“I do, Sire,” Gerald yelled in reply.
“Seems your line has a tendency to be in the middle of things when it counts.”
“Yes, Sire. I suppose it does at that.”
Harold laughed. “Robert’s not the only one who earned his spurs this day, but he is the one who kept my head on my shoulders.” He drew his sword and placed it on Rob’s left shoulder. “The spurs will have to wait, but I declare you knight. Arise, Sir Robert and stand in brotherhood. I may have done you no service as we may have a far worse fight to come this evening. It could be I have simply made it possible for you to die as a knight.”
“Then I will do so with all I have,” Rob said. Seeing Malig’s bent circlet on the ground, he picked it up and stood.
Harold put a hand on the new knight’s shoulder. “I’d expect nothing less from the son of Gerald Moore. That is why we still might prevail this night.” He turned to face the still gathering crowd. “Prepare for a fight. If it comes from the north, we will be ready.”
Rob offered the circlet to his king.
Harold laughed. “I have one and aim to keep mine,” he said with a tap on his helm. “That is yours, Sir Robert. A remembrance of this night, this place, and a deed well done.” Removing his helm, Harold shouted, “See what transpires on the left, tend to the wounded, and bring order to this place.”
. . .
The picture soon became more clear. Duke Philip’s forces on the left had repulsed those that attacked them, but not all was well.
“Many rode after Malig’s force in futile and foolish pursuit, Sire,” a knight reported. “An equal number of the duke’s knights seek plunder on the field. A good half of the cavalry from that division. Many others were withdrawing toward Takersly Castle with Duke Philip.”
Harold seethed for a moment. “Send word to Sir Norman. Tell him to gain control of the situation and bring what he can here.” Gesturing northward at the hole in the sky he said, “We may have another fight if the contest up there has gone poorly.”
A yell came from the southwest. Looking in that direction showed a mercenary horseman approaching at the trot, stopping near a cluster of Aratainian knights. Soon, one of the knights led him to the gathering where King Harold stood.
“Sire, this man brings an offer,” the knight said.
“And what is this offer?”
Captain’s Kelly, Price, and Hardrad offer the services of the remainder of their free companies. They know what comes from the dark and seek to stop it, King Harold.”
“And what do these captains seek for this service?”
“Nothing more than to share the line. What’s left is near three hundred in number. Three hundred able fighters who hate and fear the demons as much as any here.”
Harold thought for just a moment before replying. “Tell your captains we welcome their presence.”
The mercenary dipped his head sharply and rode off.
Less than a minute later, a scout rode in hard upon a frothed horse. She slid her mount to a stop nearby.
“They come, Sire,” she said breathlessly. “More than I could count. They near the tree line to the north.”
“It seems Sir Dech has failed,” someone said.
“As it seemed we were without support just minutes ago,” Lord Arundel replied, his left arm hanging painfully at his side. “Form a defensive line, Sire?”
“Yes. You form the right, I and Sir Oliver the center.” He took a moment to scan those near him before nodding. “Greve Moore, you and that seneschal of yours have the left. The mercenaries will form with you.”
“And what of Duke Philip’s forces?” asked Arundel.
“Tell Sir Norman to form them into a reserve force with his division. Quickly! There is little time.”
. . .
Chapter 35
Dech fell heavily and slid into a stone block while the avatar of the Lord of the Vile closed with him. Downed so many times he had long ago lost count, the warder was bruised and battered, but took solace knowing the avatar was worn as well.
Dech rolled upright and closed, his worn shield cracked and misshapen. Raging as he blocked a swinging arm with his shield, he countered with a thrust that pierced the newly formed scales on Laerdavile’s shoulder.
The two backed away and circled.
“Strong magic you carry,” the avatar said. “Quiet, but powerful it is. Not a sort I’ve encountered before, and not nearly enough to stop me.”
“Yet I am stopping you,” Dech replied.
Laerdavile’s response was just what Dech expected. Haughty as any being he had ever encountered, it took little to rile the creature and Dech’s words prompted a growl and an oxter-like cast from the Lord of the Vile that knocked the warder across the room.
