“Stop that beast! It will run amok if not defeated!” Sindfar barked orders and the men around the stallion began to encircle it.
The encircled men began to dig spears into the creature when it was not looking at them. It bucked and dragged a few of them, but after twelve spears had found their mark, the beast slowed. Frebar was down amongst them, and he severed the creature’s head with one swift stroke.
While one beast was put down, another still roamed. It took Sindfar a moment before he was able to find the vampire lord once more. One by one, every defender that stood to challenge the undead monster was slain in quick strokes. One by one, elves died before Sindfar’s eyes, and he had had enough.
He tore through the keep, into the makeshift armory Anselmo had made up. They had only fashioned a few of the weapons he was looking for, but he only needed one to make the kill. He grabbed the long piece of wood and made his way as quickly as he could down into the scene of chaos. It took him a moment to reach the last area he had seen the vampire, but there he was. Sindfar watched as the vampire lord had busied himself with one of the children defenders. The vile creature threw the young man’s sword away and stalked upon him.
“Brave boy, but foolish.” The vampire lord licked the side of his blade, seemingly in preparation to feed. “I’ll savor your blood!”
Before the vampire could make his move, Sindfar rushed behind him and stabbed a stake through his back. He pushed until he heard the point emerge from the front, showering the face of the young man with gore. The vampire was rapidly losing blood when he fell to the ground on his side. He kept clawing at the wood with his claws, breaking off pieces at a time. Sindfar came to the front of the beast, the child standing at his side, determined despite the blood splattered on his face.
There seemed to be something of recognition in the vampire’s eyes as he stared at the young man. A smile finally crept onto his face, showing the hideous fangs that were covered with blood. He laughed.
“I… I recognize you,” he raised a shaking finger, pointing at the boy. “We… came to your settlement. Your mother… She tasted the best. Her blood, so sweet, it—”
Sindfar kicked the vampire in the side of the head, and then he impaled the sword into the back of the creature’s neck. It stopped moving and then burst into flames as it died. Sindfar recovered his weapon before any harm could come to it, turning to take stock of the situation.
The skeletons were now continuously climbing over the walls, and the elf warriors valiantly tried to keep them at bay. The reserves that were left helped to beat back the skeletons that made it over. Eventually, the skeletons pulled back, returned under the control of a necromancer. There was a cry that rang up through the defenders, even though they all knew this was far from over.
A couple of the soldiers fell where they stood, dead tired. Sindfar watched as officers tried to get the men ready for the next attack, but some refused to stand. He walked over to the closest sleeping man and placed a hand on his shoulder. His head lolled and an expression of terror was etched forever in his face.
The soldier was dead.
*****
Thorn was walking through the fog. Where it came from, he did not know. He was no longer in the fort with the rest of his troop. Where was he? Where were the others? It felt cold suddenly – there was a chill that was not there before. He felt fear rising in himself. He didn’t know why, but the hairs on his neck were stood on their ends. He found himself walking down a deserted street when he suddenly heard a shuffling. It was muffled like cloth on a floor. First, he thought it was to his left, then his right. He was twisting and turning as bile rose in his throat, and he kept feeling that there was a thing behind him. He kept trying to move, but his legs felt like they had cement in his shoes. Thorn kept trying to go onward, but he could not move fast enough.
Then he felt something on his neck. It was like a stick, but he knew it wasn’t. He turned slowly, but not of his own will. He couldn’t help himself, as if something was willing him to do so. This thing was in a tattered robe, there were tentacles billowing out of the hood and arm slots, and they reached out for him. There were purple eyes that penetrated his soul. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t. It kept surrounding him, enveloping him, and he couldn’t breathe. He tried to yell, but he was muffled.
Then he heard the voice say, “Welcome home, brother.”
*****
As Sindfar was making the rounds, he lost count of how many dead he had found. There was no mark on them, just a look of sheer terror. He went down the line and three or four men were in the same state. He shook his head as he passed Thorn’s corpse. He knew who the killers were despite not physically being seen on the battlefield. They had let their guard down, and the Nightstalkers claimed the lives of too many of his warriors.
