Elysabeth found the dagger and held the blade down, her left hand wrapped around her right, her right hand tight around the hilt as she kneeled over the king.
The king shook his head clear as Elysabeth loomed over him, dagger in her hands. A look of pure hatred marked her beauty and made her look feral. He was struggling to untangle himself from her, squirming and pushing himself backwards. He felt icy fear.
Her hands gripped the dagger. As she squeezed, she felt warmth flow through her body and her strength return. She felt the power, ages old, infused in the weapon, and now she felt that same energy revitalise her.
Elysabeth brought the dagger down as the king pushed himself backwards, the fear in his eyes brought an unsettling feeling deep within, power. She had been stripped of her dignity, violated. Her power, her freedom, taken by this monster and now she had him! The dagger came down, but he pushed himself backwards. The tip of the sharp, double-edged weapon of power sliced into the flesh above the king’s navel. As the steel sliced effortlessly into the soft skin, the king moved and the motion caused the knife to drag through until it hit his pelvis, leaving his bowels open to the air.
Terror gripped the king as he saw his intestines push themselves through the slash in his abdomen. He screamed and Elysabeth laughed. She stabbed down again, this time into his groin. Again, and again she stabbed down into the genitals he would have used to defile her. The blood spurted out with every stroke of the dagger; her nakedness painted with thick crimson mess.
Wilhelm and Zachary took Elysabeth gently by the shoulders. She still attempted to deliver the weapon to her tormentor, but the blows were slow now and the strength had left her. She sobbed, tears falling from her face as she dropped the dagger and flung her arms around her friends. ‘My brothers’, she said through choked sobs.
The king made pathetic mewing noises. His abdomen, groin, genitals and thighs were nothing but a butchered heap of meat, but he still breathed.
Zachary had recovered their swords, and they now stood armed yet naked as they tried to focus their thoughts and make a plan. They took turns to guard the door as the other donned their armour. Elysabeth helped buckle the armour. She was now clothed in one of the king’s robes. Within short order they stood once more in their armour. Even though the plates were far looser than desirable they would serve.
Elysabeth stood above the king who lay motionless and silent, yet the slight raising of his chest confirmed he still yet lived. ‘I should finish what I began.’
‘My lady’, Wilhelm said in protest as he came to stand between Elysabeth and the barely living king. ‘I shall end the reign of this tyrant, with your leave.’ He began to raise his sword when the door to the chambers was thrown open.
Father Robert strode into the room like a warrior. In his hand was a large axe with an aged and bloody head. He looked to Wilhelm and Zachary, whose swords were raised for battle, and bid them lower their weapons with a slight wave of his free hand.
‘My lady’, Red Rob said, his voice full of sorrow. ‘Please forgive my absence and late return.’
‘There is nothing to forgive my friend, it appears you have arrived at the moment of need’, Elysabeth said kindly.
‘We must flee. The kingdom is under attack’, Robert said.
‘Orcs are this far south?’ Zachary asked.
‘No. Though the wrath of those attacking may be equal to those who serve the Darkness willingly. They are of the Elven race, though they have fallen from the fairness that race once was.’ Robert spoke sadly and he stared absently, as if recalling memories. His smile returned. ‘But there is hope of escape yet, though the way is perilous. Come, the longer we tarry, the greater the danger.’ He looked at Wilhelm and Zachary. Both warriors showed injuries that would incapacitate lesser men. ‘From this point forth, all who are not your brothers are your enemies.’
Father Robert handed his axe to Elysabeth and stood before the warriors. He placed a hand upon the forehead of each man and softly chanted.
‘In your name do we rise against the Darkness. Great horrors we do face. Steadfast, we stem the tide of shadow. My life freely is it given. For when I was asked, who would fight, I came to do your bidding. My heart is strong, yet flesh is weak in measure. Restore me once more, my lord. For this is my darkest hour.’
All three men had their bows. A sense of calm dropped like a veil upon the blood-soaked room. Elysabeth waited in silence. Energy filled the room like the remnants of a thunderstorm. Elysabeth could taste it in the air, feel it upon her skin.
