He and the baron glared at one another. The men of Bison had little love for the tribes, for it was their people that had defended the realms’ western flank and had suffered from the threat of tribal raids for eons.
“What exactly is the plan here?” the baron asked with barely concealed contempt in his voice. “Do you expect me to open the gates and allow a hundred thousand tribes people through and into the kingdom? With the troubles, there is barely enough food for our own people, let alone theirs.”
“There are women and children; wounded, too. At least let them through,” Faramond replied through gritted teeth. “The warriors, well, they will be needed here. Danon is coming, and from what my scouts are saying, his army is vast. Sarpi, undead, N’gist and Fell Beasts all are marching under his banner. Face it, Baron, you need us just as much as we need you.”
Baltar’s face visibly paled at the words. Uncertainty was in his eyes. He stared at Ferran, and then at his men who all were all looking to him for guidance.
“I should never have let you talk me into staying here, Nightblade. I … I have orders from Ricard. I will not fail them.”
Ferran closed his eyes; fear had gotten the best of the baron, he could tell. Baltar faced his men, his voice faltering.
“The men of Bison will follow the regent’s orders: pack your gear, we march north …”
Faramond scoffed. Luxon and Sophia gasped in disbelief. Ferran shook his head.
“You bloody coward. You think Ricard’s schemes matter in the face of what is coming?”
Baltar stepped away from the Nightblade. The rage in Ferran’s eyes was terrifying to behold.
“Watch your tone, Ferran. A baron’s command is final,” he stammered. The soldiers watched their leader; some were relieved that they would not be staying; others were ashamed at their lord’s cowardice.
“I will not take any legionaries with me, and any of my men can stay if they so wish. I … I am sorry,” Baltar added miserably, before turning and walking away.
27.
As the Bison soldiers left the Watchers through the north gate, the legion opened the southern one to allow the wounded and non-combatants from the tribes in. Commander Fritin had been released from the house arrest that Baltar had placed him under and the man was making his presence felt. The sun was now setting. From the battlements, the defenders of the Watchers looked on as the Baron of Bison fled. Legionaries hurled insults at the shamed soldiers. The sense of betrayal would not fade quickly.
Luxon and the others gathered in the tower where they had first met Faramond. The tribal leader looked grim faced and bleary eyed as he took his place. His father, the king had passed away in the night. Old age and the journey across the plains had no doubt hastened his demise. Faramond was now king of his people. No crowning ceremony had been made to make it official; there had been no time. The other men in the room offered their sympathies.
“I will have time to mourn when this is over,” Faramond said. “Let’s get to it.”
A large round table had been placed in the centre of the central chamber and a large cloth map of the Great Plains was laid out upon it.
“So, no help is coming from that cowardly bastard Bison,” Fritin growled, “and it appears that the rest of the realm is too busy ripping itself apart to care thanks to the machinations of bloody Ricard.”
“Last time we met Fritin, you were all in favour of carrying out Ricard’s orders …” Ferran chided humourlessly. The commanders face flushed red in anger at the comment.
“I was only following orders,” he grumbled.
Faramond gave a mocking laugh and the arguing resumed. Luxon stood at the back of the room, watching the argument unfurl. He sighed in annoyance. Was bickering all they could do? The news of Davik’s murder had shocked them all. He wished Yepert was at his side; his friend would have said something to diffuse the tension or at least make him chuckle. His loss was almost too much to bear. Yepert had been at Luxon’s side for years, and he knew him better than anyone else, even his mother. He wiped his eyes, angrily brushing away the tears that formed whenever he thought of her. Her loss was so raw, and yet he hadn’t the time to mourn either of their deaths.
