In the antechamber, Niels glanced toward Gathelaus.
The guard took advantage of the sudden chaos shouting, “What now little man!?! Drop your bow and bolt that door! Before the Vamphyr escapes and kills us all!”
Niels looked for the mute slave girl, but she had vanished. “You do it.” The wily guard winked and made as if to comply. As Niels bow slightly relaxed the guard dodged hard left and slapped the lamp from the wall casting the antechamber and surrounding cells into a palpable sea of darkness. Fists hammered at Niels and he lost his bow in the scuffle.
Blind and drowning for air Gathelaus reeled back, scrambling at his belt for a knife in the thick gloom. A swift blow sent him flying against the flagstones.
The Vamphyr reached and took Gathelaus's bull neck in its talons, lifting the much larger man easily. “Why fight? We do not...play...with our meals,” she rasped.
Unseen a table smashed beside Niels. Then a heavy kick sent him to the ground where he instinctively rolled avoiding the clang of steel on stone where he had just been.
“You’re a quick dog,” muttered the Khanzi. “But the Vamphyr will sniff you out.”
Boot steps ran down the hall, but not so swiftly that Niels couldn't follow. Pulling two arrows from his quiver in each hand, Niels deftly leapt and sunk the arrowheads in deep before the mustachioed guard knew what hit him. Sure, his foe was dead, Niels then felt along the wall looking for the fallen lamp. Somewhere behind, Niels heard his friend losing to the Vamphyr.
A warm faintness gripped Gathelaus. Air fled from his lungs and soon he knew he would be but a meal. With what glimmer of strength remained he kicked at the Vamphyr's head. He felt the crunch and was abruptly dropped.
The Vamphyr raged but did not immediately attack.
A pungent smell hit Gathelaus's nostrils and a light shone in the darkness. The mute girl had returned with an oil lamp and a wreath of the garland from outside the dungeon.
Snarling, the Vamphyr retreated to a corner of her cell. “Away...away...away,” she hissed.
Niels retrieved his bow and advanced to assault the cowering monster.
“Wait,” ordered Gathelaus taking the wreath from the mute girl. “Vamphyr, what do you know of my wife, Arianna, a noble Northman lady. Speak or I'll strangle you with this.” He thrust the aromatic wreath at the Vamphyr who recoiled as tears of blood welled and streamed from its glowing eyes.
He persisted, dangling the wreath from his now recovered sword.
“I never knew such a creature truly existed,” Niels intoned. “Or that the legendary wards actually worked.”
“Some do, some don't. Speak demon-spawn!”
The Vamphyr wiped its scarlet eyes and grimacing asked, “If I tell...what I know...I live?”
Gathelaus nodded as the mute girl inaudibly gasped. Niels shook his head, “You can't promise that.”
“A Northman...keeps their...word...alway'sss,” hissed the Vamphyr.
“I swear.”
“No! Not even for your wife. This thing will track us and slay us in our sleep, days, even weeks from now. The legends say a Vamphyr never forgives.”
The Vamphyr gave a cruel smile even while cringing in pain from the wreaths very presence.
“Trust me, Niels.”
The Vamphyr hissed again. “Your word...the solemn oath...of your kind, filthy...Northman!” She spit the last word as if it burned her tongue.
Gathelaus made the sacred sign of the Northmen saying, “I swear by Votan the All-Father to let you live tonight. And now you will tell me what you know of my sister.”
“The Lady Arianna...may yet live. She was taken...to the tower...at the top...only hours ago...for the...'Tabulon Vyrking'. The black stars of Boha-Annu are right...but not much longer. The Mad Emperor...will break a seal...opens a door...a gate...with the setting...of the moon! He hopes...to let...the Daemon's...in.”
“You’re the daemon,” shot Niels.
Gathelaus held a hand up keeping his friend back. He stared a long cold moment at the Vamphyr, finger twitching upon his pommel.
“Your...word...Northman!”
“I give you my word,” said Gathelaus begrudgingly.
Niels acted as if he might break his invisible chain and launch himself sword in hand at the dark creature.
