The Prince of Graves

by W.E. Linde

  The prince rested a moment on his back, but the clamor of combat forced him up again. With the death of the dragon, the enemy had fallen back to just beyond the knoll where Laveris stove against death. Dehrbane started down the slope again, casting aside his fatigue, as a storm cloud seemed to descend upon his brother and the Death Knight.

  * * *

  Cruel winds lashed the knoll, fanning the raging dragon fire into a seething tempest. Laveris felt his mortality quicken within him, as each blow, each crash of arms with the Xethicor brought death — and something far worse than death — ever closer. But his fear was banished now, his terror at bay as Valehem fed off of his war lust and his shield channeled the power of Layarax.

  The sky turned black as the battlefield again grew unnaturally silent. The Tower of Layarax shone forth with a dazzling light which blinded all who looked directly on it. The Xethicor paused and turned to look for a moment at the tower. Suddenly silver lightning thundered down and smote the ground, scattering the Dagir Xethu. The light atop Glorion pulsed, and again lightning spit from the clouds, and again, and again. Within seconds lightning began cascading out of the sky, and the enemy was thrown into chaotic retreat back toward the river.

  The Xethicor appeared uncertain under the storm of silver death, and Laveris swung at it, carving a gash in its side. As the Xethicor fell back Laveris thrust, impaling the creature. Then, as the weapon lodged in the Death Knight's torso, the blade snapped in twain. The creature itself made no sound, and the heir to the throne of Valeot, last of the Kingdoms of Maladine, stepped forward and peered into the eyes of Death.

  From within the depths of the great helmet, the creature laughed.

  It stood tall, and Laveris felt its accursed weapon pierce his chest. A soul withering numbness spread through his body and he fell to his knees. As his strength ebbed, and he felt his life steal away, he grasped up at his enemy. The Xethicor raised its weapon, and brought it down with such force the shield of Layarax split with a great flash of light. Laveris fell.

  * * *

  Dehrbane halted his dash toward the hill as his elder brother crumpled beneath the Xethicor. The noble heir, eldest of the children of King Atherion and the mightiest of the sons of Valeot had been no match for the Emissary of Death. With a shout, filled with the rage of brotherly despair, Dehrbane charged the hill where the Xethicor crouched over the dead prince. It turned its great helmet toward Dehrbane, its iron smile and pale eyes leering at him. As the living prince reached the creature, it stood tall once more, looking more like a prince of Hell than ever. The golden crown on its head blazed with fire, and the black blade in its hands sounded as a dirge.

  The flames of the dragons had waned, and now a noxious black smoke wafted over the battlefield. Dehrbane's eyes stung and he fought to breathe. The creature faded from his view, all except the nefarious crown that now bewitched and captivated him. It rose higher and higher, bursting with fire and looking like the sun as it hung over him.

  Then the iron visage of Death appeared beneath the crown, its cruel features hovering over the prince in mockery and malice. Dehrbane's strength fled, and his ancient blade Tygrist went silent. The prince fell to one knee, his honor and courage raging within as terror overwhelmed him. With a powerful effort he raised his eyes to look upon his enemy. Beyond the creature, through the smoky darkness, Dehrbane saw the lightning again started to fall from the heavens.

  An icy pain shattered his chest. His last vision was of the sun falling from the sky and landing upon the back of the Xethicor. And then blackness took him as Dehrbane joined his brother.

  * * *

  Harkom despaired as he looked upon the bodies of his princes at the feet of the Death Knight. The beast stood motionless except to turn its head to look from one body to the other. The War Dirge of the Dagir Xethu then broke out anew, the deep primeval chant resonating across the battlefield.

  The enemy had regrouped at the river, and now charged the demoralize defenders with hate-fueled lust. The defensives were disintegrating. Line upon line of men turned in terror from the rising tide of soldiers pouring around the fallen princes. The remaining dragons dropped into the thick of Valeot's soldiers, burning and crushing all that stood before them.

  Harkom struck his horse and charged toward the tower. Riding against the crush of his retreating men he spied Revhalom. The magus was stooped over as though wounded while one of the crimson dragons rose up over him on its hind legs, fresh blue flame kindled within the blackness of its open mouth. The man-at-arms charged, but his horse pitched forward and fell to the ground in fright. As he fought to stand he saw Revhalom lift his hands and place them together just as the dragon unleashed a torrent of fire. The elderly magus disappeared from sight as blue flame engulfed him.

