War for the Sundered Crown (The Sundered Crown Saga Book 2)

by Olney, Matthew

  With a reluctant sigh, he signalled the general retreat, it was a foolish hope that one great charge would win the day. Horns sounded and the surviving riders fled back to the Watchers. The main gates swung open, and as they did so the werewolves and undead surged forward. Faramond rode for his life. He could hear the wolves bounding after him, he could smell the undead. The safety of the Watchers grew closer, and as it did so the mighty fortress’s weapons opened up. Deadly ballistae bolts carved their way through the ranks of undead, silver tipped arrows fell like rain to cut down scores of werewolves, and the great trebuchets launched massive boulders which crushed anything they landed upon.

  Faramond sighed in relief as his horse passed under the gates. The portcullis was dropped and legionaries ran forward to slam the huge doors closed after him.

  He looked around the courtyard to see the other survivors. A few hundred had made it back to the safety of the fortress: a few hundred out of thousands. He slide from his saddle and angrily removed his helmet. His anger softened when he saw the burns his horse had suffered. He whispered soothingly into the beast’s ear and rubbed its snout reassuringly. The animal snickered and stamped its feet.

  “If you’re telling me that was a really stupid thing to do, I agree,” he said softly. He waved over one of the legion stable hands. “Take care of his wounds and then get out of here; the evacuation of non-combatants will start very soon.”

  All the while, the fortress’s defences continued to fire. The deafening crack of the trebuchets and the twanging of the ballistae continued.

  Then a war horn blared; a horn that belonged to the enemy.

  * * *

  Luxon stood alongside Sophia and Ferran on the battlements of the Watchers’ outer wall. The cavalry charge had achieved its purpose of slowing down the enemy advance. Behind them, hurrying out of the main gates, were the non-combatants and wounded. Messengers had been dispatched to Sunguard and the baronies to warn them that Danon’s army had launched its war. Due to the Watchers’ remote location, the battle would likely be over before any of the riders reached their destinations. The warriors that had survived the charge were now hurrying to positions on the walls, Faramond among them. The tribal prince held his sword high, shouting words of encouragement to his people.

  Ferran gripped his wife’s hand tightly as the first wave of undead charged the walls. Siege engines were being pulled through the ranks of Sarpi. Tall towers made of wood and steel rumbled forward on massive wheels. The towers were being pulled forward by what appeared to be slaves. Ferran watched the attack through his spyglass. Sure enough the rope pullers were chained together, the unfortunate former citizens of Stormglade. Those who had been killed and brought back as undead had been turned into Danon’s slaves.

  “Danon must know that the walls are protected by runes,” Luxon said, pointing to the catapults that were being moved into position. The Watchers’ defences continued to fire into the advancing undead hordes, the moans of the zombies was growing louder by the second.

  Anger filled Luxon. So much death had been caused because of the evil that filled the plains before them. He tightened his grip on Dragasdol and began to walk along the battlements. Ferran and Sophia hurried after him.

  “Luxon, you know the plan,” Ferran called from behind him. “We cannot risk you overexerting yourself too soon, if you suffer from another attack of the Void sickness …”

  Luxon slowed and sighed; the Nightblade was right.

  The undead had reached the base of the walls and had now begun to clamber over each other to try and reach the terrified soldiers manning the battlements. Volleys of flaming arrows slammed into the shambling horde, cutting down hundreds. Panicked shouts caught their attention. Werewolves had successfully scaled the walls of the western flank. Legionaries drew their silver swords and rushed to counter the threat. Luxon winced as he watched a werewolf lunge over the crenulations, grab a terrified legionary and hurl him over the side. More wolves were cresting the battlements; more legionaries fell to claws and fangs.

  “I have to help them,” Ferran growled. He turned to Sophia and kissed her deeply. “Stay safe, stay alive … I love you,” he said before summoning his tourmaline blade to life and leaping over the battlements. As he fell, he used his magic to slow his descent. He landed safely and sprinted towards the fight, his blade slashing as he went.

