by Greg Ricker
He was too drunk to talk to sensibly.
The first person Taron came close to talking to, was young. Too young, in fact, and the child ran away quickly. The second, looked at them oddly, and ignored their greetings.
They were nearing the great wall around the castle grounds, when a soldier finally appeared on the walk. He wore a shining chain-mail uniform on his tall frame and wide shoulders. On one shoulder, a folded cloth was fastened, bearing two gold knots. He was a Lieutenant-Commander.
“Can I help you?” The soldier asked, seeing the two young men were about to speak, but did not sound as if he really wanted to help them.
Nearly at a loss for words, the two southlanders had never planned a decent way to tell their story. They did not want to see the doubt in the Lieutenant-Commander’s face that they saw in Park’s.
The soldier frowned at their hesitance. It fit his razor thin face, mustache, and bearded chin. His hair was black, but cut so short that it was more of a shadow upon his head. He reached out and seized them both by the collars of their shirts.
“I have no time for games, boys!” He was strong, and shocked them both.
“We need help!”
“Orcs attacked our village!”
“Our families were all killed!”
“Our horses and livestock were all taken!”
The Lieutenant-Commander let go of them and folded his arms, raising an eyebrow in slight interest. “What sort of game is this?”
“I know you don’t believe us,” started Taron, backing away from the soldier’s long reach, “but I beg you to listen.”
Suddenly another soldier appeared behind the first, slapping him on the back.
“Who are your friends, Flan?” He asked with a smile, but Palad always wore a smile. Something other soldiers found annoying about him during his training, but he was a Lieutenant-Commander because not many could knock that smile off him.
“And what are they shouting about?” Palad asked, looking the boys over.
“Just boys starting trouble.” Flan had lost all interest in the presence of another soldier. “I have an order to see to, and can not be withheld any longer.”
The two were already walking away from the young southlanders.
“It’s true!” Taron called after them. “We need your help!”
The Lieutenant-Commanders were not going to give it to them.
Turning to start his way inside the inn, Park spotted a guard sitting on a bench, and remembered that Bowenn had men to watch the wagons all along the streets of the city. Another duty they did not prefer, and this one even appeared to be asleep. Park tossed a silver coin to the man, who reached out and grabbed it.
The man was, in fact, very aware.
"Watch over my Chassy," Park asked, "as best as you can."
The guard smiled, then slowly nodded.
Park wondered if the guard's best was even worth a silver coin or not, but he was the only one stationed there. There was no choosing. He pushed through the battered swinging doors and entered The Hole in the Boot.
Soldiers filled the tavern in the front of the inn. There were only a few tables, so most stood with mugs in their hands, talking and laughing loudly. Behind a small bar, a tall, fat bartender never stopped filling mugs, except to stop and change barrels for all the thirsty customers that night. They were mostly soldiers, just relieved at midnight for the next shift.
Park stopped at the bar, where he found getting the attention of the bartender very difficult, but eventually he did.
"I wondered if you had a room vacant for the night." He flashed a handful of gold coins. More than the price, but this was the place that he wanted to stay. The soldiers at The Hole in the Boot made him feel safe.
The bartender nodded, then yelled at one of the men helping him behind the bar. "Get this man a room!"
A young, dark-haired man quickly removed his apron and walked out meet Park.
"Follow me." He ordered, and headed into a nearby hallway.
Laughter exploded suddenly in the room, as every soldier laughed at once. A young man stood on top of his table, spilling the ale in his mug. Loose-fitting trousers tucked into his black boots, blue shirt, and blonde hair, with bangs and all past his shoulders. He stood out in the crowd without acting like a fool.
"Who is that?" Park paused to ask.
The young man leading him did not have to look to know who was causing the ruckus. "That's the prince, sir."
Park gaped. The prince? He shook his head and continued on.
Nobles...
Danuel Talbarond began dancing on top of the table, and had to catch himself every time it tried to topple over. He soon lost his mug, and it crashed on the floor. The bartender counted every crash he heard. The soldiers clapped as the prince danced. They saw him as one of the gang, something no other noble had ever been. His blue, silk shirt was dripping with ale, and it held on by a single button at his naval. He would have been locked away in the castle, had his father seen him then.
Suddenly, he did fall, and several soldiers tried to catch him, but he landed on the table, flat on his back, laughing uncontrollably.
Then a man stepped into the inn. Flan Gildmon. The Lieutenant- Commander frowned as he entered. He disliked the atmosphere inside of taverns.
Being the tallest man in the room, it was easy to spot the prince, who stood and drew his sword, pointing it high and shouting. "More ale!"
Flan had his orders, and he meant to follow them. He made his way through the crowd, and they were quite willing to make way, once it was discovered who he was.
Danuel saw him coming, and sheathed his sword. Not because it was against the rules to draw his sword in a public place, but because he wanted to pick up another mug of ale. He knew well why Flan had entered The Hole in the Boot.
"The King wishes to speak with you, my lord Prince Talbarond." The formal name was hard to give to a drunken fool. At least the room had fallen somewhat silent, so he did not have to shout. "He waits in his bedchamber."
