The Chronicles of Caylen-Tor

by Byron A. Roberts

  The guards within the royal chamber gripped their spear-hafts silently, eyes downcast, not daring to gaze upon their lord’s rage.

  Like a great ireful panther, Ebonfyre strode towards the arched doorway of the throne room. At the threshold, he spun to face Tolodes. “Summon Ulagchi the Night Seer. I wish to make contact with the queen!”

  “At once, my lord,” General Tolodes said, hastening from the opulent chamber.

  Talus Ebonfyre gripped the carven frame of the doorway, an insistent and malefic voice whispering within his mind. Silencing the sibilant tones with great effort, he stalked furiously from the throne room.

  “So, the painted savage wishes to test me,” he snarled. “Good! The Iron Jackal shall hunt once more and devour its prey! By all the black gods of chaos, I vow that the rule of this barbarian king shall end in carnage and red ruin! Caylen-Tor must die!”

  Chapter IV

  The Gathering of the Nine

  “Hail the One King!”

  Caylen-Tor acknowledged the salute of the tribal chieftains who had gathered within his great long-hall, raising a ceremonial ale horn and draining its contents in a single swallow. Wiping the froth from his beard, he reclined in his ornate oaken chair at the great circular Table of the Sun as a retinue of skalds and bards took position before the chamber’s blazing hearth. The saga-spinners readied their reed pipes, bone flutes and lyres and duly began to recount a fanciful tale of the Wolf-King’s myriad adventures. With a weary sigh, Caylen folded his mighty arms across his broad chest and feigned interest as the bard’s saga unfolded.

  Steel agleam in the rising sun,

  The war-hird’s blades were honed;

  A host of foes atop the crags,

  The Wolf-King now enthroned!

  Blood-clad men from ‘cross the vale,

  Their spears and swords aflame;

  An army raised to heed the call

  And meet the clansmen’s bane!

  Witch-fire burning with the dawn,

  Blades clashing on the heath;

  To rend their flesh and crack their bones

  Betwixt the wolf pack’s teeth!

  Blood-worms bloat and sup their fill,

  Crows gorging on the slain;

  Swords resonant in thunder-song,

  Shields cloven now in twain!

  A legion hewn to riven ruin

  Beneath the Wolf-King’s sword,

  All gore-flecked meat to glut the grave;

  Death-fraught, this bronze-girt horde!

  The kiss of steel is never sweet,

  Its oath a blood-sworn vow;

  The judgment of the axe is passed,

  Red seas and serpent-prow!

  Corpse-mounds piled to touch the sky,

  All hail the gods of war!

  Doom-fated they who dare incur

  The wrath of Caylen-Tor!

  The clamour of countless tankards and goblets striking the wooden trestles arose at the conclusion of the tale and Caylen wearily dismissed the skalds with a wave of his hand. Then, a frown darkening his scarred features, he studied the clan chieftains who had assembled around the great oaken table.

  Oughtred Bearsark of the Raven-Saters clan sat scowling, his powerful arms folded across his mail-clad chest.

  Grimm Ironhand of the Long Spears, his once blond hair and beard now the colour of snow, gazed impassively at his fellow rulers.

  Brodir Finn of the Peak Dwellers, raven locks held in place by a bronze circlet, drummed his fingers impatiently upon the carven table.

  Conal of the Moon Hunters gripped an earthenware goblet of mead, his blue eyes gleaming beneath his furrowed brow.

  Chieftain Uarraig of the Bloodwing, his craggy face heavily weathered, stared unflinchingly at the king.

  The shield-maiden Red Cairenn of the Tree Folk clan, woad spirals etched upon her aquiline countenance, idly twirled her long crimson braids and whispered an ancient oath.

  The chieftains of the Walkers-in-Shadow clan and the savage tribe of the Flesh Renders had not heeded the call for assembly, and their chairs were vacant.

  At the very centre of the table, the great sword Caled-draca was displayed proudly upon a carven plinth, torchlight glimmering upon its chalybeous blade. Around the perimeter of the table, runic sigils had been etched into the wood representing each of the nine clans. A series of elaborate knot-work carvings also adorned each section of the oak, all eventually becoming one with the great spiral sun-wheel which ringed the mighty Caled-draca.