  The stone beneath their feet shook as the first of the enemy catapults launched a boulder the size of a small hut against the walls. Debris and dust exploded outwards from the impact site. More boulders smashed against the fortress, leaving scars upon the once pristine stonework. Hand to hand fighting had now broken out on the outer walls as the undead climbed. Silver swords glinted in the sunlight, blood sprayed, zombies moaned, men screamed and shouted. It was carnage. Over the noise came another horn blast. This time the black-armoured Sarpi began to move forwards. Some of the warriors carried long ladders which they could use to scale the walls.

  “Look!’ Luxon shouted. “The Sarpi are advancing on the weak spot. Danon is betting that the undead and his other horrors will weaken the defences there.”

  “It seems to be working,” Sophia replied. Sure enough, the defenders were already being stretched thin. The undead were attacking all along the outer wall.

  “C’mon, we have to do something.”

  They hurried down the stone steps and pushed their way through the soldiers manning the inner wall. Luxon shouted at them to follow him. The legionaries hesitated, but the tribal warriors immediately hurried after him. They would follow the wizard anywhere and they were eager to take the fight to the enemy. As they moved through the inner gate and passed the rune stone which was keeping the Fell Beasts at bay, more soldiers joined them. Commander Fritin had ordered several hundred men to hold the inner wall, but what use were they if the enemy breached the outer defences so soon?

  They reached the wall just as the first Sarpi ladders appeared. Already, black-clad warriors were rapidly climbing. Luxon ran forward and, using Dragasdol, shoved the ladder off the wall. He leaned over the crenulations and smiled as the ladder crashed into the advancing enemy. Sophia began to shoot arrows into the Sarpi ranks, her arrows quickly being joined by those of the tribesmen that had accompanied them. Luxon glanced to his left. He spotted Ferran’s tourmaline blade flashing; the undead were slowly being pushed back. All the while, the Watchers’ Ballistae continued to fire. A cheer sounded from one of the weapon crews as a bolt decapitated one of the siege towers that was drawing ever closer. A shout of warning prompted Luxon to duck. A Sarpi had appeared at the wall, his sword narrowly missing Luxon’s head. Luxon raised his hand and blasted his attacker backwards with telekinesis. The Sarpi screamed as he went flying off the wall. Another Sarpi appeared and leapt at him. Luxon raised his staff to deflect the sword blow that was aimed at his heart. The blade clanged loudly as it struck the dragon-fire-enchanted wood. An arrow whistled past Luxon’s ear and hit the Sarpi in the face. Sophia nodded to him; Luxon thanked her. More and more Sarpi were beginning to crest the battlements, as over a dozen ladders successfully latched themselves to the wall. Luxon moved from ladder to ladder, using his staff and his power to send them tumbling from the wall. Fireballs, lightning, wind – he used all of the destruction spells he could think of as he went. He could feel the power surging within him as he fought. His staff whirled around him as he gave into his instincts. He parried and lashed out with his staff; the fight was a blur, and he moved by instinct, letting the magic and the anger flow through him. Thanos had always told him to keep control. Why? He could feel himself losing control, and it felt glorious. He was aware of the soldiers battling around him, but it felt like a blur. As he fought, he felt invincible. He brought his staff upwards and roared. Lightning split the sky and thunder blew men off of their feet.

  “Luxon!”

  Someone yelled his name. It sounded like Sophia; there was fear in her tone. He ignored it.

  He continued to fight. He could feel h
imself laughing manically as he slaughtered his way through his enemies. His mother’s face flashed into his mind’s eye and his rage was renewed. It felt like molten hot lava coursing through his veins; it was painful, but it was glorious. He felt himself leap onto the battlements and then jump. With power coursing through him, he landed right in the middle of the Sarpi ranks. He could sense their surprise, their fear. He moved at impossible speed, his staff whirling. He sensed the staff connecting with the enemy, he felt the flames that poured from its end to engulf and incinerate. He bellowed with laughter as the Sarpi fled from his wrath.

  If he could see himself he would not have been laughing. His skin had turned deathly pale, his eyes had turned black and his sandy blond hair was now white as snow. Black tendrils emanated from his body and thick black veins ran up his neck. Behind him, he could hear screams. Was someone calling to him? Calling for him to stop?

