The Banner of the Broken Orc: The Call of the Darkness Saga: Book One

by Aiden L Turner

  ‘My prince, if you and your lady would mind waiting in here whilst we have a room readied for you. I’m afraid the rest will have to sleep in the barracks’, Gymir said while motioning towards the seating area.

  ‘We need no luxury, Captain, though a room with some privacy for the lady would be welcome. My men will bring ale and food from our wagons. I have need to speak to the leaders of the brotherhood and those nobles who are stationed here. Messages should be sent with haste to those of command or position at the highest levels to bring them here for council.’

  Brondolf took Wilhelm and Zachary to retrieve food and ale from the wagons whilst Jacob instructed the rest to be seated while he stood with Gymir.

  ‘I am sorry, my prince, but I fear you are ill-informed of how things stand in the borderlands of late. While the nobility still holds command positions within the order none abide within the garrisons and few rarely visit. We govern ourselves as we have always done in battle. The knight-captain with renown and experience has command. With Colburn and Brondolf now in service to the crown, I alone command Iron Guard and my words have strength throughout the brotherhood.’

  If Jacob was surprised by Gymir’s statement, he revealed nothing saying, ‘Then sit with me Gymir, for I have news that will not be welcomed.’

  Gymir sat across the bench from Jacob while Brondolf poured ale into expensive silver goblets brought with them for precisely this meeting. Gymir eyed Brondolf thoughtfully, then with a smile he said, ‘Royal cup-bearer, are we now Brondolf the Wolf?’

  Jacob tensed slightly, expecting Brondolf to react to the insult, but Brondolf merely returned the smile.

  ‘We all must do our duty as its placed before us, brother’, Brondolf said with an ease Jacob had not seen before.

  ‘There is truth in that, brother’, Gymir replied.

  ‘And in truth, Gymir, I feel a great sense of pride to serve the prince.’ Brondolf then turned and sat at Jacob’s right-hand side, a place of honour that Gymir noted, and thought better of the prince for his choice of whom sat at his side.

  ‘I shall state simply what the king has ordered. We can discuss at length later the finer points of the matter, but the command is this. Three in every ten men-at-arms will travel to the southern coast of the kingdom. There they will board ships to mount an expedition to an unknown land where great treasure is believed to be held. I shall lead this expedition. To replace the guardians of the northern border, an army of bowmen from the lands of Lord Audemar will journey north and garrison where the brotherhoods commanders see fit.’

  ‘What can you tell me of these bowmen, my prince?’ Gymir asked calmly.

  ‘You seem neither distressed nor surprised at the orders I so dreaded to give you, Captain’, Jacob said, with surprise and a slight suspicion clear in his voice.

  ‘I am not surprised my prince; we have known of the expedition for quite some time, and it was no great leap to presume the warriors of this land would play a part. Likewise, it was also deduced that the king would be unwilling to leave the north of the kingdom even more under-manned than it already is. We are not such a closed community as many believe. We deal with traders. Our young men are trained at the academy and our women speak freely with the common folk of these lands.’

  ‘I had thought you would be enraged at the encroachment of your traditions, yet you seem at ease. I must say Knight-captain, I am quite taken by surprise’, Jacob said after looking to Brondolf, who gave a slight shrug but said nothing.

  ‘The truth is, our traditions bind us and leave us unable to adapt to our enemy. Even the greatest of warriors cannot fight with hands tied in bondage. The Orc and their evil allies have changed the manner in which they raid and have increased greatly their attacks. We have battlements with a clear line of sight, perfect for bowmen, yet we have none and our honour-bound traditions forbid the brotherhood to use such weapons.’ Gymir smiled at Jacob and took a long gulp of ale. ‘In short, my prince, the king’s orders have served the brotherhood well enough, though the price is high.’

  ‘You seem well informed’, Jacob said whilst looking pointedly at Father Robert, who he knew had recently journeyed here whilst Jacob himself was journeying to the south. And it was not lost on the young prince that Robert had countermanded Jacob’s orders for him to remain at Castle Sprettaman.

  ‘And yet my prince, I know little of these bowmen from the Lord Audemar’s lands. I have heard tales in the past of great war bows is there any truth to these tales?’