  Behind Caylen’s ornate chair stood Wulfric Oakenbrand, silently drawing at a carved bone pipe and exhaling tendrils of pale smoke. The shaman Drogha Tul waited in the shadows at his back. The various attendants and thanes of the other chieftains were similarly positioned behind their tribal overlords.

  Finally, Caylen-Tor spoke.

  “I give you my hail, brothers of the great Alliance, honoured emissaries of the Nine. What I have to say to you this night will be blunt, for as you know I did not become king by the grace of a poetic tongue.”

  “Nor by birthright,” Uarraig quipped, a sneer creasing his features. Caylen ignored the remark, although his eyes shone balefully as he glared at the Bloodwing chieftain. Uarraig could not long meet that lupine gaze, and looked away.

  “A great foe shall soon march against us,” Caylen continued. “They seek to drive their banner of occupation deep into the sacred earth where our ancestors lie buried, the earth upon which our forefathers bled and died. It is my intention to engage the legions of Mytos K’unn in battle, and repel them.”

  Murmurs arose around the table. The voice of the Moon Hunter chief Conal then rose clearly above the mutterings.

  “Repel them? The army of Mytos K’unn is undefeated and hardened by war. If the massed army of Delania couldn’t halt them, what chance do we stand?”

  Caylen’s voice thundered out to suppress the ensuing prate.

  “Yes, the Delanian army has fallen,” he said. “But know this… they had not fought a major campaign since the Zulantian border wars nearly a decade past. Years of peace caused them to grow idle and weak. They paid the price.”

  Grimm Ironhand nodded. “There is truth in that.”

  “But I do not intend to engage the foe in pitched battle,” continued Caylen. “I seek to strike at them in the old way... the way our people have taught since before the ancestral sagas were first carved into the great rune-stones!”

  Grimm Ironhand’s snowy brow arched. “You mean the wyrd-seaxcraeft?”

  Caylen’s eyes blazed with passion. “Aye! We will strike from the shadows of the trees, attack the foe from the depths of the moon-mist, rise up from the heather in the dead of night! Our peoples are as one with the land we fight to protect. The spirits of our ancestors shall bleed the sacred earth red with us!”

  “Fie!” roared Uarraig. “Do you truly believe the vast legions of Mytos K’unn shall succumb to such tactics? It will take more than ghosts and fog to overcome that horde, I tell you!”

  Oughtred laughed derisively. “And when did you become an expert on warcraft, Uarraig? Not once have you led the Bloodwing in battle.”

  Uarraig’s knuckles whitened and he shot Oughtred a murderous glance. “I am not deaf to the rumours from the east!” he hissed. “First the empire crushed the Eighth Army of the Satrap of Azesham. Then they wiped out the massed ranks of the lancers and infantry of Numadai. Following their victory over Delania, they have raided the bastions of the Zulantian Protectorate and burned frontier settlements in Turanan. Would you aspire to stand in the way of the tempest and try to alter its path? They cannot be stopped!”

  “They will be stopped here!” thundered Caylen-Tor. “I’ll see that accursed witch dethroned, I swear it!”

  “The imperial legions are as the scythe in the summer field!” Uarraig shouted. “Resisting them would be a useless gesture!”

  The murmurs escalated to shouts, curses, and oaths. Some decried the naysaying of Uarraig, others concurred with him. At a
subtle gesture from Caylen, Wulfric moved forward to address the assembly, his voice cresting the wave of clamour.

  “The armies of the empress are veterans of pitched battles; great forces clashing upon the field of war. The strategy of which the king speaks will be alien to them. If we were to bring them to battle at the place of our choosing, we would have the advantage.”

  “Folly!” bellowed Uarraig. “The Wolf-King would see us dead! He seeks to rule a kingdom of corpses!”

  Oughtred Bearsark then bellowed above the din, his face crimson with rage. “What nithing-speak do I hear around this great table? Caylen-Tor has seen a hundred campaigns, from the siege of hoary Gul-Azlaan to the red heathland of Hag Moor! He is the Wolf of the North! None of you should dare say him nay!”

  “I dare!” Uarraig barked. “Is this an alliance, or the court of a tyrant? I will be heard!”

  “Speak, then.” Oughtred rumbled. “Let us hear your serpent tongue.”

