The Prince of Graves

by W.E. Linde

  "I know the histories, Dayhoral. How did they do it?"

  As he answered, Dayhoral pulled a heavy, iron key from a pocket within his robe. The key was plain, like one that would open any door within the Keep, except for a glassy green sapphire fixed at the base. The wizard inserted it into the lock on the chest.

  "Berinshar is a mystery," Dayhoral said. "Although not unkind to the magi, he was renowned for his aversion to all things magic. I believe this led to his death, as his enemies had embraced evil and spiritism. How he was able to battle and defeat the Xethicor is forever lost.

  "Vingarous was able to stand before the Xethicor only because he was aided by Margarion the Great, the Elder Magus of that day. Vingarous was the noblest of warriors, upright and mighty. But as you and I have both seen, the terror invoked by the mere presence of the Xethicor overwhelms all mortal courage. Margarion held in his possession an ancient weapon forged before the days of even Maladine, thought lost after the Fall. This he gave to Vingarous, as well as a shield and a helmet that he himself forged. Each of these items the Elder Magus infused with all of his power. Everything."

  A memory of a past lesson leapt to Frey's mind.

  "Valehem, the sword my father gave to Laveris, is that weapon."

  "Aye," Dayhoral nodded. "The very same. The metal it is forged of is said to be a fragment of a divine weapon. Who knows?" said the wizard with a shrug.

  "During Vingarous' battle with the Xethicor, the sword was able to pierce the armor of the beast, and the shield withstood the creature's blows. But both were useless without this," and Dayhoral opened the chest. Resting within was a helmet of sorts. It looked more like a thin crown set upon silver chain links.

  "This was kept in the Magi Citadel. Although your father demanded Valehem be given to your brother, he feared allowing the helm to be worn. Its enchantment will allow you to stand before the Xethicor. It will brace your heart, but there is a cost." Dayhoral reached down and lifted the circlet. The chain links shook free and sparkled even in the gloom.

  "I expected as much. What cost will be exacted?" asked the prince. Dayhoral hesitated before answering.

  "Magic such as this does not produce the spirit necessary to stand before such evil. Enchanted devices either inflame what is already there, or it summons energy from without."

  Frey looked warily at the circlet. In the center of it was a single red stone with a hue so faint it was translucent. Within the stone the Lion Crest of Maladine could be seen.

  "In what manner does this helmet work its magic?"

  "It does both," replied Dayhoral, turning the helm as though examining it. "It will quicken your spirit, your natural courage, burning it like the fuel in these lamps. Eventually your spirit will be exhausted, and the helm will seek power without. When Vingarous wore this helm, that power was given by Margarion. Of that art, I am not familiar. So there is a risk, a danger, the helm will draw from the spirits of rage and malice which now seek to overwhelm us."

  Frey shook his head. "To what end? Will I invite the enemy into my body? Of what use is this then?"

  The wizard appeared thoughtful, and when he spoke his words were careful.

  "Should you face the Xethicor and live, you will likely remain a son of Valeot and the enemy of the Necromancer Kings. However, your spirit may become infected with forces alien to your nature. Hate and malice are spirits of this world, of this age. Depending on how long you struggle with the Xethicor, you may be forever tormented by the spirits called to assist you. It is the way of these things."

  Frey looked closer at the delicate-looking crown. The reflected light of the chandelier slid over the silver as the wizard nervously turned it over and over.

  "My lord," continued Dayhoral. "You are one of the greatest heroes of Valeot. Your courage and heart are renowned. I have always thought you the equal of your noble brother Laveris. In some ways, I believe you to be the mightier, though you yourself dismiss the notion." Dayhoral then set the helm back in the chest and leaned forward to the prince.

  "But you are wounded, and your spirit is still recovering from the first engagement with the Death Knight. I fear that, should you prove the victor, the scars will haunt you the rest of your days."

  Frey placed his hand on Dayhoral's shoulder.

  "Well said, Dayhoral. And do not think me ignorant of the deeper meaning of your fears. If this helm exacts such a weighty toll, then an heir to the throne will be a mad prince. But we must face the truth. I will not likely live to see tomorrow. I do not expect to vanquish the Xethicor. After all, I am not Berinshar, and Vingarous was equipped with a mighty sword and shield I do not possess. My only purpose now is to stop the beast long enough to bloody its forces and weaken them. Perhaps Ceremane can survive until the western forces, if they prevail, can return to her aid."