  ‘I have used one myself and have indeed been given one as a gift from Lord Audemar. They are fearsome. The bow stands at the height of a warrior and takes great strength to pull the bowstring back fully, but the power released is incredible. Audemar’s bowmen can send an arrow with precision through armour at two hundred and fifty paces from the target. And the arrow itself is a thing of terrifying beauty. The bodkin arrowhead is the size of your middle finger and its base is the width of the same finger, but rather than being flat it has three sides that go to a point as sharp as a needle. The men who will come north are experts and have been using great bows for their entire lives’, Jacob said with enthusiasm. He had been awed by the power in the cord of the war bow and been much impressed with the skill in which the Lord Audemar’s men used the weapon.

  Gymir leaned forward, enthralled at Jacob’s description of the weapon. ‘And what of their rate of fire, my prince?’

  ‘As the first arrow hits its target the second has left the bowstring. They can draw, aim and loose around twenty shafts in a minute, but to do so would sap the man’s strength. Also, arrowheads and the shafts take time to make so an experienced, “archer”, as they name themselves, will only loose between four and six a minute to reserve their strength and their arrows.’

  Gymir looked cheerful as he heard of the devastating power of the war bow and beamed a rare smile. ‘We shall rain death upon the beasts.’

  A young man-at-arms walked purposefully into the room and dropped to his knee before the prince. ‘My prince, apologies for the interruption. With your leave I must speak with the knight- captain.’ The young man’s words were rushed, as if the need to show respect to the prince was a hindrance.

  ‘Speak’, Jacob said dismissively.

  ‘Orc’s Bane and Death’s Grip both burn silver smoke’, the brother said as he stood and faced Gymir.

  Gymir stood, and his face took on grim determination. ‘Rouse the garrison.’ He turned towards the prince and bowed slightly. ‘I must be about my duty’, he said. Then he left without waiting for a reply.

  Jacob turned to Brondolf and said, ‘Silver smoke at two forts to the east. A breach through the fortress line?’

  ‘Yes, my prince. Orc rampage through the line and the men stationed upon the parapet burn minerals, which give off a thick black smoke with silver streaks. All patrols will descend upon the area and track the Orc and give battle whilst other garrisons, that can see no enemy, will burn blue smoke. Every warrior will be made ready.’

  ‘An elegant way to transfer information.’ He bent to kiss Elysabeth, then stood, his face transformed, emitting authority. ‘Gulkin, you will stay by the lady Elysabeth’s side.’ All his men had stood with him. Their warrior’s instinct told them he was going to war, and he gripped Gulkin by his shoulder and looked into his eyes. ‘By your life you will protect her my friend.’

  ‘I shall, my prince.’ Gulkin drew his sword as he kicked a bench out of his way and stood as fierce and loyal as a wolfhound next to Elysabeth.

  Jacob slammed down his armoured face plate and roared, ‘With me!’ as he turned and marched out of the keep. The horses were still saddled and were being walked to cool them down when Jacob and his guard stormed through the rear doors of the keep.

  ‘Bring me Frostbite!’ Jacob bellowed, startling his own servants and those of Iron Guard alike, but within a few seconds his horse was brought to him saddled and ready to ride.

  He stroked the animal gently on its neck and whispered in
to its ear, ‘Today we both shall face the green-skinned enemy for the first time, my friend. And together we shall prevail.’ He mounted Frostbite as nimbly as if he wore no armour and turned in the saddle to see his warriors, his oath guard, those men whom he trusted with his life, and he felt elation as he tilted his head to the sky and roared, ‘To battle my friends!’

  They cantered their tired horses in a south-westerly direction and after a mile Jacob brought his right balled fist up and the band came to a halt. Jacob called for silence and each man listened for the sound of battle, but no sound carried on the slight breeze until Jacob’s ears picked up a single sound in the quietness. No other man heard the noise, yet Jacob gave a brief smile as he heard the unmistakable sound of steel on steel. With another hand signal he gave his command and put heels to the flanks of Frostbite and took off to the south, and to battle.