  The heat of the dragon fire crushed Harkom under a blanket of searing agony. He gasped as his lungs fought to pull in air so close to the unnatural inferno. Gripping his sword tightly, he plunged it into the earth before him and used the weapon to help him stand.

  The wizards are our only hope now, he thought desperately.

  The hellish heat ceased, as did the roar of the dragon. Through watery eyes Harkom saw Revhalom, now on his knees but otherwise alive and unscathed. The dragon lowered its head and roared at the wizard. Harkom felt a tremble as Revhelom's gaunt face turned to him.

  Come to me, said the wizard without using his voice. Come now! You cannot kill the dragon, but I will protect you for a moment. Layarax the Mighty will perform one last work.

  Invisible hands lifted Harkom. In amazement he looked down. His armor was blackened and had mostly burned away. Much of the flesh on his left leg was exposed and charred, though the pain was gone. Before him was the dragon and Revhalom, the only defender standing before the tower. The wizard motioned him forward.

  Come now! Cry aloud for your kingdom!

  Harkom hefted his sword, and charged at the dragon as all fear fled. "Valeot!" he shouted. For a moment nothing on earth seemed to move, and all was suspended in shadows. When Harkom neared the beast it turned. As it did so, the wizard stood and raised his hands.

  The ground shuddered and Harkom was again thrown to the ground. His head collided against the scaly foot of the dragon. He tried to stand. His leg, while still without pain, would not obey him. The wound had burst, the muscle and sinew opened wide. Harkom looked beyond the dragon looming over him. The other beasts were landing around the tower.

  Shout once more, said Revhalom's voice. For King, for vengeance, for Valeot, shout and raise your sword. I will help you. I am taking your pain from you now, and you will help to save your people.

  Harkom's thoughts swam as through mire. The dragons advanced, and in their midst was it, the slayer of his princes. Yet although the Xethicor approached, still no fear assailed him.

  So he rose, Harkom of Ceremane, man-at-arms for the greatest of Valeot's sons. Despite his useless leg he stood, and though his mind felt dull and slow, a flame flickered within his breast. He brandished his sword, and summoning what strength was left within his bones, let out the battle cry of his King. "Valeot!" he bellowed. The cry echoed across the maelstrom on the ground. The dragons turned and the Xethicor paused. Harkom laughed within as the sword of his fathers, although imbued with the slightest of enchantments, blazed with the same blue light as the pinnacle of the Tower of Layarax.

  The dragons hissed. The two closest averted their eyes, unable to look directly at the burning weapon he now held. The shadows that cloaked the Death Knight mostly fled as well. Its dragonmare stepped back, halting only when the Xethicor pulled upon the reins. The advancing legion paused.

  With a shriek of the damned, the Xethicor slashed its sword forward, pointing at Harkom. The dragonmare instantly pounced, racing toward him. The dragons roared as well, and sped toward him and the wizard.

  The ground trembled, and the sky above Harkom was consumed in cerulean fire. The savage mount of the Xethicor plunged into the earth as a lance of flame tore thr
ough its beastly skull.

  Harkom collapsed, and fell upon his back. His eyes rolled up, and he saw Revhalom standing before the door of Glorion. Suddenly, as he blinked, the wizard was gone. The inferno above grew more intense, and although he knew his body was burning, Harkom looked above directly into the flame.

  The pinnacle of the tower was ablaze with a celestial fire. Bolts of the supernatural flame leapt to the heavens and to the earth, destroying everything. As the violence intensified, the tower began to shudder and crack. Massive stones fell from it, shattering into flaming debris as they fell on the creatures below.

  The dragons wailed and fought to climb into the air. The burning stones collided with them, crushing and burning that which no earthly flame could burn.

  In the midst of it all, the Xethicor stood. It no longer seemed concerned with the dying Harkom, although he lay mere steps away. Its awful eyes, encased in its demonic armor, were upon the cosmic devastation above him. Harkom again laughed. He would see vengeance before he died.