“To the tower,” said Gathelaus wheeling about and ushering Niels ahead of himself.
“We’ve got to open the gates for Two-Toes, Hardy, Topper and the rest of the Ninth. They must be wondering if we’ve succeeded by now. And we can’t leave that thing at our backs,” Niels argued.
Gathelaus shut the cell door, stuffing the wreath into the barred window.
“NO! Your word! Filthy Northman!” screeched the Vamphyr through a haze of bloody tears.
“You are spared. That wreath won't kill you, but you deserve all the pain that you can get.”
“You're wrong...Northman! They...made me...this way. Let me out...I'll help you...get your...revenge. You need...my help. There are...too many for you...and even for...all your men...outside.”
Niels blinked. “How can she know that?”
The mute slave girl tugged on Gathelaus's arm struggling to get him to abandon the Vamphyr to her dungeon, but the brooding North-man paused.
“Gathelaus, are you enchanted?”
“I have...no quarrel...with you...Northman. I despise...the Khanzi sorcerers...more. You...need...me.”
“I think she enchanted him.”
“You...need...me.”
“Niels, she's right.”
“No, she's not.” Niels shook his head. “You are enchanted.”
Gathelaus scowled, “Shut up.” He rubbed his scruffy jaw a moment then strode back to the door and tore the wreath from the window.
“No! You can't! Not that thing!”
Gathelaus opened the door and tossed the wreath to the mute girl. “The both of you see about opening the gate for the Ninth.”
The Vamphyr stepped out with yet a few bloody tears at her eyes. In the lamplight they could finally see her sharp cheekbones and long hair the color of starless midnight. She might have been beautiful...once.
Niels and the mute slave girl backed away to the stairs. “Daemon thing probably doesn't even have a name.”
“It...was...Raven.”
“Open the gate,” Gathelaus ordered, “the two of us are going to the top of the Roost to break the daemons gate!”
Chapter 3: The Daemon's Gate
Breaks down the doors, but Arianna is dead. The Khanzi sorcerer is summoning an anti-god and breaches the veil between worlds.
Lex hereticus and the dark Kohort.
One day earlier…
The Usurper 10. Day Of The Lion
Seizing the crown from Forlock. Month of the Demon, Week of the Rat, Day of the Toad
On the morning of the auspicious Day of the Lion, during the Week of the Rat and during the Month of the Demon, and while the battle raged terribly on the east side, blue-coated troopers marched double-time in twin rows of a hundred men apiece upon the wooden planks of the bridge toward the southern Wells Gate of Hellainik.
A mounted knight astride a glorious charger rode at the front of them, sunlight gleaming upon his silver plate armor. A herald strode behind him, bearing the black bear on a green field, his personal banner, marking him as General Beinar.
He led his men over the bridge as if he owned the place and ignored the initial shouts of men from the gatehouse until he was right beneath them. “Open these gates!” he shouted imperiously.
“Who are you to come knocking when we are under siege?” answered one of the men-at-arms.
“Fool! I am General Beinar! You know me! I was sent to Danelaw by the traitor Roose and have just returned. Open this gate that I may speak to commanders Sarvan and the king himself!”
“Sarvan won’t be up to speaking to anyone for a while,” said one.
“You got here sooner than we were told to expect you,” said another.
Beinar shouted, “My king needed me, and I flew. Open up I say.”
Another man-at-arms shouted, “If you’re one of our general’s why ain’t you fighting the Usurpers army, eh?”
Beinar spoke with a cultured accent, rich in elite cynicism and disdain for the common soldier. “Imbecile! You can see very well that I have but two centuries of men, I can hardly take the field against the traitors thousands, but I can man the walls and whip your backside while I’m at it for insubordination! Fetch your commander if you must, but let me in!”
One of the men-at-arms, found a spyglass and examined Beinar and then looked over his men. Their uniforms were reasonably clean, with some traces of mud across the lower portions of their cloaks and tabards. But they weren’t torn or bloody. These men were clean shaven, as all the royal troops were required to be. All in all, they looked like an average company of Vjornish fighting men.
