by Chris Ward
And then the Nephytrolls came.
They came out of the forest together; they came in a line, lumbering quickly across the fields, huge beasts the height of a small tree but thicker than the largest oak. Their skin was rough and scaled like some natural armour, and they made no noise as they came, save for their footsteps which seemed to shake the ground and loosen rocks from nearby walls. They each carried an enormous pointed iron bar which glinted in the moonlight. The defenders of KingsLoss watched in awe as they loped along stepping easily across the irrigation canals and over walls. They passed through the lines of enemy soldiers without a care, knocking several who had not been watchful senseless to the ground. And behind them came the wolves once more and their howls again suddenly shattered the silence and filled all who heard with dread.
‘They attack the gates!’Tyron cried seeing where the Nephytrolls ran to. His archers immediately sent volley after volley of arrows at the lumbering beasts. Many found their mark, but the thick scales of the Nephytrolls deflected them all except a very few which stuck fast where they found some softness, but the great trolls seemed not the least affected. Rema waited for them to stop below, before the gates. He loosed an arrow then from full draw and saw the shaft sink deep into the scales of one of the creatures, and he thought even through to the soft flesh beneath, for the Nephytroll jumped and gave an angry roar, but then it shook itself and stood with the others as they raised their mighty iron bars. In that moment none of the defenders knew what to do. Rema and Gravyn loosed more arrows. Gravyn’s did no more than the arrows of the other defenders. Rema’s penetrated and caused the beasts some irritation but this only seemed to goad them.
‘We are lost unless we find some manner to halt these beasts,’ Tyron hissed in despair.
And then the fell creatures began to destroy the gates. With every mighty blow of the iron bars the stone cracked and fell away, whilst the huge timber gates started to splinter from the first strike. The five huge Nephytrolls worked together in an amazing rhythm. Above on the battlements scores of ineffective arrows rained down, and then a few well placed lances caused the trolls to jump and look up and roar in pain, but this only slowed them a little although Rema managed to blind one with a well placed arrow, but he had no further chance for thereafter the Trolls kept their heads down and worked at the gates. The stone around the massive iron hinges began to crumble as the walls shook with the force of their blows. The wolves crowded excitedly in a great frenzy behind them as if anticipating the moment when they might enter and tear apart every living thing; and now the brutish soldiers had regrouped and marched up behind the wolves. The enemy was within a taste of the final victory and it had all happened in such a short time, that no real defence was able to be organised, for nothing the defenders had was capable of repulsing such huge and powerful beasts.
And then with several withering blows the gates came away and toppled down, falling with a thunderous noise upon the ground before the fortress, splintered and broken. As the realisation of what had come to pass was clear to all, both defender and enemy, a sudden hush fell over the battlefield, as some saw a terrible approaching doom, and the others anticipated a bloody victory and revenge for all past disappointments before the mighty impregnable fortress of KingsLoss.
And in panic Rema turned to Sylvion. But she was not there.
In the instant that the mighty Nephytrolls started toward the open gates and the frenzied wolves began to run in their wake, the moonlit fields below KingsLoss were seared by such a light that none could see for a short time, a time in which a mighty thunder clap shook the land and brought down more of the fractured stone around the broken gateway. But long before any of it hit the ground Sylvion took the battle to the array of evil forces which sought to destroy all good within the walls they had assaulted.
