The Chronicles of Caylen-Tor

by Byron A. Roberts

  “Feh!” spat Chiyome derisively. “Such an overly flamboyant technique. A dire waste of energy.”

  Caylen’s full-throated laughter rang out across the battlements. “By the gods, nothing pleases you does it, woman?”

  “Surviving this debacle would please me,” replied Chiyome. “This fortress has no strategic value. It is merely a lonely outpost in the middle of a blighted desert. This emperor is mad to expend so many men to take it.”

  “True enough,” Caylen said. “And he’ll sacrifice his entire army to do it, if he must. I now realize that every single man bleeding and dying on these walls is nothing but grist to be ground in the mill of regal ambition.”

  Chiyome nodded. “Heavy is the burden of sovereignty, for it robs a man of compassion and replaces it with hubris.”

  “With tyranny but a small step from there,” muttered Caylen.

  Chiyome flashed a rare smile at the clansman as she prepared to leap back into the fray. “Such wisdom from your lips, northlander? Perhaps you are not as ignorant as I thought.”

  And the battle raged on.

  Chapter VI

  A Fortress Besieged

  The forces of the Imperium launched two further escalade assaults during the hours of daylight and one more under cover of darkness three hours before the dawn. All three attacks were beaten back by the defenders of Gul-Azlaan, but at great cost; the soldiers manning the walls suffered increasingly withering losses and as the sun climbed slowly over the horizon on the fifth day of the siege, it became woefully clear that the outnumbered Vyrgothian army would be hard pressed to repel another full imperial assault. A great black throng of vultures circled lazily over the reeking charnel-mounds piled at the base of the bastion’s western wall as the Imperium readied its troops for another attack, this time preparing the colossal battering ram which had reduced the gates of so many fortresses to naught but splinters and kindling during a myriad previous campaigns. The Bringer of Woe’s iron tip had been fashioned in the form of a giant spiked gauntlet, and it swung noisily upon its great chains as the troops hauled it laboriously into position. The depleted ranks of archers maintained a steady hail of arrows from the ramparts, most of which clattered upon shields or embedded themselves in the scorching sand. And the great battering ram moved inexorably closer, hauled by forty steel-thewed men and shielded by a massive scaffold of timber planks and water-soaked hides of goatskin, its iron-reinforced wheels crushing and grinding the bodies of the slain to masses of putrefying pulp upon the arid earth.

  Wiping his freshly oiled and honed blade, Caylen watched General Kleitos ascend to the highest parapet of the fortress and gaze grimly down upon the approaching foe. After several moments, the general turned sullenly to regard the defenders who still manned the battlements.

  “The end has come,” Kleitos thundered, his voice clear and resonant. “Soon, the empire will breach that gate and gain entry to Gul-Azlaan. All of you have fought valiantly, and for that I thank you on behalf of the Over-King. My Vyrgothians will battle to the last man, giving no quarter and asking none. Such is their solemn vow, such is their sacred duty. But the sell-swords and mercenary companies enlisted by the Crown may depart, with full pay as per our covenant. Decide now, and choose your fate.” With that, the general climbed down from the ramparts and returned briskly to the keep, accompanied by his retinue of staff officers.

  Caylen scabbarded his sword as Viseth and Haakon moved to stand beside him.

  “Are you two worthless brigands staying on?” Haakon growled.

  Viseth smiled. “Not a chance, my friend. I shall be off before the first timbers of that gate have yielded. And you?”

  A great wolfish grin creased the northman’s weathered face. “I always stay for the close of a battle! The best fighting is always at the end!”

  Chiyome leaped lithely from a narrow parapet above and stood before the three men, regarding them dispassionately. “I take my leave. I found it interesting to fight alongside so many oafs and dullards.” Then, she fixed Caylen with her sparkling gaze. “I believe you were my favourite.” And without another word, she turned and swiftly descended to the courtyard.

  “Enlighten me,” muttered Viseth as he watched the woman depart. “Which one of us feels the most insulted by that?”

  “Good riddance!” Haakon spat. “Her tongue was sharper than her swords.”

  “To be sure!” laughed Viseth.