  Within a few minutes of riding, the small war band crested a rise and before them lay carnage. A large farmstead had become a battlefield. The farmhands and cattle butchered as scores of Goblins feasted upon the corpses of humans and cattle alike. To the south of the buildings, a patrol of men-at-arms fought another hundred of the green-skinned foe. Fully armoured and with their giant swords bringing death swiftly, the men-at-arms were making quick work of the enemy. Jacob surveyed the field and ordered his troops to ride through the farmstead from the north.

  The horsemen wheeled round as Brondolf called to Jacob. ‘My prince, as I have said before, horse panic in the face of Goblin foes.’

  Jacob chuckled at Brondolf sensing it was his own trepidation at having to fight from horseback as much as the horses’ well-known reluctance to stand in the face of the dark creatures.

  ‘They are not some lowborn mounts, Brondolf. They will stand and fight as the lords of horses they are. Will you be outdone by the horsemen of Lord Godwin’s household?’

  ‘No, my prince!’ Brondolf called after Jacob as he put his heels to the beast’s flanks and galloped after him. They rode hard, back in the direction of the north and wheeled around again once they were fully clear of the farmstead, and with the farmstead and its bloody field before them Jacob roared, ‘Draw swords!’ The face plates of their helms were dropped into position and sword blades were drawn from the throats of their scabbards.

  ‘Charge!’ Jacob shouted the order with glee for now before him stood an enemy to whom he felt no compassion. These were not men who deserved to die for the crimes they had committed, nor an order to carry out a sentence he could not avoid. For once he had a true foe before him, a servant of Darkness and his moral compass did not waver, nor his heart feel a twinge of doubt. Frostbite’s hoofs pounded the earth; great clods of mud were thrown into the air as the great warhorse dug its hoofs deep and sprang with all the mighty muscle in its trained legs. The horse’s head moved with the motion of its body as it sought to pull itself ever faster, giving all, as its master had commanded. Frostbite was the first to kill that day as it ran down the first foe to rise from its feasting, Frostbite’s body smashed the creature to the ground with a force that left it a broken mangle of green flesh and fractured bone. Then Jacob’s sword was dealing death to any who came within reach. The Goblins who had remained in the farmstead’s north numbered around fifty and they now all attacked in the frenzy native to their race. They jumped with cat-like speed and height in an attempt to knock the horsemen from their mounts but none succeeded. Their weight was inefficient to move the immense men from their oversized war mounts, and the Goblins’ weak steel broke upon their expensive armour.

  Within minutes it was over, and Jacob walked his horse towards the patrol of men-at-arms that had equally destroyed their foe. Jacob lifted his face plate from his helm and raised his sword in salute.

  The sergeant went to a knee before the prince before Jacob bade him to rise. ‘My prince, it is an honour to fight alongside you’, the sergeant said dutifully.

  ‘The honour is mine. To see the men-at-arms of the Brotherhood of Light vanquishing the servants of Darkness is truly a wondrous sight.’ Jacob lowered his voice. ‘Besides, Sergeant, that was the most fun I have had in a long time.’

  The sergeant eyed Jacob for a moment and said, ‘Aye, my prince. For men of great size with great armour and great-swords a few hundred lesser Orc can be sport, yet…’ The sergeant paused and gestured with his hand towards the massacred farmers and serfs that worked the land before continuing. ‘Not to these poor wretches, I’m thinking.’

  Jacob looked embarrassed, then ashamed as he took in the carnage about the farmstead. He began to stammer a reply when Brondolf pushed his horse to stand before the sergeant.

  ‘You!’ Brondolf said harshly as he pointed a gauntleted hand at the young sergeant. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘I am called Arnsten. It means “Eagle lord”, for I have the eyes of such creatures’, the sergeant who named himself Arnsten replied proudly.

  ‘The meaning of Arnsten is “Eagle and stone”, sergeant.’ Brondolf looked down at the young man, both from his horse and his authority, and let his eyes rest upon the man’s voluminous stomach.

  Arnsten shrugged as if it were of no importance, yet Jacob noticed the hardening of the sergeant’s eyes. ‘It is true I do not move as well as my brothers when it comes to the march but unmoving I am in battle as well.’

