by J. M. Topp
‘That will do no good, Bendrick. She is near death.’
The voice startled Bendrick, and he turned around, sword in hand. There was nothing behind him, save for the emptiness of the dark hall. Bendrick turned back to Sieglinde. The blood simply would not stop. He applied more pressure on the wound in her stomach. Sieglinde opened her eyes and looked at Bendrick.
‘Father,’ she whispered, trying hard to focus her eyes on his face.
‘Sieglinde, I…you are…you’re bleeding too much. I can’t stop the bleeding.’
‘Father, I don’t want to die,’ Sieglinde choked as she raised her broken hand and placed it on his cheek. Bendrick’s eyes widened. He had seen enough men and women die to know the signs. Sieglinde was saying goodbye. Her arm fell to her side, leaving a trail of blood on his face. Bendrick shook his head and applied more pressure on the wound. ‘I won’t accept it. I won’t,’ he said.
Blood spurted into his face and arms. He couldn’t let her go, not in this foreign place. Sieglinde looked at Bendrick once more. She smiled at him and stared. The stare carried on for a couple of moments. Her pulse began to wane.
‘No. Stay with me, Sieglinde,’ Bendrick said as he placed his hands on her chest and began to pump her chest at the pace of his breath. Her ribs cracked even more as he tried to revive her. Sieglinde’s eyes were glued on Bendrick. Tears ran down her cheeks.
‘No, by the Abandoned gods, no!’ Bendrick realized that the tears trailing down Sieglinde’s cheeks were not hers at all, but his. He stopped pumping her chest and sat back. Sieglinde’s body lay motionless on cold, wet brick. Her broken arms and fingers twisted into the air. Bendrick clenched his fist in anger and jumped up, grabbing his sword. His vision was becoming a red blur. Bendrick shouted and swung his sword at the wall, chipping pieces of cracked stone from it. His blade recoiled from the blow, but he swung again. Over and over, he hit the wall, screaming. It wasn’t until the tip of his blade snapped off that he lowered his weapon. Bendrick glanced over at Sieglinde’s body. Her eyes remained open, staring at him.
For a moment, Bendrick stared back at her. He dropped his broken sword on the ground and knelt beside his daughter. Bendrick reached over her and closed her eyes. Memories of her childhood swam back at him. The first time he had seen her, she was covered in mire and smelt raw. But that pale white hair had stood out. Her smile had stood out. This was not how she was supposed to die. Bendrick heard a sound behind him, but he did not care to look. He knelt beside Sieglinde, trying to understand what had just happened.
A few hours had passed, and Bendrick finally stood up and walked the length of the hall. The giant stone hall led to a small chapel garden. A statue of a foreign goddess stood watch over the growing fauna, one hand on her breast and the other rising to the dark skies. Bendrick grabbed a flat stone that was lying before the statue and began to dig. Deeper he went, ignoring the stones and roots he dug through. Mud gave way easily to his digging. Once he was satisfied with the depth, he returned to the great hall. Bendrick placed the pierced chestplate back on Sieglinde and fastened the straps. He picked her up in his arms and brought her to the grave he had created. Solemnly, he lowered her into the muddy pit.
Bendrick grabbed the dirt with his hands and poured it over her body. Little by little, the mud and dirt level of the grave rose. Small snowflakes began to fall over the grave, dotting it with tiny specks of white. Once Bendrick was finished, he sat next to the grave, staring silently.
‘It is always heartwarming to meet the fulfillment of a prophecy.’
Bendrick jumped up, fists clenched to his sides, prepared for a fight. What stood before him only bewildered him. She wore a long, purple dress. In one hand, she held a staff, and in the other, a sword. Her skin was as white as the snows falling beside them. Silver epaulettes adorned her shoulders. Her eyes were covered with a red strip of cloth. Her sanguine lips formed a smile. She bowed low and set her staff on the ground. Bendrick frowned at the woman and sat beside the grave once more.
‘You spoke to me in that tent in the Lyedran, didn’t you? Who the hell are you?’ Bendrick mumbled, struggling to understand how she could have gotten so close without him noticing.