Growing more enraged the longer the mortal knight opposed him, Laerdavile sought to end this vexation once and for all. Using precious reserves, he knocked the mortal down once again. Closing as fast as it could over the scattered stone blocks, Laerdavile sought to deal with the knight in the most basic fashion—rending him into small, bloody parts.
Dech landed hard and slid across the floor, his helm clanging on a block of stone, the impact hard enough to dent it the warder thought. Stunned and seeing the monster he opposed closing quickly, Dech feared his gamble might fail. Intending to compel the creature to use magic to attack rather than heal, he hoped a swift counterattack might present an opportunity to end this once and for all, but as happened so many times in this fight, the tide turned again.
Knowing he needed to rise, he saw it wasn’t likely and reached to pull himself behind a nearby stone to use it as cover. The sound of wood striking the planked floor caught his ear.
Erie’s spear! Grasping the shaft, Dech squirmed sideways to brace the end against a stone block and raised the point as the monster leaned in to bite at him, Dech directed the tip of the basilisk tail into the creature’s mouth.
Recoiling and gurgling in pain, Dech could see the point of the spear protruded from the back of Laerdavile’s neck. Coming to his feet, he charged as the monster broke the shaft and pulled the spear free.
The creature swiped at Dech, a blow he deflected with his shield sacrificing more pieces of it before stabbing Laerdavile in the chest. The monster shrieked again, its voice altered from the damage the spear caused. Kicking at the warder, Dech managed to block with his shield, but was sent tumbling once again.
Dech rose immediately, but was weary. Laerdavile stood its ground, seemingly in the same condition.
“Creator, I ask for little as it is my place to serve,” Dech said aloud as he gathered himself to go again. “Grant me what is needed to stop this evil.”
Dech could see the wounds to Laerdavile’s chest and throat close and he grimaced. The avatar strode toward Dech, growing larger as it did so.
“Pointless, mortal, this resistance,” Laerdavile said, its voice restored. “I am a being beyond your pathetic understanding and draw power from many sources. Submit and receive mercy.”
“You have none to give,” Dech snarled as he let the rage build. As exhausted as he felt, the rage rejuvenated him, but he also knew he was nearing the last of his reserves, his rage and body approaching the end of what they could give him. “I would not accept it if you did.”
“Then I will finish you and cast your soul into the—”
“Stop delaying and fight,” Dech said savagely as he strode toward the creature.
Deflecting a blow and sinking half the length of the war sword into Laerdavile’s gut, he ducked another swipe as he withdrew the weapon.
Knowing another was not long coming, he struck to his left and severed the long fingers from the monster’s right hand.
Shrieking in rage and pain, the Lord of the Vile grasped Dech at the back of his surcoat. Swinging a backhand cut at the monster’s head, the warder realized it was too late. Lifted from his feet, he was soon flying over a jumble of stone blocks and landed hard among them.
Regainin
g his senses, he knew he suffered no major injury, but with the breath knocked from him he also knew rising immediately was not possible. Hearing the Lord of the Vile hissing and groaning, he knew he had but a short respite to recover.
Dech looked at the splintered and paltry remnants of his shield and pulled it from his arm, tossing it into the shadows. Bruised and bleeding, he recalled the sword-knot snapping and coming free and knew his war sword was lost. As lost as I am, he thought bitterly. I still have my silver knife and one shin spike. They must suffice. He rolled onto his side in an effort to stand and stopped as his eyes caught the gleam of steel mere inches from his helm—the headless poll-axe and its jagged end. A bloody smile crossed his face at the sight despite his wounds and exhaustion. He wrapped his hands around the haft and sat up. Headless, but intact, it is still a weapon.
The Lord of the Vile closed, but stopped and bent to lift Dech’s sword from the floor. “The symbol of the order you serve?” it asked as it dug a malformed finger into the pommel. “Weak magic,” it mocked. Slashing downward, the sword broke against one of the displaced blocks from the tower’s wall.
