“I’m going out for some air,” Haakon growled as he made for the cavern’s exit. Caylen nodded and followed the northman from the grotto, shielding his eyes against the sudden glare of the desert sun as he stepped through the latticed, wrought iron gate which had been embedded into the narrow cave mouth. Mercifully, the sandstorm had passed, its elemental wrath finally exhausted. Swiftly weaving their way through several groups of sullen Vyrgothian soldiers, the two men climbed to the top of a low, rock-strewn hill and gazed out across the vast expanse of the calescent dunes.
Gul-Azlaan had fallen, its cyclopean walls reduced to sundered ruin. Only the northern watchtower and a large section of the adjoining ramparts remained intact, a strange greenish smoke rising languidly from the mass of rubble and shattered stone which once had been the indomitable fortress. Caylen’s brow arched sardonically as he saw the Imperial banner being slowly hoisted atop the watchtower’s solitary flagstaff.
“Pompous fools,” rumbled Haakon. “They’re welcome to it. Or what remains of it, at any rate.”
“They paid for it in blood,” Caylen sighed. “A pile of rock in the middle of the desert. Centuries from now, men may remember that a great battle was waged here. But they will not recall the names of the slain, nor what truly compelled them to strive and die for the folly of prideful kings.”
* * *
As the sun sank slowly below the western horizon, Caylen stood with Haakon gazing out across the brooding desert. The setting sun bathed the dunes in a rutilant glow and the sky was streaked with great swathes of crimson. Both men carried goatskin gourds filled with water and a meagre pouch of barley groats and strips of dried meat which had been issued to them at the Vyrgothian camp. Before them lay the remnants of an ancient statue, its sundered body now all but buried by the restless sands, leaving only fragments of sun-bleached stone to stand as mute testament to whatever forgotten king or forsaken deity the ruined effigy once represented.
“Where will you go now, northman?” asked Caylen.
“I’ve a mind to travel east,” Haakon enounced. “Following the trade routes of the spice merchants. I hear the Golden Pharaoh Khutu-Amhun has placed a hefty bounty on the heads of the Grand Vizier and the Seven Acolytes of Zul-tekh. I mean to earn some coin in the realm of the Immortals!”
“So be it,” said Caylen. “Although I do not envy you your journey into those blighted lands, for I hear they are rife with dark sorcery, fiend-haunted tombs and baleful curses.”
“Ha! I pray you are right!” grinned Haakon. “It’s about time my steel faced a worthy test! And what of you, clansman? What road will you travel?”
Caylen’s eyes narrowed. “I shall return home, to the land of my tribes. My people are in need of a king, one who will unite them and make them strong against any foe. Mayhap that task shall fall to me.”
“Ambitious,” said Haakon. “I like that. Keep your blade sharp, lad!”
Caylen and Haakon clasped wrists in the warrior’s grip. Then, the bearded reaver hefted his axe and strode eastward into the dusk-cloaked desert.
Lost in grim contemplation, Caylen stared silently into the darkness for several moments before finally casting his gaze skyward. The crescent moon emerged slowly from behind a veil of lambent cloud, painting the desert sky with sombre sapphirean hues. The clansman sighed, securing his broadsword in its scabbard. Then, he turned swiftly toward the distant mountains and began walking north.