The prince took a long drink of ale. It ran down his checks to his neck.
"Always at night.¨ The prince's speech was slurred. ¨Never a talk in the morning, or a casual discussion over lunch!"
He shouted the latter for all to hear, and there was more laughter. From hidden faces, of course. Making jokes about the King, or interrupting the Lieutenant-Commander, were both punishable crimes.
"Please, sire." Flan could not ask politely, it was not in him. The words were easy to say, but his face and voice did not allow it to be done properly. "It is my duty."
"Your duty?" Danuel slammed the mug on the table.
Crash!
The bartender counted another.
The prince stepped closer to the Lieutenant-Commander, and looked up into his eyes. "Your orders come from me as well, do they not?"
The soldiers in the room did not have the guts to talk to their superiors the way that Danuel did, but Danuel's father was his only superior. He could undoubtedly get away with a lot more.
Flan held back his anger, and his reply.
Suddenly there was noise in the room as a soldier, in the plate-mail uniform of a castle guard, came bursting into the inn, yelling and bleeding. The soldiers that he passed began running out of the swinging doors, their mugs crashing to the floor. He pushed his way to the Lieutenant and the prince, breathing heavily.
“What’s the matter?” Danuel placed a hand on the guard’s shoulder, and it felt like he was the only thing keeping the man standing. He saw the battered state of his armor then, and the blood running from the openings in his armor. “What has happened?”
"Sire!” He was breathing so hard, he could not spit it all out at once. ¨Fire...in...the castle! We're...being...ambushed!¨
The faintest scent of smoke hit Victor Malkyr's nostrils, and he awoke from his nap. Then a chill ran down his spine, when a woman screamed in horror. He was instantly on his feet, just when the door to his room was kicked open.<
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Two Orcs charged in with swords held high. Firelight lit the staircase behind them, and shouting soldiers could be heard, fighting for their lives. Victor drew his broadsword, and injured both creatures with one great swing. They crumpled onto the floor, and he left them there when he ran out of the room. At the foot of the steps, he saw the motionless body of a maidservant, bloodied on the floor, and all about the room flames grew on the tapestries, curtains, and furniture. He had no time to consider how or why, only time to act.
To kill.
He met another Orc on the second flight of steps down, and thrust his sword deep into its belly, just beneath its rusted chest plate. Yellow blood ran down his blade. He wanted an answer to this madness! Though the problem was far greater than the need to satisfy his curiosity.
His first priority, was to find the King!
At the main hall of the castle, where stairs to every tower could be found, about fifty plate-armored soldiers with swords fought an equal number of Orcs armed with swords, maces, daggers, and axes. Lamps were knocked down and burning the carpets, leading to whatever else it could ignite. The wide stairs leading down to the great anteroom carried up more noise of weapons clashing, and cries of the dying. Both men and beasts.
On the first few steps of each staircase, men were keeping the Orcs from climbing them, but on a few, he saw just the opposite, and knew that could only mean that some of the Orcs had already broke through, and then gone up. He recalled that he had just faced two Orcs that reached his own tower, despite the fact that soldiers guarded the foot of the very steps he descended.
The King!
The last ten steps were not walled on each side, but clear for him to jump to the floor below. He ran to the king's tower staircase, and found it to be one of the paths controlled by Orcs. He shouted for clearance as he joined his men in the fight to break through, but it was not so he could use his sword freely. He quickly switched hands with his blade, and then drew a dagger from his belt, which he sent swiftly over their heads. It struck the neck of the Orc highest up the flight, and it stumbled the other four to the bottom as it fell, where the soldiers finished them off hastily. Victor was already disappearing up the steps, with ten soldiers following him. The journey seemed longer. Too long, for every step was a chance missed to save the King.
When he arrived at the door, he found it closed, with two dead soldiers on the floor before it. The lion's head door knob was busted and hanging. Victor opened the door fearing the worst, but ready to do battle with gods when he jumped in.
Nall Talbarond stood with a dripping sword in his hand, leaning on a bedpost. Six dead Orcs were strewn about on his elegant carpets. He was breathing heavily, but did not appear to be wounded. Even though Nall was getting old, and had only the use of one arm, he was still the only person alive that Victor feared every clashing a sword with.
"Are you injured, my lord?" Victor walked quickly over to the King, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
The King could have chosen none better to aid his escape, and he knew it well. "No. I am fine."
He glanced out his window again for only an instant, and still could not believe his eyes. He saw the Dragynn again. They dropped Orcs off on the roofs of the tower battlements, and carried off castle soldiers with their sharp talons, to tear them apart with their deadly fangs. War took place on the castle grounds, where the soldiers outnumbered the Orcs, but the beasts had taken control of the gate. They prevented passage in or out, and without scaling the nearly twenty feet of wall. He had designed that wall to never be passed by enemies, to keep the castle safe from invasion.
However, the wall had not been passed. The King had simply never imagined the possibility of an aerial attack. It was an absurd thought, until then.
