The Warder

by D K Williamson

  “Two wards!” Granum yelled. “Olk had two wards in place. One to mask himself from Laerdavile, the other to hide what occurs at the Font of Glaes.”

  “Demonic spirits amass on the Flint Plane,” Dealan said. “Enough that might cause great harm.”

  “He thought bringing the Lord of the Vile here preferable to hiding whatever his other plot is?” Mayhaps said.

  “Yes!” Granum replied. “Do you not see? He seeks to destroy the Font of Glaes. Without it, most mages lose the majority of their casting potential.”

  “By doing so Mirkness becomes a dominant magical force,” Dealan added.

  “No longer, though I favor his endeavor.” Laerdavile laughed with a grating, heaving sound. Seeing the spear on the planking, Dech dropped his sword and made a dash for it. Swiping it cleanly, he shoulder-rolled as the monster directed an oxter-like cast his way. The force brushed his legs hard enough to unbalance him, prompting Dech to roll again as his comrades sent grief at Laerdavile.

  Turning to fend off the attacks, now including rocks thrown with precision by Josip Erie, the Lord of the Vile diverted his attention from Dech. Seeing the opportunity to strike, Dech charged. Letting his shield hang from his left forearm, he grasped the spear shaft in both hands.

  Realizing Dech’s intent, both mages cast ice field spells aimed at the monster’s head. Ice soon coated its face and Dech drove the spear home, the head driving deep into the creature’s gut.

  The Lord of the Vile let out a shriek that shattered the ice. Swiping at Dech with a clawed hand, the warder had barely enough time to raise his shield to deflect it. Even so, the blow sent him sliding across the floor.

  Pulling the spear free with a grunt, Laerdavile crushed the shaft and pitched the broken remains over his shoulder as dark fluids flowed from the deep wound. Despite the injury, the Lord of the Vile showed no sign of departing.

  “Whatever enchantments Mirkness had on the spear must have ceased upon his death,” Granum yelled as Dech slid the strap holding the poll-axe from his shoulder. “Yes! That’s a splendid idea,” Granum said encouragingly.

  . . .

  Mages on or near the battlefield sensed the threat to the Font of Glaes as soon as the powerful ward Mirkness held went down. Supporting Harold or Malig suddenly meant little when facing the prospect of losing their casting abilities.

  Knowing the threat, those mages capable of projecting to other planes realized they must do so as soon as possible. One mage with this ability was Muriel Durham. Despite a shortage of healers given the number of wounded, she knew it was a necessity she go.

  “Without the Font of Glaes, we cannot heal the wounded. Those that aid the fighters with destructive spells and signs will be powerless as well. Those of us that can defend the Font must, and we must do so now,” she said when someone raised an objection to her departure.

  . . .

  Robert Moore rode out to guard the healers once again. Joining the same trio of wagons as before, he noted Muriel was not with them.

  “She was called for something else, lad,” came the answer when he inquired. “In the rear so safer than where we go. It be mage work, so no worries.”

  The wagons went north where it was said bitter fighting continued to rage. Knowing King Harold and his household knights were there, Rob hoped he might hear news of how his father and Allan were faring.

  The field of battle did not look at all the way Rob imagined one would. The squared formations and streaming tapered pennons above gleaming knights told of in tales never lasted once battle commenced, this much he knew. What he saw now resembled the tales in no fashion at all. Choked with smoke and rising fog, the air was thick and uncomfortably close enough to make locating where the sounds of battle came from difficult. The ground was soft, turned over by hooves and boots, littered with bodies, and lost or discarded gear, clothing, and weapons.

  While the healers loaded wounded aboard the wagons, Rob and his comrades directed those injured but still walking to the places of aid and kept those seeking to interfere away. They learned the battle was close enough to harm them when a few arrows landed among their numbers. Whether the projectiles were directed at them or not, the healers doused the fist-sized wisps that lit their work and made haste to depart.

  Seeing movement at the edge of visual range, the healers asked some of their escorts to scout the course ahead. The other guards rode out a distance to provide an early warning should threats come their way.

