by P D Ceanneir
Sir Velnour’s line was thinning, his men were dying all around him, and archers threw away their bows to jump into the gaps to aid him as they replaced the casualties, only to die in the attempt at filling them. The defenders were buckling under the strain as the enemy sent wave after wave into their ranks.
Suddenly, a dark shadow passed over them. At first, Velnour thought it was another dragon, but the huge bulk of the Cybeleion loomed menacingly into view causing panic amongst the enemy clambering up the slope. From his vantage point he could see the damage that the sky battle had wrought over her hull, he wondered if she would ever repair herself after this.
She twisted around until her remaining cannon aimed at the enemy climbing the slope and she fired a volley that raked the climbing soldiers with shrapnel. Bodies leapt into the air from the explosions of shot, raining down as eviscerated flesh onto the survivors. Four cannon shots sounded in all, stretching along the line of attackers, punching gouts of rock and earth from the hillside, and exposing massive gaps in the enemy ranks. The Dutrisi regiments retreated in fear down the slope, the great ship floated over the Whaleback creaking and groaning in the air. She was losing height with every foot.
The pressure on Velnour’s line eased and the remaining archers took up their bows again to see off the retreating enemy. Velnour found Felcon at the far end of the ridge. Blood caked his left side and he was pale, together they watched the Cybeleion land with an undignified thump near the Temple Woods far in the distance, kicking up clouds of dirt as she did so and come to a silent and undignified rest at a slight angle to her right side.
‘We did it Felcon, we secured the ridge, thanks to Danyil,’ said Velnour.
Felcon nodded feebly, ‘it’s up to the king now,’ he said with a dry mouth.
‘Our best chance of winning is an all-out charge into their ranks,’ said Havoc as he watched the Dutrisi soldiers return to the Brethac lines.
Powyss turned to him, ‘you are never wrong, but we are outnumbered.’
‘We have the ridge,’ he said unconvincingly, ‘with that in our grasp, my uncle with be reluctant to move away from the citadel walls and expose his host.’ Havoc scanned the formations of land to his front. The citadel in the distance still smouldered, sending up a cloying black stench into the air. The Brethac Army huddled to the north east near the stepped ridges of the burial Howes; their archers used the lengthened Tumulus, which curved outwards to the west, as a tactical advantage just as Havoc used the Whaleback.
‘I think we should dishearten them some more,’ he continued. ‘When I give the signal send the archers forward to fire two volleys then give the order for a general advance.’ The king heeled Dirkem’s flanks and trotted forwards. He signalled to Little Kith to follow him.
‘What are you going to do, sire?’ asked Powyss.
‘I’m going for some sword practise,’ he said over his shoulder and together he and Little Kith trotted from the main roadway to a flat twenty-foot square boulder that was covering one of the citadel’s old drainage wells. It represented the halfway point between the two opposing armies.
As they reached the boulder the king dismounted and stood on the surface, which only raised about two feet from the ground of short grass. It’s surface was cracked and covered in moss and weeds with a slight bevel at one end, but it would do.
‘Kith, I need you to approach the enemy and ask them to send a champion to fight me,’ he said to the big man.
Kith looked at him in surprise, ‘you are declaring Ancarryn, boss?’
Havoc nodded.
‘I can stand as your champion,’ said Little Kith with a note of pride in his voice.
‘True, but I have not officially picked a champion and I’m hoping that my uncle will fight me, so go, and declare my intentions.’
Little Kith nodded as he unslung his axe and rode forward. He held it by the shaft above his head to represent an Ancarryn Herald and stopped within fifteen feet of the serried ranks of the enemy spearmen. He was only there for a few seconds, then he turned around and returned to Havoc, who handed him Dirkem’s reins so the big man can take the black stallion away.
‘What did you say?’
‘I explained to them of your intent to fight their champion in the Ancarryn, but also told them not to bother because he was as good as dead.’
Havoc chuckled, ‘that ought to do it.’
Ness Ri knew Nestor Ri of old. He was a good swordsman but not as skilled as he was. Still, the grey haired Ri attacked with an alarming ferocity that sent him reeling backwards and stumbling against one of the monoliths. Lord Ness leapt over him with acute litheness and kicked him in the back before he landed. Nestor lurched forward from the kick yet still managed to pass his long narrow sword around his back to deflect Lord Ness’s blade.