‘I saved your life.’
‘Dark magic, isn’t it? That’s how you were able to bring me here.’
‘You are very perceptive.’ The witch smiled slowly, folding her hands in front of her. ‘I had the choice to save one of you. My choice was you.’ Her crystalline voice reverberated in his mind. It only caused him to grow angrier.
‘You should have saved her.’
‘Saving you cost her life, but it was a choice I would make again.’
‘So you killed her?’ Bendrick stood and walked directly before the woman. Despair latched onto him like a cloak. Clouds began to overtake the moon’s light, casting a long shadow on the earth beneath. ‘What’s to stop me from taking your life right now?’
The witch flashed a smile, but before she could say anything, Bendrick shot one hand to her neck and began to squeeze with all his strength. The witch’s smile faded instantly as her windpipe was forced shut and her mouth opened wide, gasping for breath.
‘Your magic worked on me first, and then you tried her, but it was too late, wasn’t it? That daemon had already pierced her body.’
The witch was gasping for breath, but she didn’t struggle against Bendrick’s grip. ‘What use is magic when you can’t save someone’s life?’
Bendrick threw her neck away from him. The witch backed up a few steps, coughing and gasping for breath.
‘I saved your life,’ the witch choked.
‘The Weserithian Army?’ Bendrick glared at her with fists clenched to his sides, ignoring her question.
‘They have been defeated, for the last time,’ said the witch. She stood before him, leaning on her staff. She swallowed hard as she turned back to Bendrick. Whatever power she wielded, any interest in it began to wane in Bendrick’s mind.
‘You want my thanks? Then you have it. Now please, leave me in peace,’ muttered Bendrick.
The witch knelt in front of him. ‘It’s not your thanks I want, Bendrick.’ She placed her hand on his chest. Even though Bendrick wore a chestplate, a sharp pain struck through it, piercing his chest. ‘The words I spoke to you in that tent foretell of a dark day far ahead. I didn’t break your daughter’s chest, nor gore her belly. The beast known as Gruizoch did that. Power like the one used to save you does not come without great sacrifice. Yet I give it to you, a gift you must bear, to forge the stories and future of this world. To rid us of daemons such as Gruizoch and all daemonic ilk. To begin again.’
From the palm of her hand, a bright blue light appeared. It burned through Bendrick’s chestplate, melting the metal. Pain surged through him, yet Bendrick remained unable to move. He tried to scream, but all that he could do was clench his teeth. After what seemed an eternity had passed, the witch finally lowered her arm. The blue light slowly faded, and on Bendrick’s chest a symbol appeared with a faint blue glowing outline. It appeared like a trident surrounded by two vipers.
‘What did you do to me?’ gasped Bendrick as his senses returned to him. He struggled to stand up, but the woman put her staff to his neck.
‘You are mine now, Bendrick. You are an Apostle. The Rovulgad Reaper. And now you will certainly bear the title—not against man, but against daemon.’ The witch turned and began to walk away. Bendrick tried to stand up but fell hard to the ground on his face. All his strength escaped him.
‘Wait,’ Bendrick shouted, ‘don’t walk away from me!’
‘Perhaps you’ve seen it, maybe in a dream. The flame that will guide you to your destiny. Before the night closes in, a flame will draw you near. You must follow it, Bendrick. Your wings will burn in anguish, yet that is your fate. Go astray, and only in confusion will you find the answers you seek.’
The witch vanished in the fog as if she were merely the sad part of a dream. Bendrick struggled to get on his knees, but h
e was too weak. The scars on his chest ached, and he fell on the mud, exhausted and feeble. His last thoughts before he passed out were of the dark statue of the woman standing over him. Anguish was instilled within him.
All went dark.
ACT II
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Food for Crows
THE THUNDERING OF cavalry racing through the snowy drifts rang like a thousand drums in Elymiah’s ears. She urged her mount well ahead of the Holy Silver Angels platoon. The peytral of each of their horses was decorated with angel wings sprawling to the sides of the horse. On their chanfrons were steel eagle beaks, projecting in front of the horses’ heads for piercing power. Elymiah held her winged halberd ahead of her mount steady, and her platoon followed closely behind her.