Those upon the ramparts saw only in a fog, but Sylvion came through the broken gates at a speed which could not be tracked. She saw the trolls as if set in stone for they were not quick by nature and against her Shadow Blade they had no way to avoid the death she was about to deliver them. The wolves were faster, but the great light before them brought an instant terror, for they were creatures of the night and hated the light, and so ruled by instinct they turned and ran. Sylvion came upon the blinded Troll first and with a single blow to its leg took the limb clean off just below the knee. She did not wait for it to fall, and indeed by the time she had done the same to all the others, severing a single leg from each, the first had only just fallen half way to the ground. She then pursued the wolves some distance, killing three score as they fled, and then turned back and took the soldiers in a single angry act. She felt her heart grow cold as ice and it gave her such pain that she faltered for a moment, but only for a moment; and then by sheer wilfulness she went on and slew them quickly, three at the least to each beat of her pounding heart. When finally she saw that they knew great fear and were helpless before her, she changed her attack and with the flat of her blade she laid three score senseless as they tried in vain to bring some defence against her; but all they saw was a blinding light and a figure darting like a dragonfly, here and there and nowhere resting, no chance to aim or swing or do anything short of mill about in a foggy stupor of impending defeat.
It was over so quickly that those above on the battlements of KingsLoss did not know what was happening, although high above, Giraldyn sitting in his wheeled chair knew, and breathed a prayerful thanks to El-Arathor for the gift to the land of one such as the Queen of Revelyn and the Shadow Blade. And he knew in that moment that she would slay Zydor and if his long life were to end because of it, then it would be a price well paid.
And the others could not but watch in amazement, not able to comprehend the speed of all that flashed before them, but they saw the Nephytrolls fall and their cries of searing pain seemed to reach through the fog of their consciousness and they knew they were saved.
And then Sylvion halted her mad attack and stood by the broken gates of KingsLoss and allowed the light to diminish as her anger cooled, until the Shadow Blade glowed dully but still sufficient to give dire warning to any who might attempt to approach.
And all upon the battlefield before her turned and ran, following the wolves back into the forest, for none of them had the courage to stand against such a thing. And then only the howling pain of the bleeding and injured Nephytrolls came to fill the air. But Sylvion’s heart was deadly cold, for the power of the Shadow Blade was upon her, and as those above watched clearly now, she slew them all. She took off their heads with a single cut, and then as the last one died, a dreadful silence settled over all, and Sylvion measured her heart and knew it was ice, for she had never before moved with such speed or deadly ability. And yet more; for this time she felt no remorse for what she had done. And then as a mighty cheer rose up from those above her on the wall of KingsLoss; then Sylvion, the white Queen of Revelyn cried, for she did not hear it, but she knew her humanity was greatly changed, and the ice in her deepest being rose up to possess her, and so without warning she dropped senseless to the ground, as though felled by a war hammer.
Chapter 18
Germayne stood on the walls above Ramos and wept. She looked down upon her city, her home, the place where she had run and played as a child, and she saw it changed, sunk into shadow and no longer safe. No longer a place where truth and love and justice were part of the fabric of life, held high in esteem by all and acknowledged as the foundation of what made the people flourish.
‘Ah Ramos,’ she wept in words which shook her deepest being, ‘I think you are lost, for you no longer respond to the way of right. You chose violence. You slay the innocent. If Sylvion my Queen were here she would surely die from the grief of it. So long did she strive to set you free from evil. How quickly you embrace it.’ And then her eyes could not see for she found that her tears were truly blinding.
Germayne had arrived back in the capital without further incident after leaving the ruin of Fellonshead. Her grief at
Andes’ death had dulled and on her lone journey she had hardened her mind and turned it to what lay before her. Her letters of authority were received with amazement by the stewards whom Sylvion had left in charge in her absence, but they had respected the authority she now had, and found her most able to rule. Within days Germayne had taken in full measure the power granted her and tried to bring proper order to the people. She had been shocked that so many now bore the mark of the beast but despite several attempts she had been unable to remove Gryfnor the magician from the market place. It seemed that the people stood against her in this, and the soldiers she brought to arrest him found large crowds barred their way, and without great bloodshed she could not move against him. Word came of many humans sacrificed. But the horror of it was that the people accepted this, and indeed had turned out to witness such evil. She had arrested many and the dungeons were now full of ordinary people from the city who had acclaimed the sacrifice and indeed swore that it was the only way to turn back the sinking of the land.
And without exception they bore the mark.