The three servants of the Order of Light lifted their heads, and Elysabeth’s spirits lifted. Gone were the swellings that disfigured the warriors’ faces. Deep black bruises now appeared faint and aged. Both warriors flexed and made taut their muscles, and their armour tightened upon their frames. They looked renewed and eager.
Robert signalled and stepped through the door’s portal and over the lifeless bodies of two guardsmen. Both had deep and heavy axe wounds, skulls smashed, and brains exposed. Elysabeth saw the dreadful mess of the destroyed skulls, yet she was not repulsed or offended by the sight.
Robert led the group down the corridor and to a large spiralling stairway. The sound of battle echoed through the stone walls but was muffled and none could judge the distance of the fighting.
‘Quickly, downwards we go’, Robert said.
‘We are a level below the ground already, Father. Surely, that way would have us trapped’, Zachary said.
‘Nonsense boy’, Red Rob replied, speaking as one would to an infant. ‘There are ways unknown to any but the very old or the very wise.’ He smiled at Zachary and said, ‘You are neither, but I wish to reach the first being great of the latter.’ Red Rob hefted his axe and charged down the stairs and into a dimly lit corridor. Elysabeth walked calmly between her guardians. It stank of rot and damp and shit and blood, yet she paid no heed. She had heard of the lower dungeons and had dreaded becoming more acquainted with them, but she followed and even dared to glance into the cells they passed, though she gasped still at the husks that had once been human but were now bones with skin stretched upon them.
‘Is there nothing to be done with these poor wretches?’ Elysabeth said as she pulled on Robert’s cloak, attempting to slow his march.
‘Nothing, I am afraid, my dear. These poor souls are beyond our aid. They would need months of care and we have not the time’, Robert said, compassion in his voice mixed with determination. ‘Come now, my dear’, he said, gently pushing her forwards, towards an ancient and opened door.
‘This, Zachary of the young and unwise, is how I happened to be at the appointed place in the nick of time.’ Red Rob said smiling.
‘It is a sally port?’ Zachary said, not returning the smile.
‘It is. And beyond its gate is conflict, do not engage if it can be helped, we must move’, Robert answered.
‘But where do we move to, Father?’ Wilhelm asked, eager to be away from this foul castle and its air of doom.
‘It would be quicker if you just did as I bid when I bid it brother Wilhelm!’ Robert snapped.
The two warriors dropped their face plates down and with steel in their hands they followed Robert out into the chaos of a castle under attack.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Invasion
Cameos cleared the lip of the trench, Talako and Tatanka flanking him, sword in his hand and vengeance in his heart. Men stood twenty paces from the trench, curiosity and fear etched into their expression. The men backed away as more Elven warriors poured from the trench; they were unarmed and turned in terror, fleeing before the host.
Cameos surveyed the scene. Buildings small and made from wattle and wood lay crippled, the quaking of the earth shaking their supporting structures apart and reducing them to piles of debris. Cameos looked upon the destruction and with a moment of fear remembered Releaka’s threat. There would be dead amongst the rubble.
He turned his mind towards the present. They were finally her
e, in the lush land of Man. A cold fury gripped his heart, choking the compassion from within. He looked past the immediate area and saw the outline of the castle that dominated the landscape not two miles away. His eyes focused on the commanding structure, the glow from dozens of touches upon its battlements.
‘There,’ Cameos said as he pointed to the distant castle, ‘lays our enemy’s head.’
Alarm sounded through the night. The harsh sound of iron being rhythmically struck against iron, the call taken up further and further away and in different directions, until the sound became oppressive. The Elves looked this way and that, expecting enemies to come from all sides at once. Yet none came. The noise continued, the noise of people calling to one another. Dogs wailed, and no one silenced them.
‘All the land within the circle of the trench will be ours before the sun rises’, Cameos said, then ran towards Sprettaman, greatest castle of Man and home to the king. His Elven host ran with him as peasants screamed at the sight of the aliens, so armed and vicious-looking, their teeth bared, their expressions grim.
They ran with no interruption for almost a mile, nearly halfway to their goal, when the king’s guard made their line and made ready to give battle. Cameos raised his hand and the host of Elves stopped, spreading into a line two hundred wide and five deep.
