The Battle for Jordborg

by Logan Petty

  Sawain looked up in wonder. “Love? She . . . . Wait, did you just say . . . ?”

  Ylsgrin unfolded his wings, filling the room with shimmering light. “Do not keep me waiting, boy. Let us be on our way. I have much to learn.”

  Mari sat up in Sawain’s arms. She could not look up at him. The pain in her face ripped at Sawain. He lifted her chin in his hand and she stared into his eyes. She smiled and sudden realization dawned on her face. She unlatched her pouch and pulled the totem from it. She pressed it to Sawain’s chest, her eyes sparkling. He gazed upon the girl holding his totem, who had guided him to the dragon. He pulled her close, and kissed the one who was willing to sacrifice everything to fulfil his destiny.

  Chapter 7:

  The morning sun peeked through the veil of fog surrounding the land as Binze and Terrina reached a familiar knoll. The two had run silently all night long through driving rain and flashing lightning. The blasting peals of thunder from above broke their silent vigil from time to time. Now, they looked down into a wide valley surrounded by rocky hills. A strange city of stone domes spiraled outward from the center of the valley. Its twisting streets remained empty. Despite its obvious upkeep, the city looked abandoned.

  “Looks like no one’s here. I don’t see Mari either,” Terina said, breaking the several hour long silence. “If she made it inside the city limits, there’s nothing we can do for her now. Neither of us can set hoof in that place and you know it.”

  Binze sighed as he scanned the landscape for any signs of life among the city of the dead. Nothing moved in the valley. He noted that there was not even a breeze. This would be welcome after the long night of being battered by the wind, if it did not feel so ominous.

  “You may be right about that, but we can’t turn back empty handed. We are here. This is our chance to get the runestone. For Hammerhold’s sake, we cannot waver now. We are already being tracked.”

  Terina’s hand instinctively hovered over her axe’s hilt. “The wind has stopped. You don’t think . . . .”

  Binze nodded as he began to trot down into the valley. “The Harthaz are onto us. I don’t know how. Maybe in our haste, we crossed a patrol path I overlooked. Maybe we were spotted by a scout. Either way, we might be fighting our way out.”

  A grove of pines sprawled out at the foot of the knoll they came down. Binze took to the shelter of the trees quickly, followed by his retainer. They moved like shadows among the foliage. He noted the lack of birdsongs in the air as his hand ventured closer to his blade. The trees began to thin after ten minutes of walking. A twig snapped to his left. In a flash of steel, the companions drew their weapons, positioning themselves in a formation the centaur called Heart Flank. Binze faced the west, Terina faced the east, yet they stood right beside one another, both protecting one of their ally’s flanks. The thundering of hooves crashing through the undergrowth and churning shadows all around announced their hunters’ presence. In the blink of an eye, two dozen centaur, all pointing spears and drawn bows at their prey, surrounded them.

  “Put your weapons down, traitors, and come peacefully, or we shall execute you on the spot.”

  The circle of aggressors parted as a woman with the lower body of a painted horse strode forward. Her brown hair was close cropped. She wore a leather jerkin and a shirt of stone plates fitted together like scales. Her lower half wore vestments dyed red that hung from her sides like a banner. Her armor was pristine. Binze did not recognize her face, but he recognized her type. He smirked.

  “Oh, is the Wind Speaker still recruiting new inquisitors? I thought for sure that sect would have died out by now. What heretics are we that you should draw against your own clansmates?”

  The woman snorted, narrowing her eyes on Binze. She placed her hands on her hips, exuding haughtiness.

  “You are quite well know, oh fallen prince. And lady Terina, your excursions as an elite inquisitor are still taught by the instructors of the faithful.”

  Terina laughed, “Taught, and not practiced, I see. Tell me child, did you just leave your instructor’s side? That armor of yours is so nice. Not a scratch on it.”

  The woman scowled, redness rising in her cheeks. She dropped her arrogant pose and drew her longsword.

  “I am Inquisitor Analetta of the Harthaz, and my name will replace yours in our history after I capture the heretic prince and the turncoat inquisitor. Now, please. Resist arrest. I can still ring plenty of honor from your severed heads.”