From out of the shadows Saltyn Ri threw a Fireball towards the two combatants, Lord Ness saw it speed towards him and he stepped around Nestor while locking his opponents sword with his own and using his upper body strength to push the other Ri towards the oncoming ball of flame. Nestor screamed as the ball hit his back and engulfed him in flames, it licked upwards from his shoulders to his head in tall forks of orange flame, and he used up energy in dowsing it with a burst of the Wind Element. Lord Ness took that opportunity to swing Belthoin towards Nestor, the sword sliced open his chest and upper right arm, blood sprayed over the marble floor.
The strong wind of the morning had lessened to a subtle breeze. Spears of sunlight cut through the breaking clouds casting a golden sheen on the prairie grass and yellow sage that the wind had dried from the rain the previous night. Havoc, standing tall and silent on the flat rock platform, handsome and imposing in his father’s silver armour, thought that this moment was one he would remember for the rest of his life. It was calm and peaceful, larks called as they flitted overhead, meadow pipits twittered in the distance. It would have been a perfect moment if an army of thousands were not staring at him from the far side of the field; or marred by the dead littering the slope of the ridge far to his right, and towards the wide rolling meadow before him.
It was some time before the Brethac champion appeared. At first Havoc thought that they were not going to send one and he was about to turn back to his own army when there was some jostling of heads and the front line of soldiers parted to allow an armoured horseman through. The Vallkyte Knight was a member of the Desilliers, the bodyguard élite of the Vallkyte throne. The knight dismounted halfway to the Rogun king and walked towards him with long purposeful strides. Havoc had not really expected his uncle, the fact that he had sent someone else meant he was afraid to fight him or that the act of doing so was beneath him. Whatever the reasons, Havoc would teach him a lesson.
The Desillier stepped up onto the platform and unsheathed his sword from a velvet scabbard strapped to his side. He was tall and wore a long white cape with a red trim at its edges and a king’s coat of arms, the round symbol of the Rings of Dulan, on the back. He wore richly made armour, custom built to fit and move with comfort as Havoc could see when the knight limbered up with a few practice lunges.
The king recognised the ranking insignia on his left shoulder-guard, it depicted the Spur Hawk in flight, the symbol of the Knight Marshal of Dulan, otherwise known as Klingspur. The face under the helmets faceguard was that of Sir Nethroin, Lord of Ethicon.
The king knew little of this lord from the farmlands of Dutrisi. He was perhaps a few years younger than he, a quiet and confident soldier and a great leader of men. He last saw him at the Canndali where he passed the last test of a Rawn Master. He was rich, with a sizeable army of his own.
‘It saddens me to see you have taken the wrong side, Nethroin,’ Havoc sighed, ‘I could have used you as an ally.’
Nethroin stopped his practice to scowl at the king. Under his usual calm there simmered a burning anger. ‘I would never have sided with you,’ he growled, ‘the destroyer of cities and murderer of innocents. I would have rather trusted the Nithi than you
!’ His voice sounded strong as he derided the king, but there was doubt in his eyes.
Havoc looked at him with pity. ‘War brings out the worst in all of us,’ he said with a shrug. ‘My uncle has done far worse to my people. Are you forgetting the butchering of my sisters and cousins on the Rattan?’ He made the last remark sound loud to emphasise the fact. Nethroin hesitated, and then shook his head.
‘Yes, that was…No matter, this will all end with your death!’
‘This will only end when the Earth Daemon is gone back to the earth!’ Havoc snapped.
Nethroin hesitated as he glared back, ‘you know of the Lonely God?’
Anger flared inside the king and he began to pace around Klingspur. ‘Did you think we Roguns were blind to the true desires of the Brethac Ziggurat, Nethroin? Your Order has been in existence for a very long time. Forty years ago, you rose to claim power; Baron Telmar saw your threat and turned against you.’
‘Liar!’
‘It’s true. He succeeded enough to crush the Brethac but not destroy it.’
