The Cavalier

by Jason McWhirter

  Suddenly a horse barreled its way to the front of the line, its rider swatting aside enemy warriors as he went. The rider swung his long sword down with a lightning quick strike that ripped open the back of the man who was attacking Fil.

  Fil glanced up at the new rider and saw a dark haired man with steel gray eyes staring back at him. The man smiled, amazing Fil with his apparent confidence that seemed to surround him like a warm blanket. The warrior’s eyes shone with a focused intensity that reflected certain death to any who faced him.

  Fil gave silent thanks that this warrior was on their side as the newcomer resumed his attack on the enemy ranks. He expertly maneuvered his horse left and right, cutting down any enemy that neared him. His long sword was a blur of green magical energy as he attacked the tribesmen, while staying in the center of the line at all times.

  “To me, warriors, hold the center!” the dark haired man bellowed above the sounds of war.

  The remaining Finarthian infantry fought and struggled to get near the horseman and reestablish the line.

  Fil sidestepped a clumsy attack by one of the tribesmen whose sword glanced off his shoulder guard. He rammed his knee hard into the tribesman’s exposed stomach and the man keeled over, gasping for breath. He then brought the pommel of his sword down on top of the man’s head and he fell to the ground unconscious.

  Fil looked up from the downed man and saw the horseman ride near him just as a massive spear took the stranger’s mount in the throat. The spear was huge, made from a crudely shaped sapling.

  The horse stumbled to the ground, the spear sinking several feet into its chest. Something big had thrown that spear and Fil’s nightmares were realized as he looked up and saw a huge ogre lumber through the ranks of the tribesmen to finish off the rider.

  Fil yanked out the sword in his side, grimacing from the pain just as the ogre moved towards the downed horse.

  The rider had jumped free and rolled across the bloody ground to come up standing with sword and dagger held before him. “Finally a challenge,” the swordsman said to himself, loud enough for Fil to hear.

  Fil marveled at the warrior’s amazing agility as he stumbled in to help him. The ogre glanced toward Fil as he tried to sneak in towards its tree trunk legs. The beast was as tall as two short men and its legs were stout and thick with muscle.

  Fil sliced his short sword across the ogre’s leg but the blade did little damage to the thick skin. The beast roared, swinging its thick arm down and hitting Fil squarely in the chest, the immense strength of the blow breaking his ribs. He was thrown backward like a rock from a catapult, landing fifteen paces away. Though he was able to maintain consciousness, the pain was so intense that he could barely move. He felt his broken ribs move around inside him as he struggled to get up.

  Kiln balanced himself on the balls of his feet as the ogre lumbered toward him. The ogre looked down at him as it attempted to kick him with its massive leather boot. The beast’s foot was as big as a small boulder. Kiln leaped to the side and sent his blades into motion. His weapons sliced into the ogre’s foot and calf twice before the ogre could even register the pain. His magical blades sliced through the thick skin easily, furrows of red appearing on the beast’s legs as Kiln danced around the slow behemoth.

  The ogre roared in pain as it set its foot down and tried to reach out with its hands to crush the little human. But Kiln was a blur of razor sharp steel and he lunged under the hands, slicing his long sword across the beast’s abdomen simultaneously ramming his dagger into the left thigh of the ogre. The dagger sunk in deep and the ogre roared in pain as it reached down to yank out the weapon. Kiln dove between the ogre's legs, coming up in a roll just behind the huge creature. His long sword sliced left and right, cutting through the tendons located on the back of the beast’s knees. Again, the ogre howled in agony, dropping to the ground, while Kiln, simultaneously leaped into the air, driving the point of his sword down and through the ogre’s back, penetrating its lungs and heart. The warrior left his sword in the beast, landing lightly on his feet.

  Fil held his body still and watched the swordsman carve the large ogre into meat. He didn’t want to move because of the pain and he was afraid an enemy warrior would see him and attack. Fil knew that in his state he would be hard pressed to defend himself.

  The dead ogre fell face first onto the bloody ground with Kiln’s long sword jutting from its back, quivering in the air.