But the land had slowly continued to sink. The land seemed to shiver and the tremors of it were sometimes felt quite clearly. The animals, especially the dogs were most affected as if they sensed a continual danger from which they could not flee. The wharves in the port were in need of further heightening and many houses were lost, and storehouses too. No longer was there a distinct port, for the water had crept in upon the lower streets of Ramos and the even the bigger ships now found great difficulty coming up river and mooring safely where a cargo could be unloaded, for it had become a great challenge.
But it was the people who alarmed Germayne the most. She had walked about freely in the first days before her authority had been made known and what she had seen broke her heart. The market square was no longer a place where the happy sound of life beckoned all about to come and share. Instead the faces she witnessed there seemed sullen and fearful, and increasingly Gryfnor drew greater and greater crowds who sought to find solace in his Diabules, for they alone seemed to promise some escape or hope from a coming ruin which crept upon them all.
And now the worst news. Betrayal. The Royal Sceptre was gone. Stolen that very night by one of the Nephilim, the giant guards who were beyond corruption. Until now.
Maxym, the one who was Sylvion’s favourite, had been slain by his companion as they stood guard by the Royal Vault deep in the White Palace and the Sceptre stolen. Germayne knew that Gryfnor had been behind it and her first reports confirmed this for Nhilym the giant who had committed the dreadful crime had been seen often near Gryfnor’s tent in the market and so it must be that he had succumbed to the wiles of the evil magician. Of the sceptre or the Giant there was no sighting, but Germayne knew that it was a grievous blow to Revelyn. Without the Royal Sceptre the Shadow Blade was much diminished for it could no longer confirm the ruler or any who claimed the throne.
‘Long have you sought this victory,’ she hissed down toward the market below where Gryfnor’s tent stood with coloured flags and the ever present crowd before it. ‘I do not know what you can do with it but it will surely cause much harm before your evil is finally defeated.’
‘Excuse me Germayne,’ a voice suddenly called respectfully from behind, interrupting her angry thoughts. She turned and smiled through her tears for it was Drevyn, one of the kitchen stewards and now her most useful servant, for he had gladly given of himself to her authority despite his being a little older and having shared something of a lowly childhood with her.
‘What news Drevyn?’ Germayne asked quietly, knowing immediately by his sad face that it was not good. Drevyn did not smile but simply nodded in respect.
‘Two more last night,’ he whispered, ‘a girl child and a youth, down by the wharves. Soldiers recovered the bodies in the early light of this day. A score were arrested but no one is giving any information which might be helpful.
‘I think Drevyn,’ Germayne replied quietly, ‘that is because the people now embrace it.’ A long silence ensured before Drevyn spoke.
‘Will the White Queen return to us Germayne?’ he asked with no little anxiety clear in his voice. Germayne smiled sadly and looked down into the tortured city.
‘Oh yes, she will return to us Drevyn,’ Germayne replied, ‘for there is none who can stand against her in battle.’ She then took a deep breath and tuned back to him. ‘The question is Drevyn,’ she continued in a whisper. ‘To what does she return...?’
Gryfnor looked up and saw the tiny female figure looking down upon him. He smiled coldly but with an evil pleasure such that it warmed him somewhat despite the vile blood which coursed in his veins. ‘Well might you stare down from the safety of your heights foolish wench,’ he said not caring at all if those around him heard for they were in his thrall now and did not understand even the smallest part of what was enveloping them. ‘But stare is all you will do,’ he continued with a leer, ‘for I have the Sceptre now, and long have I sought it.’ The sense of triumph which he felt suddenly welled up and almost overcame him, such that he turned away and ordered the crowd depart.
‘Return before the noon my friends,’ he cried, ‘and I will have some new tricks to show you!’
‘Please show us now Gryfnor!’
‘Yes sira, we would like to see them now,’ called another but the magician dismissed them impatiently with a wave.