Quietly, he slipped out of the chamber and went outside. The night was cold. A frost would surely settle; winter was on the air. He tightened his cloak tighter about himself to keep out the chill, and ascended the stone steps leading up to the battlements. The view that greeted him at the top took his breath away. Thousands of campfires and tents had been erected below the Watchers’ high walls. He tilted his head; the sound of lutes, drums and other music could be heard. The smell of cooking meat wafted into his nostrils, making his stomach growl. He looked down at the tribesfolk. Then he closed his eyes. If he and his friends failed to defend the fortress then all of those people would die, their bodies turned into monstrosities by the N’gist. Their homeland would be lost and Delfinnia would be open to attack. Word had arrived earlier in the night of the burning of the fleet and the raid at Kingsford. The vision he had seen of the ships and sea aflame had come to pass.
He reached into his pocket, his fingertips brushing the small leather-bound book his mother had given him. Curious, he pulled it out and opened it. Text written in an artistic manner filled the first page. He thumbed through the pages; the same handwriting was throughout. Most of the book appeared to cover the early reign of King Markus, but as he got closer towards the end, the handwriting changed. In place of the artistic style was a more rustic, harsher one. Whoever the new author was, they had written in a hurry. The writer described the death of Markus, the tone clearly showing their fury. A rant rambled on for a few more pages, until the word Asphodel caught his eye. The book described the sigil stones.
“The third stone is the final waypoint and the key to the sword …” Luxon muttered as he read out loud.
With the second stone destroyed he had an advantage over Danon; the dark one wouldn’t know where to look! He read on and frowned as he reached a page which had the word Trials written in large letters. He was about to turn the page when a horn blast sounded from the camp below. Other horns sounded until the legionaries on the battlements added their own calls to the chorus. Luxon tucked the book back into his cloak and ran to the battlements. Far below, the tribes were mustering, and warriors leapt into their saddles or donned their armour. Luxon narrowed his eyes and channelled his magic to allow him to see further. A lone horseman was trotting towards the camp. The man was slumped in the saddle, but the blue mages robe he wore was unmistakable.
“Yepert!” Luxon shouted. He ran down the steps and into the courtyard. With a gesture, he used his magic to raise the portcullis, much to the gate guards’ annoyance. More horn calls sounded to signal that no danger was imminent. Luxon ran outside of the fortress; a group of Keenlance riders were leading Yepert in.
The smile on Luxon’s face faltered as he saw his friends face. It was deathly pale, and dark rings were around his eyes. As he reached the gate, Yepert slid from the saddle of his mount to fall heavily onto the ground. Luxon cried out for help as he ran forward. He skidded to his knees and helped Yepert sit up. He held him tightly.
“I cannot believe you’re alive!” Luxon said. ‘You’re going to be fine, Yep, you’ll see,” he comforted.
He was relieved to see Hannah and Grig hurrying over to them.
“The healers will look after you.”
Yepert’s eyes flickered open. He smiled faintly.
“Lux … I’m hungry,” he said before falling into unconsciousness.
* * *
The Keenblade scout watched in horror at the army appeared before him. Faramond had sent riders back west to keep an eye on Danon’s forces. The Great Plain was filled with black-clad warriors, their eyes shining in the darkening sky. Marching behind them were hundreds of cloaked figures, carrying no weapons except for long staffs. They were the N’gist. Behind them were thousands of armoured warriors, and the moans of the undead carried on the
cold air. The ground shook, and the scout’s horse reared in fright. Lumbering behind the army were four mighty Gargantuans. The massive Fell Beasts were accompanied by a tide of smaller creatures. The scout got his mount under control before raising a small telescope to his eye. His heart sank as the small creatures became clear. Goblins marched and pucks swarmed.
“Niveren save us … the Void marches against us!” the scout cried before kicking his heels into his horse’s flanks. He rode with all haste back towards the Watchers.
* * *
Luxon glanced around at the other people in the Watchers command room. Each of them was grim-faced at the news the Keenblade scouts had brought upon their return. Commander Fritin rubbed his eyes tiredly, his expression grim. The room was located at the heart of the fortress and in its centre was a large circular stone table, upon which lay a map of the surrounding area. The map itself was covered in marks and doodles where the legion commander had been trying to formulate a strategy.
“The magic of the N’gist we may have been able to resist, but an army of Fell Beasts … how is it even possible that Danon can command such a force?”