  Dayhoral nodded. He leaned back, his features dissolving into the shadow. Frey was reminded of the cowled visage of the wizard when he had stopped the prince's descent into death. Foggy memories of the rushing torrent of water from the deathly river cascaded through his thoughts. Frey mused, and realized soon he would have the opportunity to see what waited over those falls.

  * * *

  Atop the Watch Keep's center tower, Frey, Dayhoral, Vraim, and Braned looked on as the faded green and beige of the northern grasslands became polluted by the dark mass of the arriving Dagir Xethu. At first a thin line appeared, marring the horizon. Quickly, it spread.

  Frey thought of Canerion, and the line of prophets before him. The old seer was insane, but his cold words called out within his mind.

  "Both the prophets and magi teach the dictates of prophecy are inescapable," said Frey. "When we have the arrogance to ignore the will of the divine, doom will inevitably fall." The prince continued watching as the dark stain of the Dagir Xethu spread across the land like blood soaking through a burial shroud. Horns called out like morning birds from amid his troops, bringing to mind memories of the slaughter in the north. Still, though their foes seemed innumerable, he felt victory could still be won were it not for the damnable host's devil prince.

  "Is fate so desperate to fulfill prophecy it sends the Xethicor to ensure victory for the enemy?" he asked bitterly.

  At the head of the advancing army, leading like a great figurehead of polished ebony, rode the Death Knight. Rising and falling in a gallop close by were dozens of Dark Captains, each on dragonmares of black and red and gray. The remaining host spread out like wings east and west.

  A chill swept across Frey as he looked upon his enemy again. He cursed how the battle zeal building in his blood fled when his eyes fell on the Xethicor, and his wounds would burn and ache. A voice carried on the wind. Frey shook his head to block it out.

  I am coming.

  Frey heard low voices conversing behind him. A tall man wearing the muted green and brown uniform of an army messenger was speaking softly to Captain Braned. When the messenger saw the prince turn he immediately knelt.

  "My lord," said Braned. "Captain Vraim summoned Orodin, chief of the Deihamen warriors, to the Keep. He has arrived, and is in the hold with Vraim."

  Frey dismissed the messenger.

  "We have no time to squander. Bring them both to me now for counsel." Frey glanced again north. "The enemy arrives within hours."

  Moments later, Orodin emerged with Vraim and Braned from the damp staircase which led from the hold to the upper ramparts. The Northman was a hulking figure who towered over all around him. His long platinum hair, bound in a leather braid, and ice blue eyes spoke to his race. When he spotted Frey, he strode toward him.

  Frey sensed the unease of his two attending knights. The peace that existed between Deihaim and Valeot was decades old now, and Deihaim had embraced fealty to the August Kingdom with the marriage of Atherion and Shealia. However, the bloody history between the two kingdoms ran much longer than the peace, and resentment still dwelt in the breasts of the people of both lands.

  Frey felt the suspicion of
his men vanish the moment Orodin stood before him. Immediately the powerful man bent to one knee and bowed his head. A stony voice rumbled from beneath the averted eyes.

  "My lord, the people of Deihaim await your command." Frey noted the surprised look on Braned's face at the sight.

  "Rise, Captain Orodin. The August Kingdom is in dire need of your warriors, and is grateful."

  Vraim stepped up beside Orodin, but Braned kept some distance. Frey looked to Vraim.

  "Captain, the enemy host is too wide for us to assault on the flanks. That leaves our center too weak to halt the main advance. I know our knights want to strike at the heart of the enemy, but place them in command of the Caiste soldiers and defend the flanks of the Northmen. They are to keep the enemy from encircling them at all cost."

  Orodin bowed his head slightly.

  "We'll drag these creatures to hell with us before we let them strike the walls of Ceremane, my lord."

  Vraim looked thoughtfully at Orodin, then back to the prince.

  "Prince Frey, the center of the enemy attack will be led by the Death Knight. How will it hold?" The shattering bellow of thunder rolled across the sky, followed quickly by another, then another. Many of the soldiers ceased their frenzied preparations and cowered below the noise. Only Frey and Orodin did not flinch.