  The tower groaned, then buckled. As the Dagir Xethu fled madly back to the river, Harkom's last sight was of a gargantuan slab of silver stone, ablaze with the fire of Layarax's Tower, as it hurtled to the ground where he and the Xethicor stood. The creature turned then, as if to flee. Harkom gave a final shout, heard only by the Xethicor, who glanced down at the mortal at his feet just as the blazing stone consumed them both.

  Chapter 8: The Season of Shadows

  The trumpets were silent when Frey and Dayhoral rode out of the Pilgrim's Gate. The afternoon was now late, and the sun remained obscured behind a veil of somber clouds. The King's Road, wide and constructed of smooth gray stone, was born at the foot of the gate, leading away gently to the west and north. Hundreds of miles it stretched, terminating at the border of Valeot where even now Frey knew his brothers vied with the main thrust of the Necromancer Kings.

  Frey turned his sight to the field that lay on the north side of the road. Marshaled there was a hastily formed great column, perhaps two thousand men. Amid the din and clatter of the assembly, the voices of his knights could be heard as they strove to impose order.

  Defending on the plain north of Ceremane would be bloody. With no significant land features to occupy, the last of the army of Valeot quickly began building defensive positions from whatever material they could. Women and children were enlisted to help drive horses and oxen laden with carts of stone cut from the quarry west of the Lhorost. All the lumber nearby in gardens and grottoes was harvested. What artisans and engineers that still dwelt within the city walls were called upon to direct the building of catapults. Hurling stones and pitch were marshaled and stocked nearby.

  Frey guided his steed through the frenzied activity. He knew where Vraim had set up command. Shortly after exiting the Pilgrim's Gate, a narrow paved path snaked to the north for nearly a mile. At the end of the path, rising like a great stone sentinel, was a thick keep built upon a man-made hill overlooking the deep ravine cut by the Lhorost. Hundreds of years ago, a royal strategist had ordered the keep constructed so the King's soldiers could have a post that would allow them to view anyone coming from the north, a once-favored approach of the wild Northmen who now fought for the King.

  As they approached, Frey noted archers in the watchtower silhouetted against the opaque sky. By the time he and Dayhoral had arrived at the base of the keep, Vraim was standing there. With him were two knights, tall and powerful men girded in full plate armor with the sword-hilt emblem of Valeot engraved on their breasts. Beside them stood another tall man with long brown hair and a thick black beard. He wore chain-link armor under a leather vest and a steel helmet on his head. Captain Braned of the Watch Keep knelt as Frey approached.

  "My lord," said Vraim, "the Dagir Xethu have pressed hard following our first engagement. Little time was spent rallying their forces after all had exited the Frost Lands."

  "How soon until they arrive, Captain?" Vraim looked to Braned, who rose as he answered.

  "Lord Frey, sentinels arrived just hours ago from Frorend. The village has been leveled."

  At this Vraim held up his hand and placed it quickly on Braned's shoulder while he addressed Frey.

  "The inhabitants are safe, Prince Frey. We rode through the village yesterday evening en route here. We stopped to change horses, and when we did so I ordered the magistrate to clear out the village at once. Most are now within the walls of Ceremane, or have traveled to the coast and the Caiste Duchy."

  "Well done, Captain," said Frey. "This kingdom knows no more noble a knight than you."

  Vraim nodded in submission, and stepped back to allow Braned to continue.

  "An army the size of which now marches on us should take at least two days to make the journey to these fields. The road is far too narrow to accommodate them all. But the sentinels report they could see and even hear them for most of their journey south. Prince Frey, I fear they are a half day's journey away at the most."

  "So they would arrive before daybreak. Dayhoral, what can you tell me? Will they travel at such speed through the night? Will they pause to regroup before they assault us?" Frey turned, only then noticing the wizard was no longer behind him. He glanced around before noticing the familiar cloaked figure standing in the center of the Keep's hold. Frey opened his mouth to call out when a sudden chill passed through him. The others must have felt it as well, from their shared countenance.

  Frey strode forward and approached the magus. Dayhoral spoke as he closed in upon him.