Although the Imperium counted the siege of Gul-Azlaan as a victory, the considerable losses which the Grand Expeditionary Army suffered during the final engagement significantly delayed the furtherance of the imperial campaign. It was some time before the legions of the Emperor Koord renewed their assault against the Vyrgothian Alliance, finally mobilizing a massively reinforced army to march against the entrenched garrisons of the Over-King a full three years to the day after the desert bastion’s momentous fall. Like Gul-Nomedes and Gul-Azlaan before it, the ancient stronghold of Gul-Tryarch duly suffered the wrath of the imperial war machine, ultimately leaving only the colossal fortress of Gul-Kothoth to stand inviolate against the emperor’s forces. The ensuing defeat of the renegade King Kalides at the Battle of the Plains of Kai-Vorg effectively put the Imperium’s armies within striking distance of Vyrgothia’s last bastion, and the decades-old war finally looked set to end with an overwhelmingly decisive imperial victory…
Meanwhile, Caylen of the Wolf Clan travelled ever northward, embarking on many adventures as he sought to return to his tribal homelands. His voyage across the pirate-thronged Middle Sea wrought a blood-swathed legend, while his journey through the dragon-haunted wastelands of Kur and the war-torn territories of Zulantia was fraught with dire and deathly peril. At length, he finally reached the rugged frontier of his ancestral realm with but one goal in mind; the prophesied unification of his people’s warring chieftains under the aegis of a single, undisputed king…
Book II: The Battle of Blackhelm Vale
Turmoil has engulfed the Eastern Kingdoms. In the guise of a seductive palace courtesan, the nefarious sorceress Zyrashana has seized the ancient throne of Mytos K’unn by traitorous subterfuge and the insidious machinations of her dark spellcraft. Moving swiftly to consolidate her regal power and safeguard her newly usurped throne, Zyrashana has implemented a grand campaign of military conquest, annexing several neighboring satrapies and duly proclaiming herself the Divine Empress of Mytos K’unn. Commanded by Zyrashana’s merciless warlord Talus Ebonfyre, the legions of Mytos K’unn have advanced westward across the Antediluvian Continent, pressing deep into the sovereign realm of the embattled Delanian Commonwealth…
Chapter I
Declarations of War
King Gustanhav of Delania sat astride his chanfron-clad palomino charger and surveyed the army which opposed him. Three hundred yards distant, the legions of Mytos K’unn had assembled beneath their sable and crimson banners, the pale morning sunlight gleaming upon a fathomless sea of curved swords, iron lances and broad spearheads. Each warrior was clad in the livery of the eastern empire, their lamellar cuirasses emblazoned with the personal sigil of the Empress Zyrashana herself; a blood red serpent coiled against a field of stygian black.
Turning in his saddle, the king’s gaze swept the regiments of his own army which had been marshalled to meet the foe upon the field of battle. Ranks of spearmen armoured in leather brigandines stood silently at the vanguard of the force, flanked by units of light cavalry and plate-armoured knights. Columns of infantry clad in mail hauberks and bearing shortswords and reinforced kite shields stood in perfect formation behind the paladins, while at the host’s rear, ranks of archers waited with their great war-bows of yew and horn.
The king was clad in shimmering scale-mail, bronze vambraces and intricately embossed and riveted gauntlets. His pauldrons were polished to relucent brilliance and a great azure cloak trimmed with ermine was draped about his armoured frame. A silvern cuirass encased his torso and his legs were girt with shining greaves. An ornately engraved helmet crowned with a crest of black horse hair completed his martial attire, and in his right hand he wielded a slender longsword of limpid blue steel.
Lifting his gaze to the heavens, Gustanhav smiled mirthlessly as he beheld a throng of expectant crows circling high above, their distant shapes etched starkly black against the cloudless sky.
“Only the eaters of the dead truly win on days such as this,” the king whispered.
To Gustanhav’s right, a young captain clad in the colours of the Royal Cerulean Templars raised the visor of his plumed helm.
“True enough, my liege,” the man said, squinting to get a clear view of the enemy host which waited across the verdant, grassy plain. “But we’ll still give these dogs a fine kicking today, I’ll wager.”
The king turned to the young captain, watching the banner he proudly held as it rippled idly in the gentle breeze. The royal sigil of Delania, a golden chimaera passant against a field of sapphirean blue, seemed to glow with a corus
cant radiance in the morning sun.
“The tremor in your voice belies your confident words, lad,” the king said. “This is your first action, is it not?”
“Aye, sire,” the young man replied. “I’ve been waiting for this since I first enlisted in the ranks of the Templars. It’s an honour to be at your side.”
“Indeed,” sighed Gustanhav, turning once more to study the legions of Mytos K’unn. “I suppose it is.”