  “And what of you, clansman?” Haakon said, turning to Caylen. “Fight on, or slink off like a gutter rat?”

  “I have yet to decide,” rumbled Caylen.

  “Well, best not ponder for too long,” Viseth said, peering over the blood-stained battlements. “The enemy have once again come knocking on our door.”

  Caylen gazed down to see that the imperial horde had reached the base of the western wall. The Vyrgothian defenders grimly commenced their bombardment of the troops, hurling slabs of granite and canisters of quicklime down upon the foe. A volley of fire-arrows was loosed against the armoured battering ram, but the sodden goatskin hides affixed to the construct’s timbers prevented the flames from taking hold sufficiently. Scaling ladders and grappling irons once more assailed the walls and the thunderous din of the ram’s metal-sheathed head striking the mighty iron-reinforced gate rose portentously above the cacophony of battle.

  “The gate won’t stand much of that hammering,” Caylen muttered.

  “And that’s not all we have to worry about,” whispered Viseth, staring at the distant horizon. “The desert’s fury has been awoken!”

  Caylen followed Viseth’s gaze to see a vast billowing maelstrom of sand seething in the far distance. The colossal, nebulous tumult grew wider with each passing second, seemingly devouring the desert vista until its titanic mass appeared to encompass the entirety of the horizon. Higher and higher the searing tempest rose as its caliginous bulk swiftly began to obscure the azure sky.

  “How long before that storm hits us?” Caylen whispered, transfixed by the sight of the roiling vortex of dust and sand.

  “Mere minutes!” hissed Viseth.

  “Bah! It’s just a bit of sand!” bellowed Haakon, bounding across the ramparts to where a grappling iron had clamped onto the crenelated stone. “It won’t spoil the battle!”

  Viseth nodded to Caylen. “The Devil of the Sands will make no distinction between armies! Mayhap there is time for just one more skirmish before I depart!”

  Caylen hefted his sword. “Heading home at last, old man?”

  A crooked smile crossed Viseth’s rugose face. “Why not? I think it is finally time to visit my wife and children. I grow weary of these games of war, played out by vainglorious kings and emperors. Mayhap my adventuring days are over. We shall see.”

  Caylen grinned. “I’d wish you luck, but I still think you are blessed by the gods!”

  “Nonsense, my friend!” exclaimed Viseth. “The gods are quite indifferent to me, I assure you. I am merely sharp of mind and fleet of foot!” And with that, he loped across the ramparts to join Haakon in the fray.

  Caylen was poised to follow when a gauntleted hand suddenly grasped his shoulder. He spun to see Quartermaster Demetrius, his face haggard and drawn.

  “To the keep, clansman!” Demetrius barked. “General Kleitos would speak with thee!”

  Caylen’s brow arched quizzically. “Concerning what, pray tell?”

  Demetrius scowled. “That is for him to divulge. Now come, time is of the essence!”

  The Vyrgothian banners perched atop the watchtowers had begun to billow ever more violently in the rising wind as Caylen clambered down the stairways and ladders to the courtyard, following hard on Demetrius’ heels.

  The discordant clamour of the imperial battering ram swinging on its iron chains and crashing pitilessly against the main gate was all but deafening as Caylen vaulted to the dusty flagstones and began to run towards the keep. He winced as a foul stench suddenly assailed his nostrils and turned to see scores of wounded and
dying men littering the blood-sodden floor of the surgeon’s pavilion which sat in the shadow of the southern wall. Caylen felt a cold chill run through his frame as he grimly noted the many wicker baskets laden with amputated limbs and the masses of black, bloated flies which swarmed and crawled upon the twisted piles of rotting and gangrenous flesh.

  “The true face of war,” rasped Demetrius. “In all its red and ruinous glory.”

  Turning away from the disquieting sight, Caylen saw that a line of Vyrgothian soldiers had assumed formation before the citadel’s beleaguered gateway, their faces deeply etched with solemn expressions. Above them, a group of archers crouched pensively upon the broad parapet overlooking the main gate, their bodkin-tipped arrows nocked. Caylen and Demetrius halted as they spied Captain Aegidius and the remaining warriors of the Company of the Crimson Falcon standing with the defenders, their swords and spears at the ready.