  Creaking leather indicated to Binze that Terina’s temper rose as she squeezed her axes harder. He glanced around as his heart raced. If they attacked, the odds were high that the Harthaz archers would turn them into hooved pincushions. Even if they did not, he would be forced to kill more of his clansmates, which could not help his cause in any way. He sighed and dropped his weapon. Terina glared at him over her shoulder.

  “My prince! We can take them! We—”

  “No, Terina. Drop your weapons. You’d only be playing into her hands.”

  A moment of still silence ended as the sound of two axes thudding against the forest floor signaled Terina’s submission. Binze locked eyes with the inquisitor, who looked clearly irritated. She spat on the ground.

  “Fine by me if you give up, cowards. Typical low class criminals. Never want to do it the fun way. Bind them and take everything they are carrying.”

  The circle of soldiers closed in on the two captives. Binze did not struggle as they took his bags and weapons. Terina was less cooperative. She stubbornly stood stock still as they tried to unlatch her weapons, which remained strapped across her chest. She glared fiercely at the young men who reluctantly fiddled with her sword’s barding. As they searched her bags, they withdrew the strange bone scepter Jatharr had pilfered from the Grey Priest. Binze gazed at Terina, wide eyed.

  “When did you get that?”

  Terina smirked. “That Tor Clan halfling is as careless as a child. I merely picked it up on the way out of camp. He won’t miss it. It did not belong to him anyway.”

  Binze sighed, “But we will miss it.” Terina did not seem fazed by its confiscation.

  Within minutes, they were stripped of all but their undershirts and bound by the wrists. Analetta sauntered up to Terina, getting inches from her face. The inquisitor smirked as she spoke.

  “Oh how far the mighty must fall. You know, I asked for your armor in particular when I became an inquisitor. I wanted to wear it the day I brought you to justice. They said it was tainted, said a pure inquisitor could not wear such filthy rags.”

  Terina smirked back, her cold red eyes piercing through Analetta’s façade. “That what they told you? Hah. Truth is, it would be too big for a scrawny filly like you. Would droop in the chest, expose your frail throat.”

  Analetta’s smirk warped into an angry grimace. She spat in Terina’s face and pivoted around. Terina stood still as ever, not even reaching up to wipe away the insult. The inquisitor shouted fiercely at her crew.

  “What are you lot standing around for? Let’s move it! We must not keep the Wind Speaker waiting! He will be so relieved to have his lost little foals back where they belong.”

  A ripple of muffled chuckling stirred from the soldiers as they fell into formation and goaded the prisoners forward. Analetta led from the front, her tail swishing irritably. Binze glanced around him. He saw no way to escape, and even if he could, he would be defenseless. He knew he would have to take drastic measures to get out of this situation.

  Half an hour passed as they ventured into the twisting lanes of the Bone City. A chill ran down Binze’s spine as he surveyed the massive stone domes that rose up around him. He remembered spending time here as a colt when an important clanmate died and the clan gathered to lay his spirit to rest within these vaulted domes. They always unnerved him. He grew uncomfortable even now, thinking about the dead centaur that lay stacked upon the bones of their ancestors.

  They passed dozens of these towering monuments of death until they reached the
center of the city. A grandiose temple rose up amid the domes like a silent guardian. This building consisted of three domed towers connected by walls of stone. In the middle of these domes, a ziggurat made of granite loomed, its thousands of angular steps sweeping down to the walls. The gate to the ziggurat stood open, its barred fangs hanging ominously from the top of the gate. Binze held his breath as he passed under the gate. This habit formed when he was young as well.

  The cacophony of voices associate with a large crowd spilled downward from the top of the ziggurat. Annaletta glanced over her shoulder. “Hear that, oh prince? Your subjects have gathered to welcome you home.”

  Binze stared silently at her. He refused to give his enemy the benefit of a reaction. He continued to climb ever upward, one step at a time. The noise of the crowd grew louder with each step. Finally, as the inquisitor breached the last few steps, silence fell among the top dwellers. When Binze reached the last few steps, he could see a scene that made his skin crawl.