  "Canerion said the men of Deihaim do not appear in the prophecies of the end of the kingdoms of Maladine. Perhaps they can stand close to the creature while I challenge it." Vraim cast his eyes to the ground. Frey sensed his thoughts.

  "I know, my friend, that alone I cannot stand before that devil. I'll need Dayhoral's arts to absorb the black terror. If I can stand before it, perhaps we'll have enough time to bleed the bastards dry and foil their designs on Ceremane."

  * * *

  The sound of a world-devouring dirge billowed across the plains, rising from the marching enemy. The Deihamen readied their spears and swords, returning a roar of war lust that drowned out the mournful ballad of the dead. Nearly a thousand of the Northmen, placed in three formations, steeled themselves with scarcely suppressed euphoria as they waited for their captain's command.

  On the far ends of the Deihamen were the Knights of Valeot and the soldiers of the Caiste Duchy, numbering nearly eight hundred. Though lightly armed with spears and wide short swords, the people of Caiste were renowned warriors, at one time long ago being the first line of defense against the Northmen they now fought beside. They were brave and skilled in the use of their weapons.

  Behind the formations were the hastily built fortifications. Only four squads of archers could be pulled from the city, almost two hundred men. These were divided evenly across the defensive lines, ready to unleash death into the center of the enemy mass. Behind the archers stood the catapults, the throwing stones, and the burning pitch. Only a small reserve force of another two hundred soldiers, under the command of a single knight, was held back, ready to reinforce whatever part of the forward lines first looked as though it might fail.

  * * *

  The enemy did not pause, but rather increased speed as they approached the men of Valeot. From the midst of the metallic thunder of iron boots a vile bellow issued that shook the walls of the Watch Keep. Leading the charge were the Dark Captains, darkness clinging to them like great cloaks. They rode atop their dragonmares and chanted in their alien tongue.

  The Deihamen spearmen responded with a shout, then closed ranks and braced for the charge. The first wave of the Dagir Xethu swept in, crashing into the front lines of the Northmen. Like a gargantuan battering ram the enemy struck as dragonmares leapt into the air to bypass the first lines of defenders. Most were hacked down before their scaly hooves touched the earth. The hateful shrieks of the invaders mixed with the war cries of the Northmen, neither giving quarter.

  * * *

  Dayhoral stood atop the Watch Tower. A whirlwind of blue light raced around him as he issued incantations toward the battlefield. The shadows surrounding the Dark Captains below evaporated, rising like the smoke of forsaken fires before disappearing into the blue whirlwind. Clouds of burning arrows arced toward the magus, but were either burned up before reaching him or turned mid-flight to fall upon any Dagir Xethu that approached the Keep.

  The assault was wide, swiftly reaching the flanks where the knights and Duchy footmen were poised. The eastern flank, the closest to the Watch Keep, shuddered as dragonmares and Dark Captains were followed by a great rush of Dagir Xethu footmen. Only a narrow swath of land separated the eastern position from the rocky cliffs that towered over the Lhorost as it entered the northern reaches of Ceremane, and the precipitous cliffs prevented the enemy from encircling the defenders. The Dagir Xethu crashed time and again into the knights and warriors of Caiste, attempting to drive them over the cliffs, or to break through and approach the Keep.

  Yet the defense held. The flank was too well anchored and many of the Dagir Xethu were cut down. Some were even forced over the cliffs in their reckless zeal to surround the defending forces. The knights rallied their troops as the buglers issued the command to advance. Arrows, stones, and pitch fell into the midst of the death soldiers, creating a gap in the advance the knights seized upon. With a shout to the signalmen, they charged forth into the face of the enemy. The eastern assault was faltering.

  * * *

  In the midst of the battle raging in the center of the arrayed armies, the Xethicor descended like a thunderclap, and none stood before him. Before the defenders of Valeot could turn to flee, they were cut down by the Death Knight or shred by the creature's dragonmare. Consumed with terror, none were able to strike back.