  A moment of silence followed as Uarraig directed a baneful stare at Oughtred. In response, Oughtred calmly stroked his great beard, his single green eye sparkling expectantly.

  At length, Uarraig continued, his tone measured. “The legions will not be as easily repelled as the Tundra Nomads. The queen’s army seeks only the tin mines and treasuries of the western kingdoms. Our realm is woodland and wilderness, heather and crag. I maintain that if we do not oppose the empire, they will simply march peaceably through our territory, and not a single clansman’s life need be lost.”

  Oughtred surged to his feet. “And while we’re at it, why don’t we bend over and let the whoresons bugger us to boot? Your words smack of cowardice, wormcast! If you had a spine, I would leap over there and wrench it from your quivering body!”

  Uarraig rose, his hand on the hilt of his shortsword, his attendants reaching for their weapons. “Raven-Sater filth! I should gut you like a swine for such an insult!”

  Oughtred smiled, his hand slowly curling around the haft of his great notched axe. “You may try, sirrah.”

  “Enough!” bellowed Caylen, his voice like thunder. “No blood will be spilled in this hall. No blades shall be bared between the brothers of this alliance. Now, sit!”

  At the king’s command, Oughtred and Uarraig grudgingly resumed their seats.

  The shaman Drogha Tul then moved from the shadows behind Caylen to stand at the perimeter of the oaken table.

  “Heed me, men of the north. There will be no peaceful march through your lands. The legions will rape and ravage, pillage and burn. They will put your people to the sword and claim this realm without mercy, exacting tributes to their foul empress and demanding that you swear fealty to her agents. Such is their way. You must expect no less.”

  For long moments, an unbroken silence greeted the shaman’s words. Then, Caylen-Tor sighed and rose to his feet, his face a mask of dour determination.

  “I have heard you this night, brothers and sisters, now you will hear me. When the golden torc of the One King was placed about my neck, I swore to the gods that I would defend this land and its people from all those who would take up arms against us. The alliance was forged to unite the tribes into a single force during such perilous days as these.”

  The eyes of Uarraig narrowed to feral slits as Caylen continued.

  “For countless generations, we have warred amongst ourselves, and foreign foes have raided and looted our steadings, being allowed free reign to slaughter and plunder because only individual clans stood against them. But now, for the first time, we are united and the time for petty squabbling and rivalries is past. Our enemy marches against us and we cannot afford to stand idle with blades sheathed and bows unstrung.”

  Oughtred hammered the table with his fist. “Aye!”

  “In unity there is strength!” Caylen boomed. “Until we are truly united, we are vulnerable. Only when all the clans speak and act as one will this truly be a tribal alliance!”

  “Well said!” shouted Grimm Ironhand.

  “It is time,” Caylen said. “The vote must be taken. The Wolf Tribe will fight. Alone if need be. Which clans will join us?”

  Oughtred rose to his feet. “The Raven-Saters are with thee, Wolf-King! My ber-serkr horde will revel in red slaughter! Let the dogs of the empire dare to befoul our land, and by the gods I’ll notch a few more widows to my axe haft!”

  Grimm stood, leaning upon a gnarled cane of carved elderwood. “Aye, anwealda. You are the son of Culain-Ulvur, and the grandson of Black Vargr, both of whom were my sword-brothers. You will have the aid of the Long Spears.”

  Uarraig remained seated. “The Bloodwing will not stand with thee, Caylen-Tor. You have heard my words this night.”

  Red Cairenn folded her arms. “The Tree Folk will fight only if our own sovereign territory is directly threatened. Until that time, our swords will remain unslaked. You will have the aid of my Fen-Witches as their oath demands, but that is all I can offer.”

  Conal did not rise. “Nay. Engaging the army of Mytos K’unn is folly. Their numbers are too great to oppose. The Moon Hunters will not commit to this ill-conceived campaign.”

  Brodir Finn rose slowly. “Your argument has swayed me, Caylen-Tor. At any rate, the legions shall attempt to pass through Blackhelm Vale, and that ancient site is sacred to my people. Aye, the Peak Dwellers are with you!”

  Uarraig spoke again, gesturing to the two empty chairs around the circular table. “And I’d venture that as Tolwyn of the Walkers-in-Shadow and Beathach of the Flesh Renders haven’t even bothered to grace this meeting with their presence, we can hazard a guess as to their answers, eh?”