  Hoping to find someone with knowledge of the battle, Rob rode north a distance and stood watch. No sooner had he stopped, loud cries sounded from the northwest followed by murky shadows indicating movement. Ready to ride if necessary, he watched intently.

  . . .

  The Lord of the Vile lowered its head, a barring shield shimmering around it, the spear wound ceased leaking and as Dech looked on, the ragged opening began closing.

  “It’s healing itself,” Dech yelled and he took a step toward the creature.

  “Hold,” Dealan called.

  Dech stopped and looked at his comrades on the raised stonework. Dissy and Mayhaps stood ready with bow and arbalest, Josip prepared with a round stone. Nodding at one another, the two mages spoke in quiet tones with raised hands. Granum acted first, throwing his hands toward Laerdavile until his elbows locked. As he cast, Dealan brought her hands forward as well.

  An invisible and jarring force rocked the Lord of the Vile, deforming the bar field and shaking the floor. On the heels of this, a gaseous, foggy ray streaked from Dealan to the bar and burst into a cloud of fine crystals that dissipated quickly to reveal a patch of blue ice surrounding a hole in the bar field. Protruding from Laerdavile’s side was a supercooled plug of ice, the result of a rime bolt spell.

  The attack staggered the creature and it dropped the field, the ice patch falling to the floor as a single piece and shattering like glass. An arrow and bolt buried themselves into the monster’s chest followed by a rock that bounded off its snout. Enraged, the Lord of the Vile cast a cloud of black ash and flame at the five.

  As they ducked, Dech charged. Not forgetting the warder, Laerdavile turned and slashed the air with sharp claws. Ducking under the blow, he rose and hooked a round kick at the creature’s right leg, the silver shin spike driving into its thigh. Dech felt the spike burrow into something tough like bone or cartilage. Knowing it would be difficult to extract and lethal if he could not, the warder pulled away with vigor and found the spike pulled free from his shin guard cleanly, exactly as Phidias hoped.

  The silver acted within Laerdavile as it did in many monsters and it shrieked again. Dech wasted no time and swung the poll-axe, the blade biting into the left side of the creature. Slicing deep, a small yet brilliant flash of green light came from the wound and Dech found he held a jagged and headless haft in his hands. The Lord of the Vile fell and as it struck the floor, a ripping sound and red light engulfed the warder and hurled him across the tower.

  Dech landed heavily, his breath driven from him. Stunned, but not senseless, he could hear the ripping sound grow louder and see red light flashing erratically on the walls. Standing, he strode toward the deteriorating form of Laerdavile seeking his discarded sword. He stopped after just a few steps. Red lights flared from the face of the downed monster, its body peeling like the ashen remnants of a burning book. Suddenly, the entire body glowed red and the energy emanating from it coalesced into a beam flowing onto the contorted body of Olk Mirkness.

  “Seek cover,” Granum yelled. “A great deal of power is at play. It’s nothing you want to be near if it is released at once.”

  Nodding, Dech moved up the incline to join the others behind the wall. “I was hoping to retrieve my sword,” he said as he crouched.

  Mayhaps slipped free the belt he had over his shoulder and grasped the scabbard holding the war sword he had borrowed. “Here you—”

  The ripping sound became a horrific roar as the red light diminished. Looking over the low wall, the six could
see the red energy emanating from the Lord of the Vile’s remains now burned in a blindingly bright fashion.

  Dech stood and saw Granum looking at him. Waving his hand in a downward motion, the scholar said, “It will not work, the idea you had. You cannot stop what is happening. Close proximity to that energy would be fatal. We must now defeat the avatar of the Lord of the Vile. I feel confident that is what Laerdavile now raises.”

  “Fleeing is out of the question?” Mayhaps shouted.

  “Perhaps you missed all those creatures outside?” Erie replied.

  “I lost the poll-axe when I was pitched across the floor. Even if I had held on, it broke when I struck Laerdavile,” Dech said to Granum. “Can we inflict enough damage to defeat it without such a weapon?”