When the order had been received that the Holy Platoons alongside the Aivaterran Army were to attack Estia Fortress, Elymiah was speechless. No Aivaterran could have predicted that there was still a Weserithian battalion that survived. The Holy Silver Angels platoon had been dispatched with two other platoons and a large portion of the main army. The Holy Bronze Cobras Platoon and the Holy Purple Rhinos Platoon kept their speed behind them. The Silver Angels were to lead the vanguard.
Estia Fortress wasn’t a familiar location to her, as it wasn’t on any of the maps they had. It was a secret location only surviving Weserithian elites possessed. Yet when the queen had given the order, they wasted very little time in deploying.
Elymiah and her platoon crossed through a gorge and into a small valley at full speed, raising clouds of snow behind them. Greenwood forest loomed in the distance. The thick forest lay covered in snow. From Greenwood’s shadow, Elymiah could see Estia fortress piercing into the outline of the moon like a sword with a broken tip. Robyn urged his horse on beside her. He wore his full armour this charge. His enclosed helm didn’t tell her much, but the way he spurred his horse told her everything she needed to know. He clutched his war axe, squeezing the handle as he rode. It had a long pole body nearly the entire length of his height. A blue raven design stretched out from the centerpole to the double blades of his axe. It had been his pride as a knight since he had commissioned it to be made.
Robyn was invigourated, as was the rest of her platoon. Weserith’s armies were fatigued and unprepared for their attack. Both the Lyedran and the invasion of the city of Weserith had not been very difficult or challenging for the Aivaterrans. Floods had come to their aid at the Lyedran, and they had barely had to fight. King William had opened the gates at Weserith, preventing a drawn-out siege. Elymiah knew full well that this surprise attack would end the month-long war that the queen had begun. The end to all tyranny was theirs for the taking. They began to slow as they reached the pinnacle of the small hill. Yet, when they rounded the top, what they saw before them chilled them to the bone.
Estia Fortress stood tall and black against the moonlit skies. Beneath the fortress, thousands of dark creatures zipped back and forth. Men in armour swung their swords at foul beasts to no avail. The creatures ripped them apart, ignoring steel plate and spilling their blood in pools. Screeches and fog emanated from their gaping maws. Fog and ash covered the crimson-red ground. Fear took hold of Elymiah as she stared at the spectacle. Her men lined up beside her. They couldn't believe what they were seeing. Small fires dotted the routed Weserith encampment. Elymiah had expected them to be asleep or drunk, unprepared for a battle. What Elymiah saw before her was even worse than anything she could have predicted even in her worst nightmare.
The Dark Armies had come.
Elymiah’s fear quickly turned to logic. They had plenty of men with them. They could overtake whatever was in those camps. She could lead them through this hell with the help of God. ‘Oredmere, grant me strength. Do not belittle our charge, but hasten our steeds to victory.’ She prayed silently and raised her spear above her head. ‘Charge forward with all speed. Route these daemons in the name of Oredmere!’
The Holy Silver Angels platoon charged the camp with the other two Platoons in tow. None of them stayed their mounts. In complete unison, the Holy Aivaterran platoons raced against the daemonic enemy. Elymiah’s horse crashed against a daemon in dark armour. Its chest was completely destroyed as the ash within flew in all directions. Elymiah smiled and raised her spear, lancing it at another dark man. Robyn brandished his waraxe and chopped helms off of daemons.
‘Knight-Captain Elymiah, what of the Weserith men?’ Robyn shouted above the screams of battle.
Elymiah turned to see some Weserithians holding their own, but they were few and far spread thin. ‘The men of Weserith will have their reckoning, but for today…’ Elymiah grunted as she dodged a flying spear that zipped too close to her head.
‘Kill the daemons!’