  “It seems that not all the sell-swords are so eager to abandon the fortress,” Demetrius observed.

  Caylen strode briskly to the captain’s side as the gate shuddered once again with the merciless impact of the colossal battering ram, fragments of stone falling ominously from the massive, rough-hewn lintel. “There’s a sandstorm bearing down on us, Aegidius. A big one.”

  “My thanks, clansman,” Aegidius replied. “That will be a boon as much as a hindrance during the final battle.”

  “You’re seeing this through, then?”

  A weary smile creased the captain’s sweat-streaked face. “Aye, too bloody right I am! I’ve lost good men on these walls, and the Crimson Falcon will make those imperial bastards suffer for each one of our fallen brothers. The debt of steel will be paid!”

  The young officer Captain Tymon strode suddenly from the Vyrgothian ranks to face Aegidius. “I was wrong about you, Aegidius,” he said. “You are a man of honour. I will stand beside you, if you’ll allow it.”

  Aegidius sighed wearily. “Lad, you can stand wherever you damn well like, as long as you give me room enough to swing my steel!”

  Tymon smiled thinly and both men turned to face the fortified arch. A vast crack had appeared in the centre of the timbers, running the length of the metal-studded gate behind the iron bands which reinforced the sturdy oaken panels.

  “Northlander!” snapped Demetrius. “Do not keep the general waiting!”

  Quickening his pace, Caylen followed the Quartermaster up the keep’s stone stairway and through the reinforced doorway. Within the fortified citadel, General Kleitos was engaged in a heated discussion with a group of his lieutenants. Caylen glanced about the circular chamber and noted the mercenary swordsman Mazares standing before a low trestle table. He watched as the black-cowled warrior silently accepted a small hessian pouch from a sallow-faced officer who was intently studying an array of scrolls and parchments.

  Suddenly, the voice of General Kleitos rose resonantly above the prate. “Quartermaster Demetrius, escort that assassin and his men to the eastern tunnels.”

  Demetrius nodded and stepped back to the keep’s wide door, motioning for Mazares to follow.

  The hooded swordsman strode swiftly to the archway and turned, his darkling gaze sweeping the men in the room. Then he spoke, his words precisely uttered and heavily accented. “The Shadow Hand bids farewell to those who stay, for only death waits them.” With that, Mazares stalked from the keep, his cloak billowing behind him.

  Kleitos sighed as he dismissed his aides and beckoned Caylen to his side. The two men swiftly ascended a narrow, rough-hewn spiral stairway to emerge into a sparsely illuminated chamber piled high with wooden casks and hessian sacks. There, the general fixed Caylen with a bone-weary glare.

  “In a few moments, I shall be venturing forth to lead my troops in the final defence of Gul-Azlaan,” said Kleitos somberly. “The Over-King bade me hold this fortress. It is clear that I cannot now carry out that order or fulfil my duty to the Crown. And yet, I shall leave the foe nothing. This bastion will fall, but by the gods, it shall fall hard!”

  Caylen nodded. “You will fight to the last man. You have vowed as much.”

  “More than you know,” Kleitos breathed. “Hearken, outlander, for what I am about to tell you may seem passing strange. Gul-Azlaan is not the first fortification to have been built upon this site. One of the six legendary Onyx Pyramids once stood here, and ancient cults and hoary religions have long held this place sacred. Aye, the ground beneath our feet was sanctified to an array of elder gods thousands of years before the first stones of this fortress were ever laid. I tell you now that certain remnants of those old faiths yet persist, deep within the black catacombs below these walls.”

  Caylen’s brow furrowed as he listened to the general’s words.

  Kleitos rubbed at his red-rimmed eyes as he continued. “The priests of the Vyrgothian realm invariably shun such places, deeming them blasphemous and unholy. But certain shamans and sorcerers have delved deeply into the malign lore which surrounds those old cults and the dark avatars which they venerated. At any rate, know that in the caverns beneath Gul-Azlaan may well exist the means to destroy the imperial army!”