  Caylen nodded, his gaze sweeping every chieftain present in the chamber. “So be it. Thus ends this conclave. Go in peace, my brothers and sisters. May the gods be with thee.”

  The long-hall slowly began to empty as the Emissaries of the Nine departed into the night. Wulfric and Oughtred moved pensively to Caylen’s side.

  “Politics,” seethed Caylen. “Give me the honesty of a battlefield over this pit of vipers any day!”

  Drogha Tul nodded. “A lesson well learned, Wolf-King. The perilous art of statecraft is often every bit as dangerous to a king as the threats he may face upon the field of war. A wise and mindful ruler would be well served to have effective strategies in place for both such disparate theatres of conflict.”

  “You’re a veritable oracle of sage wisdom, old man,” growled Caylen mordantly.

  Wulfric began refilling his pipe, a sombre expression upon his face. “Four out of the Nine. Can we win with so few?”

  Caylen shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’ll tell you this; whatever happens, we’ll write a legend in bloodshed the likes of which no man will soon forget.”

  “Ha ha!” roared Oughtred, taking up a clay goblet of mead from the oaken table. “I’ll drink to that!”

  Chapter V

  The Witch-Queen’s Decree

  Talus Ebonfyre strode into the gloomy antechamber wherein Ulagchi the Night Seer waited, closing and bolting the heavy oaken door behind him. He then turned to regard the hunched, black-cloaked figure standing silently in the centre of the room. The acolyte’s vulpine features were partially concealed by a dark cowl and his ankylosed hands were encased in sable gloves. Ebonfyre had made no effort to conceal the fact that he held the perfidious Shadow Cultists in deep contempt, but Zyrashana had decreed that they should march with the army and he knew they served their nefarious purpose all too well.

  The sinuous, diminutive figure silently motioned to a great mirror which had been placed near the far wall of the chamber, its polished surface encased within a frame of intricately wrought obsidian. Two carved ebony serpents supported the mirror, their scaly black bodies coiled upon the stone floor. Ebonfyre nodded and moved swiftly to the silvered glass, gazing at the panoply of hues which roiled within its coruscant depths. “Summon the empress,” he growled.

  Raising his gloved hand, Ulagchi hissed a sibilant incantation in an eldritch tongue before s
huffling back from the mirror to melt into the shadows of the chamber.

  The lambent vortex writhing within the nebulous depths of the crystal burned momentarily brighter before rapidly transmogrifying into the lissome silhouette of a woman clad in diaphanous robes of opalescent silk. Scant seconds later, at the heart of that vespertine vista, Talus Ebonfyre found himself gazing upon the arresting image of Zyrashana, Divine Empress of Mytos K’unn. The queen’s countenance was cruelly beauteous. Her skin was the colour of alabaster and her long, lustrous tresses were snow-pale, though her elfin features showed not a single line or crease suggesting any trace of advanced age. Her eyes sparkled like twin emeralds, and as the fell eidolon’s gaze focused on Ebonfyre, her fulsome ruby lips pouted in a maddeningly sensual manner. Ebonfyre inhaled sharply and the image of a viper nestling in a bed of blossoms briefly flashed before his mind’s eye. Averting his gaze, he bowed before the darkly compelling visage.

  “General Ebonfyre.” The queen’s voice was husky, akin to the purring of a great pantheress. “What word do you bring me from the theatre of war?”

  “Delania has fallen, my queen,” said Ebonfyre. “The realm has paid the price for scorning your gracious demand for servitude. The serpent banner now flies above the Sapphirean Spire. Your empire expands.”

  “This I know,” the image of Zyrashana whispered. “What more?”

  “The border settlements of Turanan have been sacked, and the Zulantian frontier outposts are even now aflame. Resistance is scant. The road west lies open.”

  “And yet something vexes thee, my general. Tell me.”

  Ebonfyre glanced up at the image shimmering within the glass. “Great Empress, the barbarian chieftain Caylen-Tor will stand against us. He has declared his intention to oppose our march through the wilderness over which he holds sway.”

  The Witch-Queen’s viridescent eyes narrowed malevolently. “Such foolish pride,” she hissed. “His painted primitives cannot hope to match our legions. The blood of the divine queen Tanit Vyperia courses through my veins! I will not be thwarted by a baseborn savage!”