriv’s forces parted to reveal the squad of monsters that had all but eliminated their cavalry. The huge creatures lifted their stone missiles high into the air.
Roland, who stood much taller than his average opponent, was able to see over a majority of the enemy forces and saw Eldryn knocked from the saddle by a rock the size of a fish barrel. It was a strong temptation to rush to Eldryn’s side, but Roland had his own duty here. He could see a gathering of soldiers in black armor at the back center of Daeriv’s army. That had to be the telepath Sir Brutis spoke of. Roland began fighting his way toward what was probably an elite guard that surrounded the telepath. He focused his mind and tried to ignore the stabbing pains from his wounds. On their own, Sir Brutis and Sir Roland were both deadly in melee combat. However, after so many hours spent sparing together and learning each other’s moves, now, fighting side by side, they were virtually unstoppable. The small band of five sliced through the swelling infantry. They had almost reached the black guard when Tindrakin, who was protecting their flank, cried out.
“The Prince,” Tindrakin yelled. “Danger!”
Sir Roland and Sir Brutis spared only a moment to look over their shoulders to see the peril that faced their infantry.
“We must trust them,” Sir Brutis yelled. “Trust and fight on!”
Suddenly they cleared the main contingent of Daeriv’s soldiers to see eighteen guards in black steel armor surrounding what was obviously a mage. The band of five marched toward the nineteen that they must defeat.
Eldryn saw the rock coming. He had dodged such attacks before. He tried to kick his feet free from the saddle stirrups and roll off of the side of Lance Chaser. However, when he kicked, he was brutally reminded of his wounded knee. His right foot cleared the stirrup but pain rifled through his left leg when he tried to free it. Eldryn changed the direction of his roll from the saddle but his move came too late. He was already moving when the rock struck him. If he had not moved, the rock would have taken him in the chest and he would have surely died. As it was, the rock skipped off of his right shoulder as he rolled left out of the saddle. Eldryn struck the ground hard, his right arm numb and broken from the giant’s attack and the wind knocked from him by the fall. Lance Chaser halted when he sensed Eldryn leave the saddle. Sir Eldryn’s left foot was still hung in the saddle stirrup. If he had been on a lesser mount, Eldryn could have been drug to death.
Sir Eldryn drew his shrou-sheld with his left hand and cut the stirrup free from the rest of the saddle. His leg fell to the ground and vicious pain stabbed through it again. Eldryn felt consciousness flee and he grasped at it with all of his will.
The paladins of Fate, Silvor, and Bolvii offered their prayers in unison. The power of their songs and prayers grew as the sound took on more power and depth than any one of the group could have managed alone. General Maditt looked to Prince Ralston at his side. The Prince looked at the wall of creatures that were hefting their heavy stones. He hoisted his blade, A Leader’s Justice, high into the air. If this was the day, they would lose Lawrec, they would do it fighting.
It was only then, when Prince Ralston looked around him to gather his men that he noticed a well armored drow sporting twin shrou-shelds who had apparently been fighting at his side for some time. Lord Maloch was bloodied but showed no sign of fatigue. They exchanged a brief glance and Maloch offered a quick nod.
“Charge!” The command exploded from Ralston’s throat, the word rich with anger and determination.
The whole of Prince Ralston’s remaining infantry, Maloch with them, began a charge across the open ground between them and the giants and ogres. Three high champions brushed aside the dreary clouds of winter and flew across the sky and over the battlefield. Twenty-six large stones were thrown through the air.
The high champion of Silvor blew his hunting horn and the hurled stones were shattered into a harmless dust. He then rapidly loosed thirty arrows into the infantry of lost men and thirty men fell to their deaths.
The high champion of Bolvii dropped among the twelve giants and fourteen ogres. The large monsters surrounded the champion. The high champion drew a shining Shrou-Hayn from his waist as the creatures came at him. The creatures fell to the ground, dead, four at a time.
The high champion of Fate killed not a single evil being that day. However, with her whisper, she saved the lives of many good men.
Sir Brutis, Sir Roland, Tindrakin, Ungar, and Willis, Sir Brutis’ squire, rushed across the open ground between them and the black guard that awaited them. Roland heard a whisper in his ear and knew the truth of it instantly. He looked at the black guard that surrounded a man that was obviously the mage. Too obviously the mage. Roland noticed that the man dressed as a spell caster was not intent on spell casting but rather seemed to stand ready for the assault. Roland searched the men in black armor and found the one that he sought. The black guard moved as one man and stepped out in a semicircle with weapons ready. Roland noticed one to his right that was out of step with the others. One that seemed to be concentrating on something else, faraway.