  Caylen’s eyes widened. “A sorcerous weapon? An artefact to smite the Imperium?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Kleitos said. “In truth, I suspect it embodies a solution so chillingly final that I am loath to even consider it. But our fall is imminent, and such a time of desperation demands a measure equally desperate.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of this,” growled Caylen.

  “And yet you will heed me, regardless!” Kleitos snapped. “Before his demise, my sorcerer explored the caverns beneath this fortress. He spoke of a black altar before which the ancient ophidian cultists once bowed in obeisance, blindly worshipping some malefic, long dead abomination… conducting foul arcane rites and uttering oblations to the vile things which crawled and slithered in the abyss. He translated the glyphs etched into that altar and fathomed their meaning.”

  “And what did he glean from them?” Caylen asked guardedly.

  “That altar holds some manner of great destructive power, mayhap the means to bring this fortress down upon the heads of our enemy! Last night I sent three men into the catacombs to scout the site. They have yet to return. I want you to descend into those caverns and discover the secret of that damnable shrine!”

  Caylen’s eyes narrowed. “Why me? And why alone?”

  “This is my last throw of the die, and I can spare no more troops,” Kleitos breathed. “Moreover, I’ve witnessed your prowess in battle. You’re one of the finest warriors here, and if I’m to send any man into that abyss, it’ll damn well be one who has the wits and the might to deal with what may await him!”

  “What else?” hissed Caylen. “What will you offer me to undertake this perilous task?”

  “Gold, clansman!” Kleitos exclaimed. “Tenfold more wealth than you would have earned defending this blighted bastion! Enough to live like a prince for a time, or indulge your every whim in the lotus-tinged fleshpots of the Seven Wicked Cities!”

  “I have friends on those walls,” Caylen said quietly. “Good men, fighting for you and your vaunted king. If I should succeed, you must assure their safety.”

  Kleitos nodded. “I shall give the order to abandon the fortress, should it become apparent that you have prevailed. You have my word as an officer of the Vyrgothian Alliance.”

  “Grist for the mill of regal ambition,” muttered Caylen.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, general. At any rate, I’m no stranger to delving into the black depths of dungeons and catacombs in search of plunder.”

  “Well? What say you?” snapped Kleitos. “Demetrius can escort you to the undercroft which leads to the lower reaches.”

  “What say I?” growled Caylen, turning briskly to the stone stairway. “I say just make sure you pay me that bloody gold in advance!”

  Chapter VII

  That Which Dwells Below

  T
he arid, scouring wind had intensified as Caylen and Demetrius raced from the keep and bounded across the courtyard to the northern wall. Stinging clouds of sand had begun to billow about the fortress and the sky had assumed a gloomy, crepuscular hue as the storm inexorably tightened its grip upon the desert. Peering through the haze, Caylen saw that scores of imperial troops were surging over the battlements to be met desperately by the defiant steel of the outnumbered defenders. The main gate had been all but breached, its great iron-sheathed draw-bar perilously close to being sundered by the pitiless impact of the imperial battering ram. Many Vyrgothian soldiers were abandoning the engagements upon the ramparts and racing to the courtyard in anticipation of the inevitable yielding of the bastion’s gateway. Glancing back over his shoulder, Caylen saw General Kleitos stride from the keep and take position with the defenders, his burnished barbute helmet upon his head and a cerulean longsword in his grasp.

  Shielding his eyes from the swirling sand, Demetrius halted before a narrow, arched doorway set into the northern wall.

  “Follow,” he barked, hauling the door open and loping across the threshold.

  The two men emerged into a dank chamber which boasted a crudely hewn stone stairway leading down into deep shadow.

  Demetrius swiftly gathered up a burning brand from a bracket on the wall and began to descend the cracked and crumbling steps.

  “What do you think of the general’s plan?” Caylen asked as he followed the Quartermaster into the depths.

  “Utter madness,” Demetrius said tersely. “But of course, this entire war is madness and the men who fight it have long since been rendered bereft of reason.”

  “What will I find down there, by your reckoning?”

  Demetrius sighed. “Death, most likely. But you have your gold to make this fool’s errand worth the risk, at least.”

  Caylen grinned and patted a slender leather pouch filled with golden coins which swung from his belt. “Its luster does have a way of bolstering one’s resolve.”