  29.

  Yepert could hear the sounds of battle, and he was afraid. He still felt weak, but he couldn’t just sit by and let his friends fight without him. Ferran had told him to wait inside the fortress’s main keep and be ready to run if the battle went ill. Running to and fro around him were the boys of the legion. Most were no older than ten; all looked afraid but at the same time they were determined not to fail in their duty. Yepert apologised as a lad shoved past him carrying quivers full of arrows. Other boys hauled buckets of water, satchels of food or swords; all were hurrying to the frontline. Without the boys resupplying them, the legionaries would quickly run out of ammunition, or collapse from hunger and exhaustion.

  “Do something useful or get out the way!” yelled one of the boys.

  Yepert apologised again and ducked back into the small room where he had been recuperating. Dust fell from the rafters as a stone hurled by one of the enemy catapults struck the keep. Some of the boys cried out, but most carried on with their tasks in nervous silence.

  He closed the door and sat heavily on the bed. A wave of weariness almost overwhelmed him. His head hadn’t been right since that night outside Stormglade. He had wracked his brain trying to remember what had happened, how he had made it back to the Watchers, but it was all a blur.

  Yepert!

  He jump in fright at a whispering voice.

  “Who’s there?” he stammered.

  I have a task for you, Yepert, the eerie voice rasped.

  Yepert stood up. He looked wildly around the room, desperate to find the source of the voice.

  He cried out as a sharp stabbing pain lanced his brain. He staggered and fell onto the floor with a thud. The pain grew worse.

  Do not fight me, boy. It is useless to resist.

  Yepert tried to move, but couldn’t. Terror gripped him as a familiar shadow appeared in the corner of the room. He tried to scream as a black hand reached for him.

  * * *

  The battle raged all around. On the walls, the men of the legion and the tribes fought with desperate determination to hold off the enemy. The sounds of clashing steel, the cries of the wounded and dying, and the thunder of siege weapons firing was near deafening. Yepert staggered out of the keep, his head spinning. He moved clumsily as though drunk, but the reality was far worse. In his mind, he was screaming. He couldn’t control his movements; a malevolent power was using him like a puppet. He tried to resist, but it was hopeless; the dark power that was controlling him was far too strong. It was as though he were looking out through the eyes of a stranger as he moved. The body of a tribesman crashed onto the ground in front of him, a Sarpi arrow sticking out of his torso. Yepert wanted to turn and run back to the safety but his legs would not do as he wanted. He staggered down the stone steps which led from the outer walls and into the central courtyard. Wounded men covered every scrap of ground, and healers moved amongst them doing their best to ease their suffering. The boys of the legion ran back and forth as they did their best to resupply the archers on the battlements. Yepert’s head jerked around against his will until his gaze settled upon the tall black stone that stood in the centre of the courtyard. It was the sigil stone. Panic filled Yepert as he realised what the dark power intended to do. He tried to shout a warning, but no one paid him any heed. The stone was defenceless; no one expected an attack from inside the citadel. His legs began to move him towards the stone. To anyone watching, he would have looked comical, like a drunk who was passed the point of no return. He pushed his way through the wounded until he reached the base of the stone. A heat began to build inside him. He knew it was magic, but it was a magic far greater than he had ever felt before. Desperately, he tried to stop his arms from rising. Sweat poured from his head and his limbs quivered.

  I will not let you do this! he shouted in his mind.

  A mocking laughter replied.

  You are nothing boy. You are my tool, my weapon, my agent, my slave, a harsh voice roared.

  Yepert felt a fear the likes of which he had never felt before. The voice was full of rage and scorn. It was full of an ancient and bitter hatred. It was the voice of Danon himself.

  Watch as you bring ruin to your friends and your world, the voiced mocked.

  Yepert screamed as his hands touched the stone. The heat he had felt now surged through his body and into the stone. It was a dark power, a terrible ancient magic. The sigils etched onto the stone began to glow red. The glow grew and grew until the whole stone began to shine like a beacon. Around him, Yepert could hear shouts of alarm from the soldiers nearby.

  The stone shattered in a blinding flash.