Roland held Swift Blood
in his left hand and drew a dagger with his right. His target realized what was to come and issued a silent barrage of mental commands that would have brought many soldiers to their knees, weeping. Roland felt the attacks wash through his mind. The lexxmar gem in his helmet saved him once again.
Roland hurled the dagger with great strength and aimed it for a gap in the armor at the guard’s knee. The gap in the armor was a small one but Roland’s aim was true. The point of the dagger stabbed deep into the guard’s joint and dropped him, screaming, to the ground.
Sir Brutis noticed a change in their enemies immediately. The one who was obviously a mage, the man that had been their bait, suddenly screamed in terror and tried to flee. Brutis noticed then that the man was wearing manacles concealed within his robes. The remaining black guardsmen lost their focus and stared about, confused. Nearly half of Daeriv’s infantry behind Sir Brutis routed and ran from the battlefield in fear. The discipline that had held this army together had just fallen to a single dagger.
Sir Brutis, Sir Roland, and the others with them started for the fallen guardsman. The other seventeen guards gathered their wits, but did so too late. Roland reached the fallen guard, the true mage, and, with one violent stroke, severed his head.
Roland’s relief at the death of the mage was brief. Willis had fallen prey to one of the black guards’ wicked swords. Roland looked up from his dead enemy to see that he, Sir Brutis, Ungar, and Tindrakin were surrounded by several skilled and deadly warriors.
Eldryn struggled to rise but his knee would scarcely support his weight. He whistled in the familiar high-low pitch and Lance Chaser circled toward him over the bodies of the fallen and knelt next to him. Eldryn grabbed the saddle stirrup and pulled himself up from the ground. His right arm was weak with pain but he forced himself beyond that. He managed to wrap his hands around the saddle horn when he heard hoof beats coming from behind him.
Sir Eldryn hoisted his shrou-sheld with his awakening right hand, when had that healed? and held the saddle horn with his left. He turned just in time to block the dark blade that was cutting toward his head. The horse continued past and Eldryn recognized his enemy. Lord Kyhn had somehow managed to get back into the saddle atop what was once his friend, Road Pounder.
Eldryn scrambled to get into the saddle as Kyhn turned his undead mount for another pass. Eldryn reached the saddle and could hear the coming hoof beats again. Lance Chancer stood under him rising again to his full height. He fought to get himself aright and almost fell again as Lance Chaser twisted suddenly and bucked to the side. Eldryn was just preparing a good cursing when he realized that his horse had saved him from another of Kyhn's attacks as Kyhn galloped past again. All of the movement, and the constant lightning pain, had made Eldryn dizzy again. He shook his head as if to throw off sleep’s black hood. His vision blurred and he could hear the hoof beats approaching once more.
Eldryn’s vision cleared enough for him to see the sweeping blade of Kyhn's sword bound to reap his head. Eldryn struck upward with his own shrou-sheld and knocked the attack high into the air. Kyhn allowed the parry to force his sword high over Eldryn’s head. Once the blade was over Eldryn’s head, Kyhn pulled it back down and slashed back and down, cutting a deep gash in the back of Eldryn’s already wounded leg. Blood ran down his leg and pooled in his boot.
Pain fired up Eldryn’s leg again and shocked his brain into clarity. Eldryn wheeled and spurred Lance Chaser toward Kyhn as Kyhn turned to charge again. Lance Chaser’s enchanted speed again surprised Kyhn. As Kyhn turned his unnatural mount, Lance Chaser bounded forward and leapt into his broad side. Lord Kyhn had just enough time to raise the point of his sword.
Lance Chaser jumped, as if to stride right over Road Pounder. As horse and man collided, Kyhn drove his blade deep into the barding and Lance Chaser’s muscled breast. The two horses and two Great Men tumbled in a tangle of legs, armor, and blades.
Prince Ralston would never forget the day that he and his men fought alongside the high champions of Fate, Bolvii, and Silvor. Not to mention the first drow to fight in the service of Lethanor rather than against it. Bards, none of whom were present at the time, would sing of this day for ages. Ralston’s straggling and struggling army rallied to him. They were led by the lord of the land and their general against what remained of Daeriv’s mismatched infantry. They encompassed that criminal force and then waded into them without mercy.