  Kiln spun around toward the enemy warriors and yelled again. “Men of Finarth, hold the line!”

  The soldiers responded with renewed courage and strength and they began to fight their way to the swordsman. Fil watched in amazement as the line began to reform and move towards the dark haired warrior. But the pain was too much and his vision began to blur. The ogre’s fist had done tremendous damage and it was difficult to breath. He fought to stay conscious but it was no use. His head sank to the ground and his body lay sprawled among the dead as he finally succumbed to the darkness.

  Rorum, a young infantry soldier, felt a sharp sting to his thigh as he pivoted his body away from the curved blade of the attacking tribesman. The tribesman had swung hard, the momentum of his swing pushing him off balance as Rorum spun by him. He then sliced his short sword down and across the tribesman’s sword arm. The cut was deep and the enemy warrior screamed, staggering to his left where another Finarthian warrior finished him off.

  The young soldier, and several other infantry soldiers, had fought their way to the dark haired stranger who had rallied the men and strengthened the line. More Finarthian warriors found the strength and courage to fight their way to this man, and they now stood before him exhausted but determined. They had formed a break in the enemy’s ranks but the fighting still continued all around them.

  Kiln reached down and ripped out his sword from the back of the dead ogre. He glanced back and saw the men behind him, looking at him with uncertainty.

  “Who are you?” asked Rorum through deep panting breaths.

  Kiln glanced at the young warrior as he turned around to face the men. “I am Kiln!”

  Then he looked forward and saw enemy soldiers converge on them screaming their battle cries. He grabbed his bloody dagger from the ground and focused his attention on the rapidly approaching tribesmen. He swung his sword from side to side. “If they want death!” he yelled, lifting his sword into the air. “Let them come!”

  The men behind him yelled in unison, raising their crimson swords in defiance. Kiln smiled and ran forward to meet the enemy.

  ***

  Jonas and Taleen sat high on their mounts scanning the battlefield below. They had followed the sounds of the battle and had ridden over the crest of a nearby hill. Below them, accompanied by the sounds of blasting horns and pounding war drums, raged a huge battle. The enemy riders had just attacked the flanks of the Finarthian cavalry.

  Kiln, who had viewed the dire scene with them, had immediately spotted the desperate situation forming in the center of the infantry. He explained that if the center broke, enemy soldiers would surround and destroy them. Jonas had reluctantly followed Kiln’s orders and stayed behind while Kiln urged his mount down into the melee. Kiln told them that they would be needed to combat more dangerous foes, the priests of Naz-reen or Gould, or worse, a Banthra.

  So Jonas and Taleen scanned the battle before them trying to figure out how they would best fit in. It didn’t take long for the cavaliers to sense the evil that was approaching through the ranks of enemy warriors.

  “Jonas, do you feel it?” asked Taleen as she scanned the enemy ranks.

  “I do,” Jonas answered, gazing out over the battle looking for the source of this malevolent feeling. “There,” he said, pointing towards a group of horseman that were maneuvering toward the Finarthian cavalry.

  Their steeds had already sensed the dark force before them and both animals pranced, urging their riders forward.

  Taleen looked at Jonas and nocked an arrow to her long bow. “May Helikon
be with you,” she said with a nod of her head.

  “And may Shyann guard your back,” Jonas responded, drawing forth one of his sabers. The cavaliers raced down the hillside towards the unearthly threat, eager to confront the evil that was corrupting their land.

  Prince Baylin swung his mighty axe as if it were a toy. The razor sharp axe head dealt death to every enemy who neared him. His powerful legs controlled his horse expertly as he swung his battle-axe left and right with one hand. He lost all sense of time as he methodically cut down his enemies. Though he bled from several wounds, he didn’t register the pain as his mind and body became immersed in the heat and pandemonium of battle.

  The prince’s battle frenzy was interrupted, however, by a sudden cold force that seemed to weigh him down, draining the warmth and energy from his body. He glanced frantically about trying to locate the source of this oppressive feeling that had so rapidly assaulted him, chilling his very bones.