Nethroin was shaking his head. ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong! We rise against tyranny, your tyranny!’ he pointed his sword at the king. In the distance, the Brethac Army cheered.
‘You’re so brainwashed. Tell me; were you ever alone with Cinnibar?’
The question confused Klingspur, his face a mask of worry.
‘I see that you were,’ continued the king with a smile, ‘you poor fool.’
Nethroin roared, raised his sword and lunged. There were cheers from both sides as the champions fought, swords clashed and clanged, they twisted and turned around each other as they used the available space on the stone block. Nethroin was good, he moved fast, used skilful turns, parries, lunges, and stayed a fair distance from the king who used a fluid motion that always brought him within the other warriors defence. This frustrated the knight who wanted the upper hand in a fight. Nethroin picked up the tempo, changing step and increased speed to confuse the king, but Havoc was always there in front of him wherever he moved too, as if he could read is mind.
Eventually he saw an opening in the king’s defence and made a lunge that glanced off the silver chest piece with a cringing screech, Havoc stumbled back and defended wildly as Nethroin hacked with renewed vigour. However, the Rogun King lithely stepped away from his opponent’s sword strike and locked his opponent’s sword arm against his right arm and leg, he grasped Nethroin’s nape with his left arm and pulled it down towards the fan shaped blade of his left shoulder guard.
Nethroin grunted in pain when his face struck the guard, his chin and right cheek cut deeply, he backed off. Havoc swung his arm, punching him in the face with his mailed fist sending him onto his back.
The Rogun archers on the ridge cheered a heartbeat before the main host.
‘So you fight for power,’ explained Havoc as the knight got to his feet, ‘power is all the Brethac Ziggurat requires, power and servitude. I fight for freedom, people deserve to be free, and they deserve to have a voice.’
‘You do not want order, you reap chaos. The Brethac are a new improved order and bring balance to your disruption!’ growled Nethroin as he swung wildly to his left, making Havoc jump back. The swords clashed again, this time Havoc kept time with his opponent and forced him back to the edge of the stone platform, which was only a few feet away, he changed hands and brought SinDex around in a slashing motion cutting through Nethroin’s thigh plate and opening up the muscle. The knight hopped backwards and hesitated when the edge was just behind him. He was clearly astonished that the king’s sword could cut through armour and flesh so easily. Havoc spun on his heal and kicked the other man in the chest sending him sprawling onto the long grass.
A roar of approval soared from the Rogun host, leaving the Brethac sullen and silent. Nethroin healed himself, which was against the rules of the Ancarryn but he did not care, and climbed back up, his face contorted with anger and pain.
‘I see Lord Sernac leads you to your doom! “New Order”? What falsehood!’ scoffed Havoc. ‘All he wants is the entity inside the Gredligg Orrinn, and all that will bring him is the total annihilation of our world.’
‘Destruction, yes, but a new world will be reborn from the ashes of the old.’
‘There will be no life left to form a new world, you fool!’ shouted the king as he deflected Nethroin’s sword. ‘The Earth Daemon only knows violence and destruction; it doesn’t care about you or your beloved new world.’
Nethroin jabbed and swung in anger. The king was getting to him, the more he spoke the more the truth dawned on him, but his anger drove him forward until his sword struck Havoc’s left forearm, cutting through the steel plate. The king gritted his teeth as rich red blood pulsed over the metal’s cut. He ignored the burning pain, used his left hand to grab Nethrion’s sword-blade, and then plunged SinDex through the knight’s chest and heart.
Nethroin fell to his knees, his eyes wide and staring at the king in surprise.
‘I…I…was promised so much,’ he explained like a small child as his heart beat franticly around the kings blade.
‘You were promised lies,’ said Havoc, ‘and chose the wrong side.’ The king stood gripping the hilt of his sword as the knight’s heart failed to heal and he died.
Charged particles and random elements careered around the Crux Room. A Blended mix of Fire and Earth punched through the wall to Lord Ness’s left taking a four foot section of the wall and a window frame out into the night. Ness counterattacked with a flurry of elements that punched holes into the floor around the other Ri sending them flying backwards.