The high champions had done their service to the paladins of their faiths. Now each swam into the clouds as they began their return to their masters that awaited them in the heavens above, beyond the River of Sleep. The high champion of Bolvii heard his master issue one final command. He turned back toward the scene and spoke to the wind. His words would have changed history and saved many from their doom. Daeriv must not reach Nolcavanor was spoken upon the breeze. However, history was the domain of Fate. Fate understood the necessity of sacrifice, and she prevented Roland from hearing Bolvii’s warning.
Sir Brutis, Sir Roland, Ungar, and Tindrakin faced the remanence of the black guard at the gates of Daeriv’s Keep. Roland drew another dagger and then he saw them.
Engiyadu stood atop the gate that led into the stone Keep some forty feet above them. Next to him stood a man that must be Daeriv himself. Roland had wondered why Daeriv had not participated in the battle more directly; utilizing what must be a multitude of powerful spells.
Now Roland had his answer. He looked upon a feeble man that had to lean on his undead bodyguard for support. By all accounts Daeriv was a mighty wizard but now he looked like little more than an invalid. Roland started for the gate but then heard Tindrakin’s call for help.
Tindrakin was surrounded by several of the black guard and he had been wounded many times. Roland had a choice to make and it was not an easy one. If he had been permitted to hear the advice of Bolvii’s champion things might have been different. However, Fate had her plan.
Roland called upon the speed of Swift Blood once again. He hurled the dagger he held into the exposed throat of one guard that was working his way around Tindrakin. Roland drew another dagger and threw it into the eye of a second. Then he started back toward his friends.
The fighting became close and bloody. The four warriors abandoned thought and reason, and relied only on reflex. Their years of hardship and training served them well that day.
Roland placed both hands on Swift Blood and engaged its enchanted haste again. His blade sliced and cut, parried and stabbed. He was only vaguely aware of his injuries and the messages of pain sent to his brain as letters of ill tidings from distant lands. Letters that, for now, remained piled within the door of his mind, unopened.
A sword slipped around the edge of his breastplate to stab deep into the muscle of his chest. Roland could feel the warmth of his own blood begin to soak the front of his shirt. Roland tried to grab the blade before his foe could twist it or thrust it deeper. Roland caught the sword as it began to fall and noticed that its wielder was no longer standing. He looked down to see Ungar’s axe blade sunk into his attacker’s hip. Ungar favored Roland with a quick smile.
“I come in below their line of sight,” Ungar shouted over the fray. “It’s an advantage you would over look, Tall Walker!” Ungar’s genuine laughter roared loudly.
Roland laughed for the first time that whole day. He pulled the sword free from his chest and hurled it hilt first at his next target. The black guard raised his sword to block the thrown weapon and the hilt struck him on his shoulder doing little damage. Roland, using not so noble a tactic, followed the thrown sword in. When the black guard raised his weapon to slap the thrown sword aside, Roland thrust the tip of Swift Blood in low. Swift Blood’s point found the separation of armor between the guard’s breastplate and his girth. The blade cut through the chain mail underneath and stabbed deep into his abdomen. Another dead foe fell at Roland’s feet.
Sir Brutis had been in many vicious fights, most of which were in service to the King of Lethanor. It was those ex
periences that gave him hope now for he was losing a lot of blood and had suffered severe burns on his face and shoulder. One of the black guard tried a cut for the gap in his armor near his knee.
Brutis saw the attack coming and knew that he had no time to parry it. He straightened his leg at the last moment, and trapped the edge of the attacker’s blade between the top of one leg greave and the bottom of the other. It was a risky move but the only one possible at the time. Sir Brutis then pivoted at the hip and swung his blade with the full force of his upper torso. The edge of Sir Brutis’ blade sheared through chain mail and the black guard’s arm was severed at the elbow. Brutis could feel the flow of blood begin at his knee and spread down his leg to gather in his boot.
Tindrakin’s thirst for revenge for his lost eye was quenched while he labored fiercely with his broad sword. The lessons he had learned from his new friends served him well. The next move was visualized in his mind. Tin baited his opponent into a thrust and, as he leaned back to parry the attack, pushed his foot forward. He managed to place his foot behind his foe’s ankle. Once his foot was firmly in place he shoved forward with his armored shin and drove the black guard’s leg back, twisting his knee in an angle not intended by The Father when he designed the human limb. It was a dirty move that Sir Roland had taught him much to Sir Eldryn’s disdain. It was a move, however, that worked quite well. He forced the knee back and twisted it outward. The black guard screamed in pain as he lost his balance and fell back toward the ground. Tindrakin wasted no time. He leapt forward and thrust the point of his sword under the chinstrap of the black steel helm the guardsman wore. The point of the blade traveled several inches into the man’s throat and jaw.