At the vanguard of the imperial host, the king discerned a towering warrior atop an armoured grey steed, his face hidden behind a great horned helm. A gleaming steel cuirass cocooned the man’s huge frame and argent chainmail covered his arms. Studded pauldrons adorned his shoulders, over which hung a cloak of black panther skin secured by a golden chain. In the man’s hand was a huge curved scimitar with a pommel wrought in the shape of a jackal’s head.
“Talus Ebonfyre,” the king hissed.
“Yes, my liege,” said the young templar. “That one’s renown precedes him. It is said that he’s possessed by a demon… a fiend which bolsters his strength tenfold in battle.”
The horseman to the king’s left removed his bronze barbute helmet and wiped his parched lips. His hair was grey and he sported a voluminous braided beard. Armoured in engraved iron, he wore the twin golden cloak-pins of a Delanian general.
“Bah! You shouldn’t believe everything you hear in the taverns, boy. He looks human enough to me!”
“But General,” the young captain exclaimed. “A witch ruling Mytos K’unn and a demon leading her armies? Mayhap we should have brought a battle-mage with us.”
The general fixed the younger man with a withering glare. “This battle will not be won by conjurer’s tricks, nor by offering up mewling infants for divine favour. Steel will prevail here today. Steel and flesh!”
“Or perhaps even diplomacy, given the chance,” said the king. “Send the herald.”
The general turned in his saddle and motioned to two waiting horsemen. At his signal they slowly coaxed their mounts from the assembled ranks and out onto the plain.
The general turned again to face the king. “Sire, once again I must protest your decision to take the field. If it does come to a clash, you…”
“I will not retire, General,” said Gustanhav icily. “For hundreds of years, the kings of Delania have led their forces upon the field of war. I do not intend to break with that tradition today. These arrogant dogs have dared to invade our kingdom. If they will not retreat peaceably, then I will personally see them repulsed. Such is my decision. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my liege,” muttered the general, running his fingers through his sweat-matted hair before carefully replacing his helmet. The seasoned officer had seen more campaigns than he could easily count, but today he could feel a cold sweat trickling down his back beneath his woolen jerkin and mail-shirt. Today more than any other, the general felt the icy tendrils of fear close about his heart.
“Look, they’ve sent out a rider,” the young captain said, pointing to where the Delanian herald’s party had been met by a single horseman from the ranks of Mytos K’unn.
“Good,” said the king. “Now we shall see whether or not we can avoid bloodshed on this fine morning.”
The young captain touched a gauntlet to the ornate, jeweled sigil which secured his cerulean cloak about his shoulders. The clasp was fashioned in the form of a slender woman with two great silver wings. “Ihstara protect us,” he whispered.
“Trust in your sword, lad,” the general growled, “for the gods are deaf to the pleas of men these days.”
High above, the carrion birds continued to circle patiently.
* * *
The Delanian herald studied the man who had ridden forth from the army of Mytos K’unn to meet him. The imperial envoy was gaunt, hook-nosed and sported a forked black beard. A jagged scar snaked from his left eye to his upper lip, creasing his swarthy face in a perpetual sneer. He wore the armour of the Iron Jackal Legion, and a cloak of black goatskin hung from his shoulders. The scarred man sat astride his horse silently, offering neither greeting nor invitation to speak. After several moments, the Delanian herald cleared his throat and began to deliver the speech which he had committed to memory.
“It saddens my great and noble king that our envoys could not find a path to peace in these turbulent times. But know this; your incursion into the sovereign lands of Delania will not be tolerated. Once again, we demand that you withdraw this army from our realm and do not again deign to cross our borders. Leave the field now, and my king may yet feel magnanimous enough to forgive this blatant and insulting act of war.”
For long moments, there was no response to the herald’s entreaty. Then the black-clad warrior spoke, his words guttural and heavily accented.