  His knights, too, were enveloped in the same dark miasma, their minds and bodies imprisoned by weakness and fear. Baylin saw his knights, and enemy warriors, part to give way to a trio of dark warriors mounted on even darker steeds, drifting through the ranks like a suffocating fog. Clad in black armor, the warriors and their horses emanated such evil energy that no nearby mortal could withstand it, turning their resolve into mindless terror.

  The leader of the black triad caught Prince Baylin’s eye. Like the others, he wore dark plate mail the color of charcoal and his wicked helm jutted curved horns and spikes. What really drew the prince’s attention, however, were the warrior’s glowing red orbs that bore into his own, subjugating his will and causing his body to shake with uncontrollable fear.

  Elsewhere, Graggis fought with the energy of a god, his mighty axe piling up bodies around his warhorse. He roared in defiance as he cut his way toward a giant black warrior riding a chestnut warhorse. He had spotted the muscle bound warrior and knew that this man was Arg’on, Lord Moredin’s war commander, a legendary warrior who was known for his strength and ferocity.

  Graggis swung his magical axe down on top of the head of a nearby horseman, creasing his helm so badly that it drove the edges of the metal into the man’s broken skull. The path to Arg’on was now open and Graggis urged his horse forward.

  Arg’on carried a massive two-handed sword that he swung easily with one hand. The black tribesman yanked his sword from the breast of a knight and pivoted his horse towards the new threat.

  “Well met, Arg’on,” Graggis said evenly as his horse pranced eagerly in front of the huge black warrior. All the men fighting around them seemed to sense the contest and consciously moved away to give them room.

  “Are you someone I should know?” asked the tribal warrior in the common tongue. He spoke it well and his accent was barely noticeable.

  “You should always know the name of the man who is going to kill you so you can buy him a drink in the afterworld,” replied Graggis, smiling broadly.

  “Then stop talking and tell me your name so that I may pray for your soul after I kill you and cut out your heart,” Arg’on responded calmly.

  “I am Graggis,” and without further hesitation he spurred his horse forward, swinging his mighty axe in a powerful downward stroke.

  Arg’on brought his sword up to block the blow but at the last second Graggis redirected his strike expertly to hit the tribesman’s horse. It was Graggis’s immense strength that enabled him to change the momentum of the stroke so quickly.

  The magical blade easily sank through the steed’s armor, slicing through the animals shoulder muscle. The horse reared up, stumbling backwards before it pitched side long to the ground.

  Arg’on jumped off the horse and landed hard on his side, but he was a tough warrior who had survived many battles. Few men could match his strength. He rolled backwards and came up quickly to face the horseman with the axe.

  Graggis quickly dismounted from his horse and stood in front of the tribesman. He couldn’t help but think what a great specimen of a man this tribesman was. He was tall and heavy, with iron hard muscle. The warrior wore a metal-laced skirt that was cinched tightly around his narrow waist. His legs and arms were so corded with muscles that he almost looked deformed. He held his huge blade easily with one hand, his face a picture of confidence.

  “I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I had an unfair advantage in killing you,” Graggis said as he attacked the tribesman with fury.

  The fight was intense. Both warriors were skilled and strong. They traded blow for blow for several minutes, the power of each strike echoing across the battlefield. They had similar styles, both used to crushing their opponents with strength and speed, but after several minutes of hard fighting, Graggis noted a difference.

  The tribesman was undisciplined in his fighting, accustomed to using his strength and power to destroy anyone who stood against him. Graggis, however, had been trained as a Finarthian Knight, trained by Master Borum, the greatest weapons master around, and they had learned not only discipline, but tactics that were beyond most common warriors.

  Graggis noticed that Arg’on held his sword with his right hand only, making him a bit slow in defending his left flank. Graggis swung his axe left and right and looked for an opening. But the man was fast and strong as an ox. When their weapons met the earth around them shook. Graggis had never met a man whose strength equaled his own, until now. But Graggis now knew the tribesman’s weakness and he worked to exploit it. Arg’on swung his huge sword down, Graggis brought his axe up to block the attack. Just as the warrior retracted his blade, Graggis tossed his axe to his left hand and attacked the tribesman’s left flank with lightning speed.