“A-Anselmo!” The voice that came out of Sindfar was more panicked than he wanted. The old man came haltingly, leaning heavily on his staff, until he reached the dead soldiers. He examined them but did not seem surprised by what he saw.
“They have been here all along!” Sindfar slammed his fist against the nearest wall, trying his best to compose himself. When he looked back at Anselmo, he knew he could not hide the defeat from his eyes that he felt in his heart. “The Nightstalkers have been amongst our ranks all along and there was naught we could do to stop them.”
“Commander Sindfar, you must remember that you and your people are most susceptible to their touch. The closer you are to them, the more susceptible you are. I have been trying to keep a ward up to protect you, but the strain of trying to keep the undead out besides keeping them out is too much. You need to train your mind to resist them. They are your people – or what is left of your people. I have been drained to the point that I need to rest.”
There was a ragged tiredness in Anselmo’s features that Sindfar had not seen before. He now looked the age he was supposed to be.
“I’ve seen your magic, I know you are no ordinary holy man. Just… who or what are you, Anselmo? Come, we are too tired to keep up charades.”
The old man sat down on a stone block. “I can hold my own with other mages. I was from Basilea originally, but I clashed with the ruling powers and was banished. I roamed the land in search of knowledge and made my way to the young kingdoms. I found the darkness of vampire lords taking hold to some places and escaped. I have studied the Magi and Djin and have lived several lifetimes more than I should have. I found peace in this valley until now, as war and evil will always try to stretch their fingers.” Anselmo leaned on his staff and tried to rise, but he was unable. He tilted his head and looked at the elf commander. “You know what you must do.”
“Yes,” Sindfar nodded. “The men must stay occupied; they cannot doze, or else the Nightstalkers will attempt to infiltrate their minds.”
The old man nodded. “I can’t help you if they attack again soon. I’ve done all I can for now.”
Sindfar tried to help the man up, but the children appeared and took him back to the main building. He turned to Lemar; one of the few of his trusted left. “Get the troops ready for review.”
Although they were exhausted, Sindfar pushed the men as far as he could. They did their best to shore up the defenses, trying to fix the stone throwers and getting the last onager almost serviceable. They extended a ditch in front of the walls to break up any possible attack. If the elf soldiers looked like they were getting ready to doze, Sindfar or Lemar made sure that the file leaders woke them up. Anselmo instructed the children to brew a concoction that would give the elves more energy to stay awake.
At dawn, with the sun coming up over the hills, the dead started to march again. The elves looked them down from their prepared positions. Realizing that they were making a last stand, Sindfar blocked the gate so no one or thing could get in or out. This is where they would fight, and if fate decreed it, this is where they would die.
The dead came on again. It looked like the final push to overwhelm the defenders. Lemar came
up beside Sindfar and saluted.
“Status report?”
“Sir… Things are grim,” Lemar swallowed hard. “The onager is no longer serviceable. We tried, but we can’t get off any shots. We have staff slings at the ready, but they are barely affecting the skeletons. Even now… the enemy threatens to overwhelm our defenses.”
Sindfar stared at the battlefield for a few more minutes before he turned to Lemar. “Pull them back. Pull them all back.”
Lemar passed the word around and elves ran back toward the main building. Some few brave souls still attempted to snipe their enemy off as they fled, but soon, the whole courtyard was overwhelmed. Sindfar stood at the doorway, waiting as his troops piled in, and watching as the skeletons marched ever closer. A few bolts of fire singed down on the bones and shattered them; he looked up to the tower and saw Anselmo leaning against the wall. Even at the brink of exhaustion, the old man was willing to help them – even if it meant his own death.
Sindfar stood at the head of the defenders, Lemar by his side, and readied to meet the skeletons with one final stand.
“Commander,” Sindfar turned to stare into Lemar’s eyes. She smiled grimly and gave a solemn nod. “It’s been a pleasure serving under you.”
He chortled and nodded in return, readying his blade. “The pleasure has been all mine, Lemar. You and I will become dragon riders yet. We’ll ride the backs of our ancestor’s companions in the afterlife, my friend.”