Luxon sat back in his chair as the others began to debate their next moves. Since Yepert’s return, he had divided his time between caring for his friend and reading the books in the ancient fortress’s library. He had learned that the walls of the Watchers had been protected by magic runes carved into the stonework by the men who had built them. In the age when the fortress had been constructed, magic users had been far more common and just as dangerous. In those days, even the tribes had skilled war wizards in their ranks. His research had also revealed a potential weakness.
Fritin was now in a heated argument with Faramond, who was arguing that his people should be allowed to flee through the fortress gates. Ferran was slumped in his chair, his eyes staring into an empty wine glass. Luxon sighed. They were all afraid. He, too, was terrified but his fear had now been replaced by a burning anger, an anger that demanded that they fight, that they make a stand against the one who sought to bring so much death to the world. He had already lost his mother; he would not lose anyone else.
He channelled the anger in his heart and slowly stood.
“Enough of this bickering,” he growled. Using magic, he enhanced his voice so that it sounded far more powerful and authoritative. The men fell silent and stared at him in surprise.
Luxon pointed at the map on the table.
“To answer your question, Commander, Danon gained mastery of Fell Beasts whilst he was trapped in the Void. He slew and absorbed the god Vectrix’s power, giving himself that ability. The attacks made by Fell Beasts across the realm these past few years have no doubt been his doing. Make no mistake, gentlemen, we have been at war with the monster since Eclin – we just didn’t realise it.”
Fritin looked way, unable to meet the wizard’s fierce gaze. Luxon looked at the other two; they, too, could not look him in the eye. He knew that they had thought him broken by the death of his mother. He would show them otherwise; the anger would show them otherwise.
“The walls are still protected by the runes carved into the stone work,” he explained, moving his fingers over the map. The others watching closely. “Any magic that the N’gist use should be dispelled before it even reaches them. Which means that we should prepare for a conventional assault. As for the Fell Beasts, they will be kept at bay by the rune stone in the fortress’s courtyard, which means that Danon’s warriors will have to get over the walls to destroy it. If they succeed, then the Gargantuans can get close enough to bring the walls down.”
“There is a flaw in your assessment, wizard,” Fritin intervened. He pointed to a section of wall. “This section of wall is not protected by runes. About two-hundred years ago it was brought down by a tribal attack, the first and only time the walls of this fortress have ever been breached. The men who repaired it were not as skilled as those who had come before; there are no runes carved into its surface.”
“What’s the betting Danon already knows that fact?” Ferran growled.
Luxon thrust his finger at the map and fixed each man with a stern gaze.
“Then this is where he will strike. We have to be ready, or we will all die.”
28.
Roiling black clouds filled the sky and a heavy persistent rain began to pour. An eerie silence, which the rain now filled, had descended over the Watchers as its defenders watched in petrified awe. The army of Danon had appeared on the horizon. Luxon, Ferran and Sophia stood on the battlements; they all had their hoods up to ward off the downpour.
The previous night had been one of little rest for all of them. Preparations for the coming battle had kept them from their beds.
“So, this is it then,” Ferran said softly. The Nightblade squeezed Sophia’s hand tightly.
“Our plan is a good one,” Sophia replied. “We will hurt Danon this day,”
Luxon almost snorted. The host before them was far larger than he had feared, and the number of defenders was feeble in comparison. Five thousand legionaries, a few dozen Bison volunteers and the tribes were matched against the might of twenty thousand Sarpi warriors, thousands of magic wielding N’gist and countless scores of undead and Fell Beasts.
Kaiden, Alira and little Ilene had left overnight; the knight’s wounds meant that he could play no part in the coming fight. He had protested at leaving his friends to fight without him at their side, but Hannah and Sophia had convinced him to go. The prisoners they had rescued from Stormglade had also fled. They had all said their teary goodbyes, and now Kaiden and his family were heading north to the safety of Caldaria. Huin and Grigg had agreed to accompany them, but Hannah had refused to go despite Luxon’s pleading. She was as stubborn as a mule.