A hundred men barred the way, a wall of muscle and chain mail, swords at their waists and long spears and shields in their hands. The men were outnumbered by ten to one, yet they showed no fear in the face of their enemy, only defiance and arrogance.
‘Who dares come upon the land of Sprettaman armed for war?’ the captain of the guardsmen called, his voice strong and deep, sombre and self-assured.
Cameos raised his arms and took a step forward. ‘Who dares bar my way?’
The captain stepped closer, alone, and Cameos marked his bravery. ‘It is a night for foul and dark things’, the captain said wistfully before drawing himself up. He added in a tone full of menace, ‘If you wish to parley, you should use clear words, creature, or are you eager to turn to the sword?’
Cameos looked back at the army he had birthed into being. They were fearsome, agile and eager to kill. He gave a curt nod of his head and his warriors lurched forward. Cameos turned and pounced. He cleared the distance between himself and the captain before the captain could draw his sword fully. Cameos’ sword ripped the man’s throat apart like a hungry wolf. Blood gleamed in the moonlight, spraying into the chieftain’s face. Cameos flicked his tongue over his blood covered lips and savoured the taste of his revenge.
The warriors of Elven Earth fell upon the outnumbered men like carrion birds on a corpse. A dozen of the elves were impaled upon the nine-foot-long, leaf blade tipped spears, as they leapt upon the mailed men with a fury born of a deep-seated hatred.
The men in the rearmost ranks dropped their cumbersome spears and drew their swords. They were being slaughtered, yet none turned to flee and even so outnumbered they made the Elves pay dearly for the victory. The men used their shields well, deflecting much of the Elven fury. The men were surprised but recovered well and over thirty of the Elven warriors lay dead. The broadsword of Man breaking through their leather armour with contemptuous ease and butchering the vital organs beneath.
The Elves took no prisoners and left none breathing. Some took ears or fingers for trophies. Others daubed their foreheads with the blood of the slain until Cameos restored them to order. They marched on now towards Sprettaman, bloodied, tested and invigorated with the taste of victory.
Jacob crouched at the cave-like entrance, Brondolf with him. They peered into the darkness, ears searching for sound.
‘It is like the king said’, Brondolf whispered. ‘I must confess I did not fully believe we would find anything out in this bleak desert.’
‘I knew we would find something, yet what that is still remains to be seen’, Jacob replied, also whispering, though there was no sign of life, nor sound other than the breathing of the men behind them and the occasional sound of metal on metal as men moved restlessly in the last remnants of coolness in the predawn air.
‘Do we find the other entrances?’ Brondolf asked the prince.
‘It is by chance we found this one.’ He crawled back from the hole and from the distance of three paces the gaping hole merged once more with the surrounding desert, a camouflage too fine to be natural.
Jacob ordered sentries to be posted throughout the area and had men covering the suspected entrance to the underground city they had come to sack, then ordered a council of war. A tent had been erected, food and ale to break their fast had come from the meagre supplies remaining. A dozen men sat in the shade of the canvas, awaiting their commander impatiently.
They rose when Jacob entered, and he bid them be seated with a wave of his hand. ‘So, we are here’, the prince stated simply. ‘The entrance is one of the four the king spoke of.’
‘So, we find the other three, and attack from all angles’, Lord Beringer said through a mouthful of bacon.
‘It will not be easy to find one more, let alone three’, Jacob replied. He was tired, weary of death and wanted nothing more than to be lying in a cool meadow with the smell of spring in his nostrils, Elysabeth in his arms. He had a sense of despair growing in the last days. He felt distant from all that was good in the world.
‘So, let us be about this business’, A baron named Carson said bitterly. ‘My men are near exhaustion. So many slaves have been claimed by this accursed country, I may have to row myself back south.’
It was Beringer who replied, ‘If we attack from only one of four entrances, we leave routes for escape. Our orders were explicit on the matter. Every one of these foul creatures dies! This is the king’s decree, given to him by He who is Greatest. I mean to do my king’s bidding and that of my God!’ Beringer the Younger had stood whilst talking and now looked from face to face, daring a challenge to his words.