“I am Oghul-Tolodes, servitor of the Great Empress, and general of her armies. I speak for Talus Ebonfyre, supreme commander of Queen Zyrashana’s Imperial Expeditionary Force, Overlord of the Legions of Mytos K’unn, Master of the Iron Jackal, Scourge of Numadai, Bane of the Bazalanin Host, Router of the Eighth Army of Azesham. Hearken, for these be his words. Surrender now, or not one of your warriors will be spared. Throw down your swords and allow our forces unopposed passage to your capital, or every Delanian on this field will die and we shall march on your royal palace bearing your king’s head as a trophy of battle.”
The Delanian herald had anticipated many potential replies to his adjuration, but such a belligerent declaration of naked hostility had not been one of them. After several seconds of speechless silence, he finally found his reply.
“How dare you? There will be no surrender!”
Tolodes merely smiled, saying nothing as he wheeled his mount.
“What will happen now?” the herald’s aide asked, his face ashen as he watched the black-clad general depart.
“Now?” the herald whispered as he turned his horse back to the Delanian army. “Now the crows will feast upon the eyes of the slain.”
Chapter II
At the Court of the Wolf-King
Caylen-Tor sat alone in his sparsely furnished throne room, gazing out through the stone chamber’s single window as the setting sun turned the moors and crags the colour of fire. The king’s great granite fortress at Ulfheim was perched atop a jagged promontory, its broad shadow falling perpetually across the tribal settlement which sprawled in the wide vale far below. Caylen frowned as he descried a single, distant eagle soaring idly upon the dusk winds, suddenly realizing that he envied the bird its freedom. Several tumultuous years had passed since his grand coronation, and with each passing day he became ever more convinced that the crown was a direful burden and the throne room was little more than a grimly gilded prison.
Is liberty the price demanded by power?
Caylen’s corded forearms, etched with a latticework of battle-scars, rested upon the ornately carved arms of his great oaken throne. His fists were clenched, causing his knuckles to whiten and the veins in his hands to pulse like azure serpents. His blond hair was shaved tribal fashion from his temples to the back of the skull, the remaining ponytail braided from the crown and tied in a thick topknot which fell unfettered to his waist. A flaxen beard adorned his scarred and weathered features and three rings of gold pierced each of his ears. A great golden torc encircled his bull neck, while a hefty bronze amulet in the shape of a short-hafted warhammer hung from a braided leather thong to rest against his sternum. He wore a sleeveless shirt of gleaming silver chain mail, trimmed with leather at the neck and shoulders, dark leather trews and studded buckskin boots. A grey wolf-skin cloak was draped over his broad shoulders.
Caylen-Tor’s grey eyes narrowed as he watched the crimson sun sink slowly below the distant hills.
Does the sun set also upon my reign?
A large broadsword rested against the flank of Caylen’s throne, and the glimmer of its bright steel caught his eye. Grasping the weapon’s rawhide-bound hilt, he freed the sword from its ornate leather scabbard a
nd watched the reflection of the sun’s dying embers dance along the notched, pattern-welded blade. The crossguard of the weapon had been fashioned into the shape of three intertwined serpents, their forked tongues ablaze with copper-inlaid fire. The pommel was a serpent’s claw which clutched a huge ruby in its ophidian talons. Glyphs and runes were etched into the mirrored surface of the radiant blade. Caylen was well versed in the old tongue, and he knew that those runes proclaimed the sword to be Caled-draca, the great Battle Dragon; the Three Tongued Serpent of the North! Forged by master blacksmiths and artisans to stand as the symbol of the tribal alliance, this was the sword of the king... the sword of Caylen-Tor! With a weary sigh, he slid the great blade back into its scabbard.
A grand symbol for such a fragile unity!
Three raps abruptly sounded at the throne-room’s great wooden doors, summoning the king from his grim reverie. An officer of the tribal guard entered the darkened room and bowed, his hauberk bearing the stylized sigil of the wolf which was the symbol of Caylen’s own clan.
“Your thegns await, great Tor,” the guard intoned.
Caylen nodded. The guardsman had called him Tor, the word for king in the old tongue. It was a practice he encouraged amongst his followers, if only to remind the more unruly clans of the alliance that he was the king and that his word, in theory at least, had the effect of law throughout the tribes.
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