Dech stood knowing this would be the last exchange between them. He took a fighting stance, the poll-axe haft in hand. “No more talking, demon. It is time one of us dies.”
“I am a god!” Laerdavile bellowed as he tossed the sword remnants away. “I do not die.”
The creature did not cast any form of spell or sign and Dech knew this meant the creature had healed but was as drained of reserves as he was.
Dech let the rage flow through him like never before, his hands prickling and eyes blurring as images of a battle contested in a raging downpour flooded his vision, a battle he had never fought. The ground was covered with dead beings clad in armor, humans, dwarves, elves, gnomes, and other races, all felled in a desperate struggle to end a Cataclysm. More beings scrambled over the bodies, wielding arms to slay what Dech somehow knew was the avatar of the Lord of the Vile. In what seemed to be his own hands was a poll-axe that was exactly the same as the weapon with which he had wounded Laerdavile in the tower. Dech realized he was seeing through the eyes of a warrior long past, seeing as if the vision was his own.
The man with the poll-axe charged alongside dozens of others toward a monster twice as large as the creature Dech’s band fought, the ground near it strewn with the forms of demonic bodies. The avatar fought from its knees, grievously wounded with two ballista missiles protruding from its torso, but still killing in droves. A red flash of light cut steaming through the rain and downed those near the man, but still he attacked.
A blast of burning coals flashed from the monster’s hand and the man fell. Rising and staggering, he closed as Laerdavile lowered its head to heal. A ballista missile speared its chest and the Lord of the Vile fell, but it pushed itself up enough to direct a scorching beam at the source of this latest wound.
A look from the wounded poll-axe wielder showed the heavy weapon and its crew afire. Returning his gaze to Laerdavile, the man pressed on. As the monster struggled to rise, the man approached from behind to raise the poll-axe and bring it down on the back of its skull, a flash of green bursting at the impact.
The Lord of the Vile’s avatar slumped to the ground as the man fell. Rain pelted the man as he fought to stand. Failing, he rolled onto his side and cradled the poll-axe in his arms, green light glowing from a small fissure in the haft before fading out. The man closed his eyes and Dech found himself glaring at the current avatar once again, knowing now why the poll-axe broke.
Heartened by the vision, Dech smiled cruelly within his helm. “Perhaps you cannot die. Expulsion will do. I’ll trade me for your absence if necessary. Time for you to depart this realm.” Keeping a grasp on his mind as the rage tried to overwhelm his control, Dech charged, a burning beam from Laerdavile’s hand flared at him and with no shield to fend it off, the beam gashed a line across his chest, melting iron and scorching cloth as it damaged his surcoat, hauberk, and gambeson, the sharp smell of burning iron and human flesh biting his senses. Surprised to find himself intact, he closed, dropping to the floor to avoid a swipe of the creature’s healed and transformed hand now sporting claws as the avatar continued to grow. Rolling, he came to his knees and stabbed the jagged end of the haft into the creature’s left leg, eliciting a deafening, raging shriek as the wound glowed with green effervescence.
Dech stood and swung the poll-axe haft to meet a swiping arm, the impact jarring him, but stopping the blow, the point of impact glowing green. Pivoting, he repeated the process against a strike from Laerdavile’s left before throwing a round kick at the monster’s right knee. Hearing the crush of bone and another pained cry as the silver spike in his shin guard drove deep, the warder pulled free and pounded at the avatar’s arms once again. Staggered, Laerdavile retreated awkwardly, but Dech gave it no respite and bellowing a rage-fueled shout, brought a sledgehammer blow down onto its head, toppling the creature onto its back, the air alight and sparkling with green particles.
Leaping over flailing legs, the warder straddled his opponent’s neck and drove the jagged end of the haft into Laerdavile’s throat. “Not so useless after all, is it,” Dech growled in a savage voice as the avatar struggled ineffectually against Dech’s full strength. A cloud of dark objects burst from the avatar’s ears and nostrils like a plague of locusts that stormed around and past Dech as the red eyes of the monster burned with hatred.