A wing of the Usurper’s forces must have noticed the blue cloaked men upon the bridge, riders were coming fast, and good number of footmen and archers were running as fast as they could behind.
“Look at that, you witless peasant!” shouted Beinar, “My men and I will be slaughtered on this bridge if you don’t let us in and hurry!”
“Maybe you should turn and fight, your lordship,” taunted one of the men-at-arms above.
The blue coated men were pushing forward antsy to get inside the city walls before the Usurper’s forces could tear into them. They pressed closer and Beinar, had to steady his horse as he was close to being knocked into the moat.
“Open this gate, I say!” shouted Beinar, “or you will be tortured most heinously, if the enemy slays even one of my men!”
An older mustachioed officer came and looked over the ramparts. He saw Beinar’s men crowding on the bridge and the charging army of the Usurper. “Gods of the North! Lower the drawbridge and be quick about it, we can’t let our men be slaughtered!” he shouted as he took off his cap and started hitting the mouthy man-at-arms with it. “A thousand pardons general Beinar, we’ll get you in. Just hurry!”
The drawbridge came slamming down at a dangerous pace and hit the bridge hard enough, that some of the wood cracked. Beinar motioned for his men to run. He stood in the stirrups of his horse like an island of silver steel in a blue river of men shouting! “Run lads! Run for your lives! They’ll be no mercy for that bloody crew!”
The blue-coated soldiers raced inside the city walls of Hellainik, plowing past the men-at-arms who watched slack-jawed as the Usurper’s forces came racing over the green fields.
“Run! Run like the devil is on you because he sure as hell is!” shouted Beinar.
The charging cavalry were almost to the bridge. The last of Beinar’s men were on the drawbridge and getting inside the walls of the city.
Beinar drew his sword and wheeled his horse on the bridge to face the enemy. He shouted at the Usurper’s forces, “Come no closer, or I’ll slay every living one of you!” He then turned and hurried through the gate as the portcullis was slammed down and the drawbridge was raised.
Not one of the Usurpers men attempted to step foot on the bridge or get within bowshot of the defenders upon the ramparts. They soon turned about and raced back to the east gates where the bulk of the siege had been so far.
Many folk along the walls saw this confrontation and the apparent fear of the royal blue guardsmen at the sight of the barbarian Usurper’s forces and it became a matter of ridicule for some time afterward.
***
The column of royal soldiers moved inside and continued on past the small courtyard of the Wells Gate. General Beinar astride his horse was the final man entering as the portcullis slammed down behind him and the drawbridge was raised by the men above.
The older mustachioed officer who had ordered the gates to be opened, was hurrying down the steep set of stairs beside the gate. “A thousand pardons, general Beinar. I beg your forgiveness. I’ll have the men flogged for their insolence!” he shouted, holding his hat in his hands.
The column of Beinar’s blue cloaked soldiers did not assemble in the courtyard nor even halt their march heading in the direction of the palace. Other folk of the city and the handful of defenders rapidly moved out of their way.
Beinar on horseback, had his visor down, whereas outside the city, it had been open so that he could shout at the men on the wall. “Do whatever you think best,” he answered the officer. “These dozen men of mine are most trustworthy and capable. They shall bolster your defenses here. Do your duty, captain Niels,” he said before wheeling his mount away and riding after his swiftly moving column.
The old officer wiped the trickles of sweat from his brow and stared wonderingly after the vanishing general.
The dozen blue cloaked warriors went up the stairs to take their place along the gatehouse. Their commander, Captain Niels nodded to the older officer. “We are here to help or relieve you. Your choice.”
“That’s not terribly orthodox,” said the old man.
“These are strange times,” replied Niels.
The old man called out, “That they are. All right lads, most of you go and take your leave but be back after the nights watch in the morning.”
Most of the men were only to happy to be relieved and hurried down the stairs and away, only a few lingered.
Once there was some distance between where the new commander Niels could overhear things on of the suspicious ones approached the old captain. “What is it Captain?” asked a young man-at-arms beside him. “Something troubles you about this?”