  The top of the ziggurat stretched out for hundreds of yards, its flat surface covered by a massive pavilion tent. Beneath the shade of that tent, hundreds of centaur of varying ages stood around, all halted in the middle of their private conversations. Their eyes fell on Binze and Terina as the inquisitor proudly marched them through the crowded pavilion. The pavilion acted like a small town. One corner near the entrance housed dozens of racks that bore weapons and armor. Food stalls and traders created faux streets that the entourage had to move around to get to their destination. The shocked silence of the citizens of this town in the clouds began to melt into whispers. After several minutes of nearly unbearable attention on themselves, the proud captives reached their destination.

  Another pavilion rested in the heart of the greater tent. Dozens of elderly centaur knelt upon massive pillows, encircling a much more ornate open palanquin. An elderly centaur knelt inside it. His pelt was solid black, matching his human half. His torso wore a vivid blue robe that fell over his lower half. His solid white hair was pulled back in a braided mane that rested against his back. Dozens of dull red scars covered his face and body. His hazy red eyes settled upon the two captives. His scarred lips spread into a cracked smile.

  “The spirits warned me I would be having guests. If I knew it would be the two of you, I might have picked up better.”

  Binze lowered his head in begrudging respect. “Wind Speaker Gothur, I am surprised you still commune with the spirits in your condition.”

  The old centaur snorted, his smile turning to a frown. “Tell me Binze, why have you returned? Are you ready to accept discipline for your heresies and return to the clan?”

  Binze looked up at the Wind Speaker. “What’s wrong, father? Are the spirits not telling you everything again?”

  Gothur gritted his teeth and rose from the cushion he rested upon. His size, even in old age daunted Binze. His father stood an entire hand higher than him when not raised on a platform. Gothur glared at his son.

  “I know you have returned, not as a repentant prodigal, but as a thief, aiming to steal away that which is precious to our people! I will not allow it.”

  Terina stamped hard, lurching at Gothur. “You arrogant old fool. You have already taken that which is precious to our people. Look around at these pampered dandies. We were once a proud people! And now look at us. That’s what you’ve stolen from us. You’ve taken our pride, you thieving beast!”

  An uproar from the crowd drowned out Gothur’s response. The elders surrounding Gothur rose from their pillows as the masses drew in closer. Their simple gesture silenced the tumult. Binze shot a sideways glance at Terina. A cold grimace adorned her features as she locked eyes with Gothur. The Wind Speaker cleared his throat.

  “And you. Once proud High Inquisitor of the faith. Look at you now. Homeless, nameless, nothing but a ragged shirt on your back, your shame exposed to the clan. How dare you speak to me of pride?”

  Terina did not flinch. “I speak as a free warrior of Hammerhold. I run with the pride of serving the people of the world, not just your selfish interests. I speak on behalf of my kin who are afraid to speak up. That is my pride, Gothur, speaker of the wind.”

  Gothur’s eyes narrowed on Terina as the crowd murmured again, this time softer, less angry. Binze stared at her in surprise. To address the Wind Speaker in such a defiant way, perverting his title to mean one who speaks lies instead of One who speaks to the spirits amounted to immediate death, especially in front of the Clan. He let his gaze snap back to his father. Gothur stepped toward Terina, his shoulders back, his head tilted up.

  “So, you think your defiance of our ancient ways makes you better than us?”

  Terina cut in, “Defiance? I am a defender of the old ways! You are the one who turned against them! Hiding up here in this sacred temple, using the resting place of our forefathers as your personal camping grounds. Disgusting. The Harthaz belong out on the fells, running free, not growing soft and complacent up here while the rest of Hammerhold suffers.”

  The crowd’s murmuring grew as Gothur swatted the air with his tail. “You foolish child. It was not my will, but that of our ancestors that we take refuge here. We listen to the wind and heed its warnings. They have served us well so far. After all, my brethren, did the wind not warn me that heretics of the faith would invade these holy grounds this day? And did not my action regarding this warning prevent disaster? Now the heretics are bound and our holy treasures remain untouched! Praise to the wind for its whispering secrets!”

  A rumbling of responses of varying enthusiasm and attitude bounced back, “Praise to the wind.”