Jacob stood to meet that challenge. ‘The king is over three hundred leagues away! He has no knowledge of the loses we have suffered, the ruin of the Kraken, or the desolation of this desert. We scarce have water enough for the return journey.’ Jacob indicated the Lord Beringer take his seat. ‘We leave men under the shelter of canvas and go down in force within the hour.’ He looked about the gathered men of rank. ‘You will obey my command; you will engage on my orders only.’ He looked pointedly at the Lord Beringer. ‘Muster your men and remember it is you who will suffer the consequence of your men’s action.’
Lord Audemar watched patiently as the sun began its final decent. ‘Why do they wait?’ one of his younger bowmen asked.
‘They are creatures of shadows, Oleif’, Audemar said calmly. ‘They wait for the day’s sun to die. They live in darkness, they serve the Lord of Darkness, they prefer to fight in darkness. But it makes no difference, young Oleif.’ Audemar added the last when he saw the despair upon the young archer’s face. ‘They shall die, and we shall bask in the morrow’s warm sun.’
‘Do you truly believe we shall prevail, my Lord?’ Oleif asked earnestly. He was a fair young man, blue eyes bright with youth, golden hair hung to his shoulders and his boyish face free of scars.
‘I did not march my finest men across the kingdom for certain death, youngster. But neither will I mask the truth; it will be a hard fight and a harder war.’ Audemar sighed and looked thoughtfully towards the south, where his wife and children awaited his return. He turned back to Oleif; a hardness came into his eyes. ‘Would we wait behind the mountains whilst brave men fight an evil that threatens us all?’ He raised his voice. ‘Or would we march to where the enemy dares rear its filthy head? To fight alongside the brave brothers who have kept our home safe for a time immemorial!’
Lord Audemar pointed to the vast heap of supplies in the centre of the battlements. Two thousand arrows, food to feed the twenty bowmen and the twenty men-at-arms for a week or more. And a score of skins filled with strong ale.
‘Pass the ale round, boys, but j
ust enough to wet the throat and settle the stomach, for the time is nigh and your aim has need of truth’, Audemar said boisterously.
Gymir stood between the defences and the brothers who would fight beside him at his self-appointed place of battle. To the west of him, a half mile in distance stood Iron Guard. The sight of that great and proud fortress gave him pride, as did the men before him.
‘I am filled with pride!’ Gymir began, his voice loud and controlled. ‘For it is not fear I see in your eyes! No, not fear. For fear is the tool of the Darkness and it is overcome by light. Pushed aside, acknowledged and then belittled.’ The knight-captain, commander of the army of the Order of Light, and warrior of renown turned back towards the line of Orc that stood at the jungle’s edge. ‘The servants of Darkness do not face men cowed by fear, but by men filled with the power of light!’
The roar that followed was thunder beneath a cloudless sky, a show of force. And as the roar continued, the sun sank beneath the horizon. And then the enemy roared its own war cry and charged.
They came in a tremendous wave of Orcish rage and savagery. Tusked greater Orcs barged their lesser comrades to the ground as they tore across the land between the jungle and the barricades of Man. Fangs, yellowed and hungry, were bared as the Orc and Goblin screamed, roared and howled their cries of hatred. Ill-made but fearsome-looking weapons held aloft as they closed on the targets of their evil born bloodlust. Hundreds ran towards Gymir, many more ran to assault the fortress of Iron Guard.
They came with speed and intensity, as if they thought to run through the great stone fortress and onwards to the lush lands beyond.
‘Bring down the big bastards’, Audemar said quietly and calmly, as he placed a bodkin arrow on his bow’s string. Without aiming or thinking, he let loose his arrow and had another on the string before the bodkin arrow ripped through the windpipe of a great beast of an Orc, felling the brute to gasp his last breaths in a fountain of arterial blood. He loosed again, picked another target, released death to another of the Orc chieftains and scanned the field of battle. Scores of the monstrous beasts had fallen to his twenty bowmen within the first minutes of the battle. The accuracy and lethality of the bodkin arrow released with the power of the great war bow had slowed the charge, put fear to the lesser creatures, but the growls of their leaders forced the foe ever forward.
The Banner of the Broken Orc: The Call of the Darkness Saga: Book One Page 42