The old man pulled on his long mustache and put his steel cap back on. “Either that was the most forgiving I have ever seen general Beinar, or that was not him.”
“Should we do something?”
“What?” replied the old man. “Either we would get flogged by Beinar for interfering, or we wait and see what transpires with this whole bloody revolution.”
Realization flooded over the young soldier’s face. “You think that could have been?”
“Hush boy.”
“But if it fails, there will be questions as to who let them in,” said the man-at-arms.
The old man nodded. “Then it’s on me. You saw the notes that have been floating around the last couple days. Maybe we would be better off with a change. I’ll take the chance.”
“And these royal guardsmen who are taking our place on the gatehouse?”
“We let them do whatever they will. You best go, this could get bloody,” replied the old captain.
***
Beinar rode to the forefront of his marching column. They hurried down the main thoroughfare leading to the palace of the king. Folk moved out of their way, fearful of doing anything that might seem a hinderance to the well-armed company.
If one were to look closely, they might have noticed that while many of the men carried the standard weapons of a Vjornish royal fighting force, some here and there had personalized weapons, a bearded axe at their belt, a woodsman’s hunting bow and quiver, a katana and wakizashi, even a poleaxe or two. Even the commanding knight Beinar carried a Pictish tomahawk at his belt, somewhat concealed by his flowing cape, for Beinar was none other than Gathelaus.
They approached the arched gate of the palace. The portcullis was down, and two royal guards stood outside.
Riding up to them, Gathelaus posing as Beinar said, “I am general Beinar and I would see the gates opened, I have much to report to my lord and king. Is general Sarvan inside?”
One of the two shouted to other guards behind, “Open the gates.”
But the other eyed the masked by his visor general Beinar suspiciously. “Wait. Why do you shield your face lord? I do not recognize your voice either.”
“You know me?” asked Gathelaus.
“I do and I have never seen general Beinar act as you do now, sir,” he said the last with menace and accusation.
The other guardsman was taken aback and glanced at the guardsmen inside, who in turn had halted th
eir work at opening the portcullis.
Opening the visor on his helm, Gathelaus said, “Open this gate, or I’ll take your head. Better?”
The suspicious guardsmen, nodded, held his spear at the ready and shouted, “We’re under siege!”
Gathelaus drew his sword and plunged toward the man atop his horse. The sudden ruckus forced the other guardsman to dash aside, where he was in turn stabbed by one of Gathelaus’s advancing men.
The suspicious guardsmen attempted a sturdy defense with his brazen spear but had trouble bringing it to be bear against the charging horseman. He crashed back against the wall, narrowly avoiding the horses raised hooves. But Gathelaus’s sword found his neck and the bit through mail and flesh alike. Blood splattered red across the white stucco walls of the palace.
Gathelaus shouted at the stunned guardsman watching from behind the portcullis. “Open this gate and you shall live. If I have to come in after you, you’re dead as he is.”
The stunned guardsman looked wide-eyed at the Usurper atop the rearing charger with a dripping red blade then sprinted away crying the alarm.
“Now what?” asked Thorne.
“Get over the wall right away before its manned!” shouted Gathelaus. “You know what to do!”
Twelve of Gathelaus’s blue-cloaked soldiers drew ropes and grappling hooks from beneath their kit and flung them over the wall. The low crenulated parapet was perfect for the hooks and the men pulled in earnest to be sure of their purchase. To a man, the dozen of them scaled the wall with all due haste. Others with bows watched them carefully ready to cover their brethren’s assault.
The first few men swung their legs over the side and were almost immediately beset by the palace guard in a flurry of crashing steel and raining blows. The gauntlet was thrown as swords chopped and points were buried in the breast of any foe within reach. Curses were raised and thrown as arrows flew never to be retrieved.
One of the invaders was almost to the top when his rope was cut and he fell the twenty feet down to the cobblestones, cracking his helmeted head and remaining still.
“The gates!” cried Gathelaus. “Open the gates!”
The Usurper Page 27