Elymiah was astounded at the confidence in her voice. She wondered if that was what her father sounded like. The fading of the flame will result in the attunement of dark. Steel thine senses and brace thyself. Elymiah closed her eyes for a second, remembering the words written on her armour.
She opened them and screamed, charging into the fray.
Elymiah’s hand did not waver. Robyn blew a warhorn he wore on his chest. It was brazen gold and had the Aivaterran sigil. The blast of sound coming from it made the daemons jump back in fear. Elymiah urged her steed forward through the burning tents. She jabbed her halberd left and right, piercing dark armour and flesh. All of a sudden, something hit her horse in the head, crushing it instantly and sending Elymiah flying into a broken tent. She ripped through the canvas onto a couple barrels, crushing them. She turned to see what had hit her horse.
Elymiah gasped as she saw her horse’s crushed head and neck slide from the enormous warhammer. The horse’s body fell in a heap. A daemon reared its long and sharp horns and snorted at Elymiah. ‘The legion of the holy joins us. Yet it is you who stands before me.’ The beast laughed hatefully and swung his warhammer at Elymiah. The head of his mighty weapon landed in the ground, missing her dodging body by mere inches. The impact of the warhammer left a small crater in the ground. The beast lowered his horns and charged at Elymiah. For a moment, she looked into the eyes of the beast. They were red and full of hate. Suddenly, something crashed into her, pushing her out of the way of the beast’s horns. She fell to the ground yet again, this time with added weight on her.
‘Ely, snap out of it!’ Robyn jumped up and faced the mighty beast. He tore off his helm and bared his teeth at the beast. He held his great axe high above his head, prepared to attack.
‘Robyn!’ Elymiah screamed at him. It was pure foolishness to face the beast alone. He twirled his great axe in his hands. Robyn dodged a mighty swing from the beast. His white cloak blew wildly behind him in the wake of the beast’s swing. Snow shot into the air beneath Robyn. He raised his axe above his head and struck at the beast with all his might. All the beast could do was raise his arm to block the blow. The blade cut into his flesh, revealing a trickle of black blood, but it didn’t cut deep enough. The beast grabbed the axe of the head with his other hand, dropping the giant warhammer. The daemonic weapon dropped on the ground with such weight that the earth beneath them shuddered.
‘Thrice my blood has fallen to the ground this day. How long has it been since I have been cut by man?’ the beast fumed, ash clouds running from his nostrils. He held Robyn’s axe head even tighter as cracks began to appear on it. ‘That a mere knight such as you could draw my blood. I do not relish killing weaklings as the men before me, but you—I will kill you last.’
The beast tore the great axe in half with his bare hands as if it were made of paper. Elymiah’s head swam as the roar echoed in her mind. Blood streamed down her nose as she lost control of her bladder. For a moment, she could only see the blur of battle and the shadow of the dark monster. She focused on Robyn and saw that he too was on his back, convulsing violently. The beast towered over him.
They were at his cruel mercy.
Suddenly, a flash of sparks erupted behind the beast. He roare
d, but not like the scream of daemons. The beast turned around in confusion at the disruption. Thousands of rock-like projectiles flew overhead, exploding on the ground, blowing up daemon and soldier alike. A small, black rock fell before the beast, and he picked it up in his hand, inspecting it.
‘What the…?’
The small rock exploded in the beast’s hand, sending a blast wave of wind and fire in all directions. Elymiah covered her head as the explosion blew over her. She tried to stand up, but the ringing in her ears made it difficult to gather her bearings. The beast stood in exactly the same place, but his left arm was completely missing. Blood spurted from the limb, and bits of rock had embedded itself into the beast’s flesh. The beast looked with widened eyes in shock. Suddenly, he erupted in laughter.
‘War has changed that vastly?’ the beast smiled cruelly and approached Elymiah, hardly noticing that he had lost a limb. The stomping of his feet resonated as the beast neared them. Elymiah stared, knowing full well that her end was near. She couldn’t move. Her limbs were frozen in place, no matter how hard she tried to move them. In that moment, she couldn’t even pray. The psalms and poems she had memorized for a dark moment vanished into thin air.