  "Nay lord, they will not pause before the attack," he said. His cowl was cast back, and his eyes were staring into the darkening clouds above. "They will not be hindered by night either, my prince. Night will not visit us this evening it would seem." Frey looked quizzically at the wizard, then up to the sky. The sun was still obscured by the clouds.

  "Vraim, what hour is it? It feels like night should be upon us soon." Vraim's voice answered from behind him.

  "Aye, my lord. Evening should be upon us now. But the sun has not moved for hours." Frey turned to look at his captain. For the first time in his memory a shadow of fear had crossed Vraim's face.

  "Dayhoral, by the gods, what is happening?" Dayhoral watched the sun, and then looked to the east. The clouds had parted close to the horizon, and the moon could be seen rising.

  "The Necromancer Kings are exercising all of their might. They seem to have taken the sun and the moon captive, my lord." His voice wavered, and trailed off.

  "Wizard, whatever arts you and your master possess, I pray you are able to counter this." Frey stepped forward to a battlement. He looked to the blackened north.

  "The Xethicor comes, already crowning itself our Lord," said Frey. "Our weapons can slay the Dagir Xethu, our magic can counter the Dark Captains. Yet while that beast leads the enemy, we have no hope."

  "We have one," Dayhoral spoke distantly, looking once more to the west. "I have heard nothing from my master in over a day, and I dare not guess what that could mean. But he is powerful, and if he and the remaining army can counter the main thrust of the enemy in the west, then perhaps Layarax will be able to bend his will this way."

  Braned laughed disdainfully. "Magic has done nothing to slow the enemy advance. Nearly two battalions were eradicated despite being led by our heroic princes, and your magic was without effect. Magic has failed us. Our only hope is in the might of our people." Frey stirred and the fire within his ice-blue eyes silenced Braned. When he spoke, his voice was hard.

  "I'm not fool enough to place my faith in sorcery, but Dayhoral's magic was great enough to save me and some of my command, and to summon together the forces we have arrayed here now. I do not know by what miracle we can overcome the doom marching upon us, and so I will appeal to whatever powers I need to."

  Frey pulled Faerthring from its scabbard. The glint that at one time seemed to live within the steel was gone and the weapon felt like dead weight. "Everything feels corrupted. The death which rides with the Xe
thicor is worse than the end of life." He looked at Dayhoral.

  "I must be able to stand before the Xethicor, if only for a short time. Whatever enchantments you have at your command, I need them." Dayhoral looked down, seeming to ponder the prince's words.

  "My lord, there are artifacts within the Citadel of the Magi that may be of use. Your father bequeathed the greatest of these to Prince Laveris. Others may remain that might aide us. I will ride at once."

  Frey nodded, and the wizard departed.

  * * *

  The sun continued to smolder beyond the veil of clouds that grew ever darker as the hours slipped by. Familiar red lightning thrashed the northern darkness. The soldiers stopped working on the fortifications in order to rest before the inevitable combat. The King's subjects had been gathered together and sent back to the safety of the city walls, and all was quiet for a brief while.

  Thunder rolled. Spidery veins of fire spread across the clouds. Then the deep, rhythmic rumble of thousands of marching soldiers cascaded across the plains.

  Frey sat within the Keep's dimly lit Great Room. Six lamps sputtered atop a thick wooden chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. Frey felt the shadows grew greater as the minutes escaped into hours.

  The walls vibrated. The floor, barely perceptible in the shadows, shook slightly. The flame within the lamps flickered madly for a moment. Suddenly a knock violated the ominous quiet, and Dayhoral entered.

  "They have come?" asked Frey.

  "Aye, my lord." The wizard stepped carefully through the darkness and presented himself before the prince. Under his arm he carried a wide chest of dark wood bound by silver hinges and an ornate silver lock. Carvings decorated the box, although the details lay submerged under the shadows of the room. Frey looked to Dayhoral, waiting for explanation.

  "Since the time the Death Knights first took command of the armies of the Necromancer Kingdoms," the magus began, "only two warriors have ever vanquished one. You know of Berinshar, the last king of Maladine. He slew the first of the Xethicor, only to fall to the treachery of his own son. The only other hero to stand before the Death Knights was Vingarous, the son of the prophet Toulorn. Six hundred years ago, he vanquished the enemy on the shores of Vendehar during the third War with the Lords of the Dead."