  “Yes, but we must move swiftly,” Granum said. “The avatar will morph into a being much like the one we fought, but larger. So say the accounts we have.”

  “You’ll need this then,” Mayhaps said as he tossed the scabbarded war sword.

  “The abbess and I can add some enhancements to your weapon. Your armor and shield as well. We have a chance,” Granum said encouragingly.

  “How slim?” Diz yelled.

  “Better than zero,” Dealan replied. “But not by much.”

  Dissy snarled in determination. “It will do.”

  . . .

  Chapter 33

  Malig led his force north and found the demonic horde in battle with what he assumed was the Aratainian cavalry force that had departed Harold’s right earlier. The knights at the right end of Malig’s line wheeled east. Seeing this Malig cursed. He soon saw why.

  Horsemen from Harold’s army pursued a Malig unit of foot through the smoke, and upon seeing enemy cavalry beyond the foot troops, sought to charge the flank. Knowing those of his force must face the oncoming threat Malig cursed again and ordered the rest to close with the infernals, the place where he still believed he would find Harold.

  “It’s the household banner, the household banner!” a voice cried. “Not the king’s standard!”

  Looking northward, Malig saw the caller was correct. Ahead, above most of the other banners, pennons and gonfalons was the banner of Harold’s household knights, but nowhere within the chaos of battle waved Harold’s own standard. Sporting the same crimson clenched fist symbol of House Tancar without the embellishments Harold’s own standard carried.

  “Damn all!” Malig barked as he realized the demons sought and found the fist emblem while ignoring the various other kinds of display devices presented on the example he’d shown to Buryel. “He’s not here. All but my personal guard force will turn and aid those that were on our right. Send two men to gather those of my household knights that are scattered. Bring them up and get them in the fight as soon as possible. We ride east and seek my brother.”

  Malig waited for a confirmation before he spurred his horse and rode past the roiling fight deeper into Harold’s lines.

  . . .

  Gerald felt a hard blow on his right side, not damaging but concerning enough to spare a look. What he found was a demon with a bisected head staggering and falling as Allan drew near.

  “That’s it, Gerald,” Allan shouted merrily. “Just charge ahead with not a worry about your flanks.”

  Gerald tapped his helm with the flat of his sword. “So long as you are there, I’ll not worry a bit.” Seeing how close to the northern flank of the Aratainian their battle had carried them, Gerald stood in his stirrups and shouted, “We must turn them. Drive them west!”

  “You heard the man. West, west and clear of our own line,” Allan bellowed as those near them formed up for another attack and repeated the order.

  “Drive them! Drive them back to the Underealm,” Oliver growled. Despite his wounds, he still fought as savagely as any of the infernal creatures.

  With Gerald, Allan, and Oliver at the center, the knights formed and drove into the horde once again.

  . . .

  Rob and his comrades found themselves guarding another trio of wagons recovering wounded from the battle. The conflict on the right was impossible to follow, or so Robert thought. A small force of Malig’s knights had galloped past them less than fifty paces away at one point, but either didn’t see them or didn’t care to attack healers.

  Once again standing watch as the healers lifted casualties into the wagons, the sound of horses and knights actively engaging in combat grew louder by the second. Looking to the northwest, he saw a mass moving through the clouded air. At first he thought them to be horses, but soon realized they were something entirely different—demons from the Underealm!

  He lifted his reins to ride and warn the healers and his comrades of the threat, but stopped when he saw a line of Aratainian knights turning the horde west. At the center was the banner of King Harold’s household knights and Rob saw the surcoat that adorned the knight carrying it. Standing in his stirrups, Rob looked on and watched his father and Allan lead the host of knights as they beat their opponents across the field, leaving dead and dying infernals in their wake.

  Awed at their skill, Robert Moore swelled with pride. Tempted to dash across the field and join them, he refrained knowing he had a duty of his own.

  The sound of a closing horse diverted his attention. Looking over his left shoulder, he saw a member of Harold’s personal guard. Slowing to a stop, the knight dipped his head in greeting.