Nestor screamed as he crashed to the cracked floor under a stream of blood. He jerked in spasms of pain as he tried to heal himself and stop the blood loss brought on by the ballistic chunks of masonry that zipped around him. Lord Ness had no time to finish him off because Saltyn Ri had moved around the room to come up behind him. He delivered a slashing cut with his sword that tore through Ness Ri’s white robe and slashed his left shoulder along the clavicle and down his back about a foot in length.
Ness Ri ignored the pain and swept around with Belthoin to push Saltyn Ri back to the centre of the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Varix stumble out of the dark corner, his face contorted in agony as he used a vast amount of energy to heal his broken arms and legs. To Lord Ness he was the weakest link of the three, and as he pushed Saltyn back he changed his footing and turned quickly around to confront the oncoming Varix. Due to his weakness, Varix was a little slower than usual and he did not see Lord Ness’s sweeping blade until it was too late. Belthoin came around in an unstoppable arc that cut through his head and down through his body, the sword exited his groin with a sucking noise and a splash of blood sprayed the floor. The left and right sides of Varix separated and hit the ground at the same time.
Unleash me! I will lessen their numbers, said the Blacksword as he shifted in Havoc’s mind. The king ignored him as he put his steel clad boot on Nethrion’s chest and pushed his slumped body off his sword.
Movement among the enemy, bobbing helmeted heads rippled as the rows allowed the archers through their ranks. They came forward at a sprint carrying their strung tall war bows and bags of quivers, each wearing the grey and blue livery of the famous Vallkyte Vinton Archers.
Havoc heard his own men rush forward behind him and he stood his ground on the stone platform, still and defiant. He looked behind the oncoming Vinton, trying to catch a glimpse of his uncle as he picked out the standards of lords and colourful banners that snapped in the wind. There, on the Brethac right, next to the Dulan Royal Burial Mounds was the king’s standard.
The burial mounds were built upon the old foundations of the original houses of Dulan-Tiss. Long ago, the inhabitants moved their homes closer to the shore to build the citadel and these old structures became tombs to the old Vallkyte kings and their families. Tons of earth and turf topped off the summits of the Howes and the south end of the mounds had large brick steps that curv
ed around half the circumference of the mound to allow, according to legend, the spirits of the dead kings to climb to the summit and so pass to the Halls of the Heroes.
It was on one of these steps, about fifty-five feet above the ground, where King Kasan, his officer entourage and Desilliers now stood. Their view of the battlefield was far better than Havoc’s.
They watched as the Vinton Archers stopped just three hundred yards from the Rogun king, notched their arrows to the bowstrings, aimed and fired. Several thousand arrows darkened the sky and silently sailed towards him. Havoc used the Wind element to push away the closer arrows and they sailed harmlessly away from him. Behind him his own army of archers, Rogun, Eternal and Nithi, unleashed their own volley. The cloud of sharp death merged with the thousands loosed from the archers on the ridge and they peppered the ground around the Vintons. Many enemy archers died in the volley, some braved the onslaught to fire back and scored hits aplenty among the Rogun ranks.
Havoc held up SinDex, pointing the mighty sword straight up towards the sky, a signal for Powyss to prepare. He smiled as the sound of unsheathing swords broke through the screams of the arrow pierced archers that writhed on the ground. The few horses that the Rogun Army had now trotted forward as the infantry jogged behind them. When the distance to their king halved, Havoc let out a bloodcurdling scream and brought his sword down to point at the enemy and signal for the charge. Behind him, his host took up the war cry and sprinted forward.
The king jumped from the rock and ran straight towards the archers. As he did so, he allowed the Blacksword to take full rein of his body. It was quick, yet with each running step, some part of him changed and the transformation was slightly different from usual. The armour creaked and groaned as it formed into a sleeker, more malleable design to his father’s, the helmet lost its peeked point and flattened to the pale skull of the Blacksword. The helmet’s rim grew black teeth that bit into the pale flesh of the forehead that framed the leering countenance to leave the face looking even more menacing as the black eyes gazed out of the deep ocular sockets. The king’s cape changed to velvet black, also forming a hood that barely covered the new helmet, and flowed around his body to fit around the armour, the edges held together at the chest by three rows of thick silver chains. The rest of the cloak hung loose around his legs for ease of movement.