The greatest numbers of his soldiers were being held back in Merchants' Square, shouting and throwing random items over the wall. Those within the castle grounds, were dying, quickly. The oversight was to have a devastating result.
How could he have known?
"We must make haste, my lord." Victor pleaded. "I'm afraid escape will not be easy."
Nall slapped the tiny letter from the king of the Elves into Victor's free hand. "Make sure that my son gets this."
Victor tucked it away.
"Tell him that I want him to make the journey to Ayarlyn." Nall added.
That made one of Victor's eyebrows rise. "As you wish, my lord." He looked at Nall, his breathing had slowed a little, and he was no longer leaning on the bedpost.
"Are you ready to fight, my Lord?"
Nall smiled. "It's just another form of dancing, General Malkyr."
Victor returned the smile.
They met only one Orc on their way down, which the lead soldier lifted off its feet when he stabbed it through the gut. The main hall was littered with bodies, both men and Orcs, but that meant fewer enemies to block their path. Soldiers circled Victor and Nall as they crossed the hall, slowed only by the dead in their way. Battle continued on the wide steps that led down to the great anteroom. Through the feuding mass, was the only way out.
Orcs ran up the steps and dove at the circle, trying to reach the King, but it did not happen, soldiers continued to gather around him as they made their way down the staircase. Two men joined in for every soldier that fell. They were unstoppable as they danced through the crowd, and they danced right to the castle entrance, only to find the drawbridge still up, and the release guarded by a dozen Orcs.
Nyol Jakard appeared then, fighting his way through the room. He had seen the King and his escape party, and raced to join the fight for the exit. His power was great, and he sliced clean through the Orcs in his path. He shouted orders at the men about him. He wanted more than their best.
He was already getting it.
The soldiers fought for control of the bridge, but it was a slow process. The air inside the castle was getting hard to breathe. The smoke endlessly thickened, and eventually hid the entire ceiling above them, which gave them no prior warning, when it came crashing down. The circle of men, which held the King inside, was knocked to the floor under its weight.
Victor was lying next to Nall under a large piece of burning wood, and he was quick to heave it aside and stand. The drawbridge caught his eye just then. The Orcs had abandoned the release when the ceiling had fallen. It was lowering to the grounds outside.
"Quickly, my lord!" Victor shouted. "The bridge is ours!"
Some of his men were already turning the gears, as desperate to save themselves, as they were to save the King.
Nall was motionless. Blood ran from where his head touched the floor.
"No!" Victor knelt down and grabbed the King's shoulders. Nall's eyes were open, staring at nothing.
Anger boiled inside of the General like he had never known. He charged to attack the Orcs nearby. Some were busy fighting soldiers already. He just ducked under a mace in time to save his skull, and then sliced his attacker across the knees. A second dove at him with a large, jagged dagger aimed for his gut. It died before it reached him. The Orc's arms wrapped around the blade of Victor's broadsword as it ran through the beast. He cut one Orc's sword in half, and nearly the Orc as well. He was an unyielding warrior. A red and gold image that danced beautifully across the floor. He was death, choosing his victims without retortion. He fought his way to the open drawbridge, and turned to look one last time at the castle, and at the King.
"General Malkyr!" A bloody-faced soldier in castle armor grabbed Victor's arm.
Victor turned, and his face frightened the gray-bearded soldier.
"We have lost control of the gate, my lord." He continued. "The Orcs have..."
Victor was running as fast as the weight of his armor would allow. He ran into a dark cloud that he could not see beyond. He could hear the shouting around him, the clashing of weapons, and see the flashes of light from the castle flames.
He ran faster.
Merchants' Square was flooded with screaming people. They could
see the Dragynn circling the castle and swooping down, only to reappear with a soldier in their claws. Fire emerged from every castle window, and all they could do was watch. The gate to the castle grounds had been secured by the Orcs since it all started. Everything fell right into their hands as they dropped out of the sky. The fact that over a third of the Bowenn army stood outside of that wall, was another convenience for the beasts. Soldiers made many attempts to scale the wall, jumping from crates stacked in the backs of wagons, but daggers met most, and the devilish Dragynn checked for climbers as well.
Danuel Talbarond stood on a wagon bench a dozen feet from the wall, staring at the castle. Towers were crumbling and falling to the ground. His heart was also. A deep cut on his left shoulder bled down the arm of his blue, silk shirt. He had been in the path of one of those daggers at the top of the wall. It nearly took every soldier in the square to convince him to stop trying. The prince had to remain safe. The soldiers knew well that they would be punished if Danuel were harmed. Many of the soldiers continued to try and scale the wall. Some fell back injured, some died, but a few made it over, and their fates were unknown. The gates remained secured, however.
Danuel decided he would make it his duty to protect Merchants' Square. It seemed with no alternative, it was what his father would want him to do. It was all he could do, until the gate was opened. He feared it was not enough, but it was something. He would have to leave it to the men within the castle grounds to protect his father.
The injured passed him on two-wheeled carts pulled by two soldiers each. The constant pace back and forth from the gate to the church, where women had stationed the infirmary, proved that the Orcs were doing well.