‘Be gone. I have business to attend. Before the noon and you will see some great things, and I have many gifts for the faithful. Bring your children, they are special to me. ’ And with this evil invitation he retired into his small tent and greeted the one who waited there for him.
‘You have done it?’ Gryfnor demanded with an eagerness which could not be hidden.
The man before him was tall but not in any manner powerful; he was wiry and yet somewhat ephemeral, and before the magician he was completely at the mercy of the sorcerer’s power.
‘Yes my Lord, exactly as you ordered,’ the man replied his eyes fixed anxiously upon the magician, like a dog wanting desperately to please its master.
‘It is gone, sunk in the deep?’ Gryfnor asked rubbing his hands together.
‘Yes my lord, I took great care, the Sceptre was weighted and sunk in...’
‘I do not want to know where,’ Gryfnor silenced the man quickly with a single gesture. He took a breath. ‘So you my faithful servant are the only man in all Revelyn who knows where the Royal Sceptre of the House of Hendon lies?’ Then man was overly eager now, wanting to please.
‘Yes my Lord, I alone, none other was with me or saw me. It is gone, as you ordered.’
At this Gryfnor exalted. ‘You have done well, and now your reward. I said I would have something most unexpected for one so faithful,’ Gryfnor continued. It is done he thought. Not even I know where to look for it so I cannot reveal it. This leaves only this poor fool and he would talk for a loaf of bread, so this cannot be allowed... A slow smile spread across Gryfnor’s face but the man saw something else. He suddenly saw the evil of some inner beast and in an instant of terror he knew that his incredible knowledge was his death sentence.
‘Please...’ was all he managed before his dead body lay twitching upon the ground at Gryfnor’s feet, felled by a single gesture for that was all such a weak one required from the likes of Gryfnor, servant of Ungarit. And high up in the corner of the tent, unseen by any human eyes the Wrythers entwined ecstatically, for they greatly enjoyed the scene before them.
‘The power of the Shadow Blade is broken at last,’ Gryfnor whispered and then he clenched his evil fists and let out a mighty scream of evil joy such that the tent shook with the force of it; in that instant the beast within was revealed in all its evil, but none outside were aware of anything.
Sylvion could not escape the deadly cold that surrounded her, and she shivered remorselessly, but it seemed that she observed herself from far off; whilst all around were spectres of the dead, the spirits of the ones she had slain in all her long
life haunted her now, and reached for her, muttering evil things in some unknown tongue. She was bewildered for the experience was overpowering. She turned this way and that trying to find some point of reference from which to grasp her strange reality, but the cold would not allow her. She seemed bound but there were no bonds. She seemed lost in shadow and yet there was light... but not that which revealed.
And upon the bed she tossed and turned in some agony of the spirit which those who ministered to her had never seen before.
‘She is cold, like the ice from the Frozen Lands of Moran,’ said an old and greyed-bearded man. ‘Even the very air about us is frosted. Look, do you see the ice upon the dish of water. This is beyond us...’ he shivered suddenly with the cold and shook his head. ‘How many days now? I cannot recall. She lives, but not with us...’
‘She is haunted, Bragolog,’ said a small woman half his age and yet still worn of life and limb for she stooped and walked only with the aid of a stick. ‘Sure enough can ye not see it? She calls out in fear.’
‘But she will not wake,’ the man called Bragolog answered. ‘I fear she is dying Olga. We have tried everything. She is not of this world for long.’ The two entrusted with Sylvion’s care, on direct command of Giraldyn stood together and watched their charge move feebly upon her bed of white linen, her eyes open at times but unfocused and darting all about until she fell silent for a time.
‘She must rest. No one must disturb her. Perhaps this alone will restore her,’ Bragolog said quietly as he ran an old hand through the few hairs which remained upon his sweating skull. ‘We can do no more. We will instruct the guard and leave her here with the hot fire. Perhaps whatever holds her will release her in time.’ But he spoke with little confidence, and the woman called Olga shook her head in despair.