  Binze gritted his teeth. “And what about the time you interpreted the wind’s secrets wrongly and started a holy war that turned Hammerhold against our people? And what good did it do us? The Fire Speaker still rose. He is out there now, pouring his blasphemous corruption across the land. He has already conquered Jordborg, a city with the might that outshines us a hundred fold! Do you really think you are safe hiding from the lord of the undead in a graveyard? Come to your senses, father!”

  Shouts of protest against Gothur began to rise from the crown. The Wind Speaker grimaced clearly, glaring at Binze. He stomped up to his son and let his arm fly, hitting him solidly across the jaw with the back of his hand.

  “I will hear no more from these heretics! They seek only to poison the minds of our youth.”

  Binze spat out the blood that began to pool in his mouth from an open wound on his inner lip. “I invoke the right of the heir.”

  Gasps arose from the crowd as Gothur stepped back, shock on his face. He quickly composed himself, smiling coyly.

  “Foolish child, you cannot invoke that right. Not only are you a heretic, but you are not the heir. Now, if she were to be so kind as to invoke the right, I would be happy to let her try.”

  The Wind Speaker’s eyes shot to Terina again. The crowd had grown silent. Binze stamped as he pleaded with her.

  “Terina, please. Do it.”

  Terina’s chest rose and sank drastically. She glanced around, looking for something. Her eyes settled on someone and she pointed at a centaur soldier nearby.

  “You. Bring me my scepter.”

  Rumblings of protest began again as the soldier hesitantly stepped forward, brandishing the bone scepter. Analetta stepped between him and Terina, glaring at the soldier. She held out an expectant hand.

  “Give me that scepter, Ulio. As your commanding officer, I demand it.”

  The soldier named Ulio hesitated, looking uncomfortable. He visibly swallowed hard and stepped around Analetta. In her rage, she lashed out at the soldier, who nimbly dodged it and tossed the scepter to Terina, who caught it with her bound hands. Ulio glared at Analetta.

  “Long live the heir.”

  The inquisitor let out an angry scream as she drew her sword. “Traitor! Heretic! You shall die for your insolence!”

  Shouts from the crowd as it pressed closer in stilled the inquisitor’s hand. The Harthaz clan g
rew like a spiteful tempest around the epicenter of the temple. Gothur raised a hand and the tumult lessened, but did not vanish. He spoke over the voices.

  “Settle down, my brethren. The true heir of the Harthaz wishes to speak. So speak. Do you admit your sins? Are you willing to repent and return to your people.”

  The agitated voices softened further as Terina glanced at Binze, who responded with a nod. She took a deep breath and raised her scepter as high as she could.

  “I do admit my sins. I admit the sins of killing thousands of innocent lives in the name of Gothur of the Harthaz. I admit to following you blindly for far too long. I admit that I have not been the Scion my people have needed all these years. I repent of those sins today and put the past behind me. I will return to the clan as their rightful ruler. I will see you thrown down, Gothur. I will change the fate of the Harthaz for the better.”

  Cheers and shouts of jubilation arose from the crowd as the elders stamped in disapproval. Gothur grit his teeth, barring them in a snarl.

  “You insolent foal! I accept your challenge. I shall put you down this very hour. Then the clan shall know my word is absolute!”

  He threw off his robes, exposing the rippling, scarred muscles of his torso. He looked to be made of stone. His attendants appeared by his side in an instant, bearing his armor and weapon. They strapped on a chest plate made of shining white metal that gleamed through the countless dents and scuffs on its surface. They fitted his lower half with heavy bone mail that hung to his knees. He leaned upon a great axe made of the same white metal as his armor. Despite the chips along its massive blade, it looked as deadly as Binze remembered it. Harmreta, the Grief Eater. He involuntarily shuddered in its presence. That wicked, curved blade fed on the souls of its victims. The more lives it took, the sharper its blade bit, the lighter the small tree of a shaft grew. The legend of Harmreta proved enough to make entire towns submit to the Harthaz inquisition in the days of the crusade. Binze suddenly realized the foolishness of his plan. He looked over at his sister, whose bonds had been severed. Two of the soldiers busied themselves with donning her armor across her body as she glared constantly at Gothur. While all eyes focused on the two combatants, Ulio slipped over to Binze and severed his bonds with a dagger. Binze massaged life back into his wrists as he watched nervously.