  “Are you with the healers?” he asked.

  “I am,” Rob said with a nod.

  “Best tell them to move east. The fight is a blessed mess and part of it comes this way.”

  “I will do so.”

  “Should you cross paths with any idle forces, send them here. Sir Oliver’s group is on their way to routing the demons. Even so, a battle still hangs in the balance.”

  “I will,” Rob replied.

  The knight touched his helm in parting and rode on.

  Looking northwest, Rob found those fighting with the infernal forces had ridden from sight though the sounds of their combat still carried to Rob’s position.

  Rob wheeled his mount and rode for the wagons. On the way, he saw bill-men falling back and a sizable force of knights ride past. Seeing the standard, Rob realized it was King Harold. The horsemen slowed as if they sought something but could not locate it. Knowing he had a duty, he spurred his horse and rode to relay the message.

  Finding the wagons just getting underway, Rob repeated what the knight had said.

  “Best we make haste,” the wagoner replied.

  When he and his comrades returned, they learned Baldwin took the most experienced men-at-arms to aid Harold with orders the rest guard the baggage train and wounded. “A night battle is no place for neophytes. Guard the train and the wounded,” Baldwin had said. “If the battle finds its way this far, have the wagoners get moving. Send me word if it does occur.”

  The fighting was close now and a debate over whether to alert Baldwin or not raged among those there. Rob took matters into his own hands.

  “I’ll find Sir Baldwin. Have the wagons ready to roll if he gives the order,” he said before he rode west again.

  The knights he had seen just minutes before had moved north and charged into a pitched battle, King Harold and his guard force in the thick of it. Rob looked for Baldwin, but knew he would never find him in the smoke and chaos. A few of those fighting alongside Harold’s men peeled away from the fight. Not appearing wounded, Rob wondered why considering what the knight had said. Shortly after, another bunch followed suit. Seeing the banner of Malig’s household in the battle brought a grimace to the young man’s face. They fear Malig? Cowardice? They flee when their king most needs them? he thought with revulsion.

  Tempted to join the fight, it dawned on him that one inexperienced man-at-arms was not likely to make a difference. Wondering if he could possibly reach his father that he might alert them to the threat to the king, but not knowing where they were and with time seeming to be a factor, he knew something need
ed to be done.

  “I cannot just sit here,” he muttered to himself. “I fear King Harold will need aid and soon.” Smiling after thinking about the problem, he said, “The knight asked for idle forces… I know where I might find some.”

  . . .

  Dech removed his sword belt and the scabbard affixed to it and replaced it with the simple belt Mayhaps used to sling the war sword over his shoulder during the journey from Cruxford. Placing his sheathed silver knife on the belt was the only addition. Free of a scabbard at his left hip, Dech need not worry of it impeding him. A simple loop of leather on the hilt called a sword knot would secure the weapon once it was around his right wrist.

  Once the two mages completed their hurried work on Dech’s armor, shield, and sword, Granum said, “Our work will not last forever and I used as many enchantments drawing from sources other than the Font as I know… just in case.”

  Dealan nodded. “We warded against infernal magics, but that creature is certain to cast signs and spells we have never encountered. Try to avoid as best you can.”

  Dech smiled. “Sound advice. Will the avatar heal as quickly as the Lord of the Vile himself?”

  “Itself,” Granum corrected. “The accounts of past Cataclysms say yes. We must coordinate our attacks to maximize damage to him… it.”

  Dech nodded. Looking at Dissy and Mayhaps, he asked, “How is the projectile supply?”

  “I have nearly a full sheave, nineteen arrows,” Dissy said.

  “Eight bolts,” came Bard’s answer.

  “I’ve a few dozen pieces of stone,” Erie said. “I’ll be aiming for his eyes.”

  “It, thief,” Mayhaps said.

  “Right, bard. I’ll save a few rocks for you.”

  “I have my lute to employ when the bolts are shot.”

  “And just what do you have in mind?”

  “You’ll see. Who knows, it just might work.”