  Arg’on recovered quickly, and frantically deflected the axe blade. But Graggis’s attack had been a ruse. As he attacked the tribesman’s left flank with his axe, he swung his gauntlet covered right hand into the side of the powerful warrior. His fist struck the tribesman solidly in the kidney.

  Normally such a blow would cause little damage, for the tribesman’s waist was protected by thick muscle. But he had never before encountered a man with such strength.

  The blow crushed his kidney and he keeled over from the pain, bracing his fall with his sword arm. He gritted his teeth through the pain and looked up to fend off the deadly axe man. But all he saw was the razor sharp edge of Graggis’s axe as it split his astonished expression in two.

  The huge tribesman fell heavily to the ground. “I’ll take a pint of Annurien mead when you see me next,” Graggis said as he yanked his blade clear of the grisly mess.

  Back at the infantry’s center, Kiln had become the point of a wedge of the small group of Finarthian infantry that had followed him into the enemy ranks. He let the undisciplined tribesmen break themselves on the wedge point, forcing them to the sides of the formation where more Finarthian warriors were there to meet them.

  He stopped advancing and held the point as he fought one enemy after another. He knew that if he advanced too far the enemy would surround them and crush them. He put some faith in the Finarthian commanders and hoped that they would see the wedge and move in to support them.

  Kiln spun and pivoted as his blades cut into the enemy warriors. No one could touch him as he moved effortlessly, killing any tribesman that neared him. Rorum and the others fought furiously next to him. Kiln’s very presence seemed to give the men new hope, and they fought on, well past the point where their sword arms and lungs should have given out.

  Prince Baylin had never been more afraid. He couldn’t move as the deadly trio moved closer to him. The lead warrior spurred his black horse forward and the prince shifted his gaze to the horrible animal.

  It was huge, a full pace bigger than any warhorse Baylin had ever seen, with a coat that was thick and covered with sweat. Its long black mane was tangled with knots, but it was the animal’s eyes and mouth that made Prince Baylin realize that this was no ordinary horse. Glowing red eyes, like those of its master, peered out over a mouth t
hat opened to expose long razor sharp teeth embedded in gums the color of congealed blood.

  “Do you know what I am?” hissed the Banthra. The Banthra’s voice drifted towards the prince and danced around in his mind as he struggled against the magic that was paralyzing him.

  Prince Baylin redirected his gaze to the warrior and used every ounce of inner strength to answer the demon. “You are a Banthra, a fallen cavalier corrupted by magic,” replied the prince as he swallowed the knot growing in his throat.

  The Banthra hissed again and the big black horse shifted uneasily beneath him. “And you are Prince Baylin, next in line for the throne of Finarth, a position that you will not be filling.”

  At that moment a dazzling white light burst forth from the fighting men behind the prince. Two huge horses parted the milling mass of warriors, completely washing the area with a light that shone with the brilliance of the sun. The warhorses carried magnificent warriors wearing gleaming silver plate mail and glittering steel helms that hid their identity.

  The Banthra hissed loudly as it shifted in the saddle. The demon’s horse growled menacingly and pranced backwards a few steps. The riders that flanked him also moved uneasily in their saddles, retreating several steps away from the light. These riders were dark clerics of the Forsworn and each wore similar armor and spiked helms, both cursed by the dark magic of the three evil gods.

  Jonas and Taleen urged their horses forward as their light flared even brighter, sending rays of hope into the fighting men around them. Enemy warriors moved away, the light from the cavaliers frightening them into a panic. Finarthian soldiers around them looked up in awe as they gazed at the cavaliers. As the light washed over them, all fear and fatigue evaporated. They stood taller, gripping their weapons with new strength and confidence.

  Jonas drew forth his second saber, not needing his hands to control his magnificent mount. Tulari took him directly towards the Banthra.