They both turned, together, as the first wave of skeletons approached with weapons raised high. Rallying his own blade, Sindfar felt a feral growl erupt from the depths of his core.
But before any of them could bring their blades to bear, a wave of fire struck the courtyard. Sindfar shielded his eyes from the intensity of the light. It took a few minutes, time he was sure they would be killed, so when he opened his eyes and they began to focus again, he was surprised when the skeletons were dust. It was then he heard the cries of the dragons.
“The relief force!” someone shouted from behind him. “We’re saved!”
A cheer went up through the haggard remaining elves as they watched the dragons fly through the air, hurling balls of flame at their opponents beyond sight. Sindfar nearly collapsed from overwhelming thankfulness. They had done it. They had staved them off, bless the fallen.
As Sindfar hurried to the ramparts once more, he watched as the dragons breathed destruction on the remaining undead and the necromancer on the hill. The sound of hooves beat out, and a column of riders barreled in to support their dragon allies. The skeletons slowly began to fall as the magic which held them dissipated.
“I can’t believe it,” Lemar breathed next to him. She laughed as she leaned over the wall and placed her head in her hands. “We really did it, Commander.”
The elves in the fort began to dismantle the barricade to open the gates. As Lord Greybar’s dragon prepared to land inside the fort, Sindfar hurried to greet him with Lemar close behind.
“Thank the Green Lady, you are a sight for sore eyes!” Sindfar nearly hugged the dragon rider that stood before him, tears beginning to form in the corner of his eyes.
“I’m sorry it took us so long to get here, Sindfar. You fought well, but I think it is still too late.”
Sindfar composed himself, standing stiff. “You are right, Lord Greybar. Your suspicions were correct. The Nightstalkers have made their way here to support the forces of the undead.”
Greybar looked grim as he turned to look out across the valley. “The enemy here shall be destroyed, but from what we can see, this was only a small part of the undead army – a decoy to fix our eyes here. The main body is still out there, and with them...”
Sindfar looked up to the tower, but Brother Anselmo was no longer there. He forced himself to bring his eyes back to Lord Greybar. “The Nightstalkers grow more powerful than ever before.”
Eyes Unblinking
By Marc DeSantis
With eyes unblinking, a pitiless enemy kept watch over the host of Basilea. With eyes unblinking, she plotted its destruction.
*****
Dillen Genemer watched the dictator with nervous anticipation. Ever eager to please, the young horse messenger waited impatiently for any chance to ingratiate himself with Trence Andorset, hero of Basilea and the commanding general of the expedition to Galahir. The general appeared to be absentmindedly stroking the gray whiskers of his luxurious mustache, lost in annoyed thought. Dillen wondered what bothered him so. He lifted his eyes briefly, taking in the claustrophobic denseness of the Forest of Galahir in one, uncomfortable glance. It was scarcely possible to see the sky from within the woods, so thickly did the ancient trees of the primeval forest cluster together. Their great boughs intertwined, like the limbs of dancers engaged in some unholy, carnal ritual. It was not an agreeable place for one of Basilea’s faithful to be, Dillen knew.
Now Andorset grimaced. Dillen knew that the general had not wished to come here, having listened to the dictator speak acidly about the Galahirians on more than one occasion. But for the direct command of his liege, Andorset would never have agreed to lead his soldiers to the aid of the fey creatures of the Green Lady's wood. It was well-nigh impossible, the dictator had opined on several occasions, to distinguish the wild inhabitants of her realm from the savage races that constantly troubled Basilea. He allowed that while they might not be as outright wicked as the denizens of the Abyss that even now were pouring forth to trouble the lands of Men, the Galahirians were hardly civilized. Their armies, if one could dignify such mobs with the name, Andorset had sniffed, displayed the merest semblance of direction, surging across battlefields obedient only to the commands of their druids, a bizarre sect of nature-worshiping devotees of the Lady. They could be maddeningly treacherous too, Andorset had insisted to Dillen, divulging that in bygone days, the Lady's warriors had fought both alongside, and against, Basilea, switching sides seemingly on a whim.