Luxon’s thoughts returned to the scene before him, as the legion’s trumpets opened up in a fanfare of noise. Far below on the plains, the warriors of the tribes leaped into their saddles.Six thousand mounted warriors formed into a massive wedge-shaped formation. The tribal warriors fought best on horseback and their skill with the bow was only matched by those of rangers and witch hunters. A horn call blew, and the force of cavalry galloped towards Danon’s forces, which were still forming up on the plain before the fortress. Luxon licked his lips in anticipation. Danon’s army remained out of range of the Watchers formidable defences but that didn’t stop the legionaries loading the trebuchets and ballistae.
Leading the tribes’ charge was Faramond, resplendent in his armour. Hundreds of war horns sounded, and the sound of tens of thousands of hooves pounding upon the ground was like thunder. From their vantage point on the walls, the defenders roared encouragement to the tribal warriors. Bursting out of the citadel and riding hard to join the charge were the Bloodriders, the elite unit’s blood-red cloaks billowing out behind them. Upon seeing them, the legionaries manning the walls cheered.
The first phase of the battle was about to begin.
* * *
Faramond led the charge. The enemy drew closer terrifyingly quickly as the horses thundered forwards. He raised his right hand into the air and balled it into a fist. The rider at his side put a horn to his lips and blew a low mournful tone. Immediately, the horde unshouldered their bows and notched arrows. As one they pulled back their bowstrings and loosed. The sky darkened as the deadly projectiles flew towards the enemy. Faramond watched to see what would happen, all the while charging onwards. As he suspected, the centre of the enemy formation was comprised of the N’Gist. Magical barriers were raised, vaporising the arrows before they even got close. He raised his arm again, but this time he rotated his wrist. The horde of riders broke into three. He led the centre block, whilst the left was commanded by the Delfin King and the right by the Bloodriders.
Narrowing his eyes, he picked a target and lowered his lance. The riders around him loosed another volley of arrows, before they too shouldered their bows and switched to the long deadly spears. The force attacking on the right flank had slowed their charge
and had begun to shoot arrow after arrow into the werewolves and undead that were moving quickly towards them. On the left, the Bloodriders smashed into the ranks of Fell Beasts. Goblins astride great war boars clashed with the cavalry, and pucks swarmed trying to drag the warriors from their mounts. The sound of clashing steel and the whistling of thousands of arrows was almost deafening. Directly ahead, ranks of Sarpi had advanced in front of the magic users, long pikes in their hands. Faramond yelled to the riders behind him, with expert skill they lowered their lances and reached for the javelins fixed to their saddles. As they sped closer, they threw the heavy weapons with all of their might. Dozens of Sarpi were felled by the barrage, allowing Faramond and his group to smash with full force into the Sarpi ranks. His lanced impaled a shrieking Sarpi and sent it flying backwards. His lance now useless, Faramond drew his sword and set about hacking at the enemy. His blade cut down two more Sarpi, and then the rest of the tribe struck. The cavalry charge was devastating and for a brief moment it looked as though the Sarpi would break there and then. That hope was soon dashed when a group of N’gist strode forward, raised their staffs and unleashed magical fire at the riders. Faramond cried out as flames engulfed his companions, the heat forcing his horse to rear backwards, almost sending him falling from the saddle. He dug his heels into his mount’s side and turned away from the fire. The other horsemen did likewise. With their backs turned, they were now vulnerable to a counter attack. Faramond swore as he watched several riders plucked from their saddles by telekinetic magic. The fallen men crashed to the ground and were then speared to death by the vengeful Sarpi.
As he looked behind, he could see that the charge had made little impact on the massed ranks of the enemy. The Delfin charge on the left was already fleeing in disarray. Snarling werewolves were ripping apart horses and men. The moans of the undead grew louder as they gorged themselves. To the right, the Bloodriders had slain hundreds of Fell Beasts with their silver swords, but it still was nowhere near enough.
War for the Sundered Crown (The Sundered Crown Saga Book 2) Page 21