  ‘You patrol from the fortress, Death’s Grip, Arnsten?’ Brondolf said, his voice still harsh, whilst Jacob sat upon Frostbite, silently. The rest of the brotherhood’s men-at-arms were walking amongst the dead and searching for survivors.

  Arnsten looked upon Brondolf with suspicion. ‘We have the honour of calling Death’s Grip our home, yes.’ Dawning recognition registered upon Arnsten’s face. ‘You are Brondolf.’

  ‘I am’, Brondolf said. The harshness in his voice was fast becoming naked anger. He got off his horse somewhat ungracefully and came to stand before Arnsten. ‘You patrol from Death’s Grip, yet you came to this farmstead from the low ground to the south. Why did you not stay upon the high ground to the east?’

  Arnsten looked from Brondolf to the prince, then back towards his own men who were now coming to investigate the scene Brondolf was creating. He said nothing. Brondolf pulled his sword and bellowed at Arnsten. ‘Why do you come from the south rather than the east?’

  Arnsten feigned hurt at any accusation Brondolf was making and stammered out, ‘We were merely visiting the townsfolk in the vicinity of our patrol, enquiring as to their safety.’

  ‘Lies!’ Brondolf roared. ‘Your orders are to stay upon the high ground. I know this, for I once patrolled these very lands. The patrols from Death’s Grip range through the heights of those hills there.’ He used his sword’s point to mark the hills in the east. ‘From those hill tops there is clear vantage in sight and position. You should have fallen upon the enemy from its flank as soon as they entered this farmstead, and yet you came from the south and came late.’

  Jacob looked on Arnsten with fury building upon his features. ‘You were not where you should have been, Sergeant. Explain your whereabouts and speak clear and true’, Jacob said, his tone of voice threatening.

  Arnsten looked up at the prince pleadingly. ‘We patrol for days on end, my prince, with little rest between. We merely took a detour to the local town for refreshment. As soon as we saw silver smoke burning, we came with all haste.’

  Jacob’s looked down upon Arnsten with pure loathing. ‘There is no “we”, Sergeant, for you and you alone command this troop. You have failed your brothers, the people that lie fallen around us, and you have failed in your duty. You will hang!’

  Arnsten drew his sword from its scabbard upon his back and hefted his shield upon his arm. ‘My duty!’ he spat. ‘Oh, we are brothers, my prince, brothers born into bondage. Our wives are not whom we choose. Our children not ours to give choice to. Slaves we are and nothing more. But you will find this slave hard to kill, princeling of shiny things and wealth.’

  Brondolf closed upon Arnsten. Measuring hi
s foe, he took a guarded step forward but Arnsten resisted the bait and kept his shield high whilst taking a step backwards. Jacob halted Brondolf with a sharp command and addressed Arnsten. ‘You wish to die by the sword? You deserve it not Arnsten.’ With that, Jacob raised his voice and called out to the men in Arnsten’s command. ‘This man has failed you. His duty is to lead you by his own example, but he chose to lead you from service to the light and by doing so the darkness has found victory in the deaths of those who abided here.’ He stood in his stirrups. ‘Abided here! Under your protection! And for that grievous crime he shall hang like the criminal he is.’

  As Jacob spoke a man of advancing years walked calmly behind Arnsten who stood facing Jacob and Brondolf, sword and shield ready, and tapped the sergeant once on his shoulder. The sergeant kept his eyes upon Brondolf as he turned his head slightly and the man stuck him with his own sword’s hilt with force enough to splinter bone and cut the flesh. Arnsten staggered to his left. The shield hung from his arm loosely by its straps, and blood began to pour from the wound to his cheek and his jaw hung at an oddly comical angle. His sword fell to the ground, and he quickly followed.

  Brondolf looked to the man with something approaching fondness and said in mock surprise, ‘Hund, you still live?’

  ‘Aye, Brondolf. There is still life in the old dog yet’, the man named Hund replied with a wry grin.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Victory

  Jacob sat in the large council room in the fortress of Iron Guard along with all his followers, Gymir, and the man-at-arms Hund. The man named Arnsten sat in the centre of the room. Iron manacles gripped his wrists and ankles, yet he held his head high in defiance as Gymir lay charges upon him.