Visibly irritated, the dictator snorted. In his war councils, he had stated that he would much rather have allowed the demons vomiting forth from the Abyss to depart the forest before he fell upon them with his army of mailclad cavalry and stout spearmen. This foray into the woods was unpleasant in the extreme for both man and beast of his legion, but time was pressing, and they needed to move fast. Andorset stroked the tightly-braided mane of his warhorse. "There, there," he cooed to the animal. "I know you don't like the dark of the woods. We won't be in here for long."
Dillen saw a golden opportunity to deliver useful and relevant information to Andorset and impress him with his knowledge at the same time. "I think that we still have quite a way to go, General," advised Dillen. “The forest here is so dense that we are barely averaging a league per day. It's a hard thing to move an army through an almost trackless wilderness. It will surely be a lot longer."
Dillen smiled, but that smile faded instantly when he saw Andorset's lips curl in a sneer. "Is that so, Genemer? I suppose that you have acquired so much experience in war that you see fit to lecture me and correct me."
"I'm sorry, General. I. . . I only meant to be of service."
"And your service is to be a messenger, a great honor that I bestowed upon you. However, I will not abide being contradicted by a novice with unmarked armor." The aged dictator spurred his horse forward so that Genemer's unwelcome shadow would no longer fall upon him. "Spare me your insights."
Coming up beside Dillen, another horseman laughed lightly. “I don't think the general appreciates your comments, Brother Dillen," observed Brother Tebald Priscon.
"I was just trying to be helpful," Dillen protested to Tebald, a Hearth Knight of the Unquenchable Flame. "I've ridden ahead, and we've got at least a day or more left before we will make contact with the Green Lady's forces. There's no road in here. We're really just following a dirt footpath. Our army is moving much more slowly than if we were marching through open country, or on a proper Basilean road."
"All true," the older knight agreed, "but you mus
t learn your place in this army. You are a simple messenger, no matter your pedigree." Tebald pointed to Andorset, who was now riding several horse-lengths ahead of them. "Your job is to carry missives to their recipients on behalf of your commanding general. Otherwise, you keep your opinions to yourself."
"That doesn't sound intelligent," Dillen complained. "What if the general were about to make a terrible blunder and I had information that would help him avoid it? Am I even then to remain silent?"
"You're a young man," Tebald said while smiling with no little sympathy. "I remember being young. So enthusiastic!" The paladin chuckled, and then grew serious. "Not a bad question. No, you are not to be silent. In such a case, speak up! But try to refrain from contradicting the dictator when you don't have to. Think about it, Dillen! You told the general he was wrong, before two of his senior officers, about something he had said to his horse. Was that truly necessary?"
"At least he is trying," offered Brother Bartolomo Hullus coming up beside them, before Dillen could respond. "He is motivated. Have you seen this youngster ride? Like the wind!" Bartolomo clapped Dillen on the back. "If only all of us tried so hard to be useful." The knight paladin of the Chapter of the Blades of Onzyan thrust out his chin, indicating Andorset. "The dictator is an old man," he whispered, "very set in his ways, and mindful of the prerogatives of rank. You should be a little more mindful of them too."
"But what if it's something important?"
"If it’s something of real import, tell me or Brother Tebald. We'll handle it from there."
Dillen nodded. "Thank you, Brother."
The two paladins were a stark contrast. Brother Tebald was tall and thin to the point of gauntness. He wore almost always a serious mien, though he was not without a sense of humor. Brother Bartolomo, was much shorter, and stocky of build, with a florid face and eyes full of mirth. Both men were of roughly the same age, though Bartolomo enjoyed referring to Tebald as ‘Elder Brother Tebald’ every now and again. Dillen guessed that Tebald was the older of the two by a negligible margin and that Bartolomo took some pleasure in pestering the other knight about his greater age. Their relationship was at times warm, and at times cool. It was, in short, much like that of any pair of brothers born of the same mother.
Tales of Mantica Page 28