  The world went black.

  30.

  Ferran was sent flying forwards by the force of the magical explosion. He fell against the battlements, and only the strong grip of a legionary keeping him from tumbling over the side and into the swarm of undead below. He shook his head to clear it; the deafening sound of the blast was ringing in his ears. All along the wall, soldiers were staggering to their feet or lying unconscious on the ground. Panic gripped him as clawed hands began to grab at his leather armour, trying to pull him over the wall. The foul breath of a zombie filled his nostrils as it moved to take a bite of his shoulder. The legionary tried to hold on, but unless Ferran could free himself from the foul creatures grasp he would lose his grip. The Nightblade looked around desperately, his tourmaline sword had been torn from his grasp by the explosion. With the wall’s defenders temporarily stunned, the undead swarmed over the crenulations. Further along the wall, they breached the line. The cries of the defenders carried on the wind as the undead began to devour them. Ferran cried out as he spotted his sword. He raised his hand and used his magic to call the weapon to it. The hilt landed in his palm. He reached behind him and placed it against the snarling zombies head. With a snap-hiss, the magical blade sprung to life and went straight through the beast’s skull. Immediately, the strong grip that had threatened to pull him over the battlements eased. The zombie tumbled backwards into the mass of other undead.

  With the pressure gone,he stumbled to his feet, his ears still ringing. He gasped as his eyes settled on the carnage in the courtyard below. The sigil stone was gone, replaced by a huge crater. His eyes grew wide, there was now nothing to stop the Fell Beasts from attacking. He spun around: sure enough goblins and pucks began to advance upon the Watchers. Horns sounded warnings along the walls as the defenders spotted the new threat. The soldiers on Ferran’s stretch of wall rallied and returned to their grim task of holding the walls. From the panic in their eyes, he knew it would not be long before they broke and fled.

  He swore as the ground began to tremble. On the horizon, and approaching fast, were three Gargantuans. The massive Fell Beasts would soon reach the walls and smash them to pieces.

  “Ferran!”

  Faramond was moving quickly towards him. The king of the Keenlance tribe was smeared with dirt and blood. His armour was covered in scratches and his helmet was battered.

  “Ferran. Thank Niveren you’re still alive,” the king panted. “The sigil stone is gone. I know not how,
but there is nothing to stop the Fell Beasts from attacking. That coward Fritin is calling for a retreat to the inner keep …”

  The king stopped talking, his jaw dropping as he spotted the three massive monsters lumbering towards them. His eyes grew wide with fear before he regained control of his emotions. He was a king; he could not show weakness in front of his people.

  “The rune stone is destroyed; it won’t be long before the outer wall is completely overrun,” Ferran replied. “A fighting retreat to the inner wall may be for the best.”

  He pointed to the inner wall. “That wall is taller and narrower. Its height could give us an advantage over the Gargantuans and will be easier to defend then the outer wall. Tell your warriors to heed Fritin’s command. Danon has won this round,” he added bitterly.

  Another blast of lightning split the sky, and both men turned to face the western side of the wall.

  “Luxon …”

  “By Niveren, what is the fool doing?” Faramond shouted as he spotted the young wizard. “He’s gone mad!”

  Sure enough, Luxon was at the base of the wall and facing down the Sarpi army. Fire, lightning and other deadly magic poured from his staff and fingers.

  “Even with his powers, he can’t keep that up forever,” shouted Ferran.

  The Nightblade broke into a run, with Faramond close behind. They pushed their way past struggling defenders and foes. As they hurried through the melee, Faramond shouted the retreat to his warriors. Legion horns blared to signal the same.

  Ferran glanced to his left as he ran. The eastern wall was lost, of that there was no doubt. The plains before the fortress were teeming with snarling goblins and pucks, which began to clamber up the stonework. The undead and werewolves were now climbing over the battlements. What defenders were left turned tail and fled as they fast as they could towards the Watchers’ inner wall. Archers now took up positions on the higher wall. The ballistae in the towers that ran along its length were re-aimed to fire down into the ward which lay between the fortress’s two curtain walls. The ward quickly became a killing ground.