“What manner of creature are you?” the disembodied voice of Laerdavile said.
“A humble knight, nothing more,” Dech yelled over the horrific sounds that filled the space.
“Then die, mortal,” Laerdavile gurgled.
A roaring red blast filled the warder’s vision as the sensation of motion told him he was flying across the interior of the tower once again. He heard the sound of jarring impact, feeling nothing, but knew he had landed heavily. Seeing the remnants of the low wall of stone at the edge of the raised area, he knew where his resting place was. The last of his rage guttered out and with it went consciousness.
. . .
Leaders moved up and down the Aratainian line making last minute adjustments to the disposition of their charges.
From the tree line stepped dark shapes. A dozen here and there followed by more every second. Soon they organized and advanced, thousands in their ranks. Even the most resolute knights grimaced in fear at the sight. As the force flowed across the field, a great rushing sound drowned out all others. The swirling orifice above the forest distorted and pulsed like an organism under attack. A pained shriek came from the demonic mass as they slowed and then stopped just beyond arrow range. A few fell to the ground and then more. As if a wave washed over them, nearly all of the remainder went down and the anguished cries grew deafening even over the rushing sound. Those creatures still standing panicked, most fleeing for the tree line, but those foolish or mindless enough to run toward Harold’s army were soon turned into porcupines festooned with the shafts of arrows.
The orifice flashed and compressed into a slit of angry red, spouting smoke as the rushing took on the groaning sound of wood timbers under stress. With another flash, the minions of the Underealm twitched in spasm, bursting into dark red flame and acrid brown smoke. Within seconds, the fire was gone and like a cloud of insects, the brown residue drew up into the sky and with alarming speed disappeared into the distant and dwindling orifice. As the last of the smoke ascended from sight, the slit flashed once more and was gone with the sound of a receding thunderclap.
The force around King Harold looked at the clearing sky in silence, a silence that lasted for several seconds.
“It’s over,” a relieved voice called. “It’s over.”
A cheer sounded, followed soon by hundreds and then thousands echoing it.
As the force celebrated, Lord Arundel approached King Harold, his wounded arm now in a sling. He placed his functioning hand on his king’s shoulder. “I do not know how, but you did it, Sire.”
“And what is that truth, Sire?” Gerald asked. “What brought low the Underealm force?”
“The Creator,” someone in the crowd said. “Or was it something else?”
“And what of the Warder?” Robert asked.
“I would think it might be both,” Allan said with a smile. “Though my presence here certainly helped.”
Harold laughed. “Upon this field lies enough glory to cover a force three times of that which stands here now. Somewhere to our north is a group that deserves a great deal of that glory. Their survival remains the question.”
“Should we mount a pursuit of Malig, Sire?” Sir Oliver asked in a tight voice, the pains of his wounds obviously taking their toll on him.
“We should,” Arundel said, “but is there a single horse not spent? And consider our proximity to Nevar. I think a pursuit is beyond us just now.”
“See to the wounded, Gilbert, and then see that you and Oliver have your hurts tended to as well.” Harold said. “There are no doubt many scattered across the field. Not a one shall be abandoned. Not a one. I’ll not have either of you downed by sepsis. Not after a night such as this.”
“And what of Sir Dech?” Oliver managed.
“We’ll send horsemen north as soon as possible.” Looking over those standing nearby, he pointed. “Sir Allan Fairdale, see to it. Depart as soon as you can, but until then, let us pray he and his still live.”
. . .
Dissy and Mayhaps had done everything they could for Granum and Erie. Granum awoke at one point and placed a hand on Josip. Leaving the hand there for half a minute, Adelbert’s mouth twitched with a smile and said, “That will do for now,” before he closed his eyes again.
Mayhaps made his way to the southern part of the fortification and recovered three pieces of baggage the group had left. Using blankets they had brought with them, they covered the wounded men.
The Warder Page 53