  Amid the circle of carnage surrounding the beast, a grim calm settled it. The Xethicor turned its sight to the east and the Watch Keep. While the Dark Captains and Dagir Xethu battled around it, Frey could feel its hateful gaze look upon them.

  "He will come now," said Frey. "Dayhoral thwarts the vile magic of the Dark Captains, and though we cannot hope to prevail against the Dagir Xethu, the ferocity of our stand is weakening them. Effective siege may be impossible. Therefore it will seek to destroy the Keep quickly in order to slay me, and slay Dayhoral." Frey took up the silver helmet.

  "I ride now to meet the Prince of Graves, alone."

  Vraim burst out in fury. "Alone my lord? Madness! The kingdom will lose another prince if you go alone!"

  "My friend, there will be no kingdom if I do not go. Our forces are stretched to breaking, and will fail soon enough. If I can but draw the beast away for a short time, I know we can bleed the Xethu enough to defend against siege. I must go!" He turned Vraim back to the battle.

  "See, the western line is collapsing, and the center buckles! Captain Vraim, send the reserve unit to the western forces now. Lady Elelluin leads the Duke's soldiers there. Order the archers to move their aim to the seam where the center and western advances are joined." A shadow passed over Frey's face, and he looked down. On a thin path that had been cut between the recently built defensive lines and the Keep, the Xethicor rode.

  It emerged from the fighting as though it were a thing of no consequence, of no more interest than the carcass of an animal by the wayside. Like a living shadow, the figure appeared to glide effortlessly up the trail. Within minutes it had arrived at the base of the hill of the Watch Keep.

  * * *

  The doors of the Keep swung wide. A blast of trumpets issued forth, declaring the coming of the Prince of Valeot. The Xethicor paused and the hackles of the dragonmare rose. Frey urged his warhorse over the threshold. The prince now wore the plate armor of one of his knights, save for the helmet. The silver circlet rested on his brow, and the chain links were secured to the shoulders of the thin hauberk that lay under the plates of his armor. The red stone was dazzling now, and Frey felt the terror of the Death Knight breaking against him like the waves of the sea against ancient cliffs.

  Frey prompted the horse forward down the slope of the long hill, Faerthring in his right hand. The Xethicor watched
from the base, motionless. At length the dragonmare stepped on to the incline, and stalked toward Frey. The rest of the world faded into a mute aside as the emissary of death advanced. The prince's heart hammered against his ribs, and the air turned cold as they closed the gap between them. The creature halted once more when it was a mere fifty paces away. Frey quietly ordered his mount to stop as well.

  In silence they regarded one another, Frey and his mount on the higher ground. The creature's eyes were hidden by the dragon visage of its steel helmet, but Frey sensed the malice pouring forth from them. Freed of the preternatural terror of the beast, he felt euphoria wash over him in anticipation of combat.

  Suddenly the dragonmare let loose a long, low hiss, then sank to a crouch. To Frey's surprise, the Xethicor dismounted and stepped forward. No weapon was drawn, but the stench of death and decay roiled around it. In a horrible voice, the sound of the lifeless lungs of centuries of fallen men, it spoke.

  "The Lords of Mahakir command you this day to surrender. Do so now, and some within the city walls will live. Do not, and none will survive. You and your family will lie in torment in the dungeons of Mahakir forever."

  Frey shuddered as the voice echoed through his mind. The red stone burned brighter still, pushing the wicked voice aside. He took a breath, and freezing air burned his lungs. Warmth radiated from the circlet, however, filling his body with vigor.

  "You've failed, beast," Frey called. "Every man of Valeot will die on this battlefield before you can reach our walls. For each that falls, ten of your dogs fall with them. And if there be any justice from the gods, I'll take you to hell with me!"

  The Xethicor stepped closer, its footsteps heavy and loud. It began slowly, almost causally, to walk to Frey. The awful voice chuckled, and in response the stone of the circlet burned hot and bright.

  "The prince of mortals doth speak of the eternal," it mocked, drawing its accursed weapon from its scabbard. "But he knows nothing." Within the depths of the demonic helmet Frey caught the glimpse of pale blue eyes burning with spite and hate. The entire circlet now felt hot. Frey looked down at his mount and realized it was trembling in terror. Swiftly he dismounted, allowing it to turn and gallop back to the Keep.