BlackThorn's Doom

by Dewayne M Kunkel

  The cold fire of vengeance had taken root within him. He rode in silence the faces of his fallen friends clouding his vision.

  Following the trail his pace quickened, several times he allowed the horse to run. The steed was magnificent, both strong and graceful. The horse had been bred for speed and it relished in its chance to lengthen its stride.

  A well trained animal it obeyed its riders commands without hesitation, the Morne were many evil things but they were among the best at horsemanship and this animal was a testament to their breeding skills.

  The Mountains loomed in the distance before him. The snow covered crags cast a long shadow into which he passed. He rode but a short distance when he came upon a broken ring of stones that marked the remains of a fallen tower. The air reeked, noxious smells drifted up from a crudely dug latrine nearby. A large force had camped here recently; the ground was chewed up from the passage of their mounts. He scouted about and found the tracks of both horses and men. Interspersed among these he found the cloven hoof impressions of large deer. Casius returned to the trail, he could not understand why such a large herd would choose to move about in an area where the spoor of man was so strong.

  That night as he drifted off to sleep he heard the faint echoing call of a horn in the distance. He sat up and watched the eastern sky come afire with a brilliant emerald light. The ground beneath him shuddered and a thunderous roar reverberated through the hills. He came to his feet and as the rumble faded he could hear the horn cry out once more.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gaelan leaned against the weathered merlon, fear gripping his heart as if he were nothing more than a child. He watched nearly paralyzed as the Ma’ul approached. The demons footsteps shook the very foundations of the great fortress. He knew a creature of such power had no place upon this earth.

  A deep resonate note filled the air. Echoing from the walls of the comb, the horn of the keep sounded shaking the new fallen snow from the mountains lower slopes.

  The nearly overwhelming sense of fear was brushed aside. The men upon the battlements stood tall, their faces filled with grim determination.

  The Ma’ul was stopped in its advance as if some great hand had struck it. The fiery mane flared and its burning eyes sought for the source of their newfound courage.

  Sur’kar was angered by the defiance of the men. He raised his hand and from his palm a bolt of emerald power raced forth. So intense was its heat that the very air was set ablaze. The stones of the comb cracked and large slabs of stone fell from overhead.

  The Bolt of force struck the keep and was deflected back. With redoubled fury it drove into Sur’kar’s chest where it exploded in a deafening blast that shook the very mountain above them.

  The ranks of Trolls and Morne were scattered. Bodies were set aflame and hurled high into the sky. Even the Ma’ul was tossed aside as if it were nothing more than a leaf in a windstorm.

  Gaelan was momentarily blinded and a few men were thrown from the battlements to their deaths on the stone below. The mountain above them groaned in protest, the stone threatening to give way.

  As the rumble faded the horn of the keep sounded once more, thin and feeble compared to the power of Sur’kar.

  The Ma’ul recovered quickly, roaring in anger until the fires upon its back licked the stressed stone of the combs ceiling. Morne by the hundreds flared brightly, turning to ash in the intense heat thrown off by the demon.

  The Ma’ul lowered its head and charged the great wall. The earth shook and more loosened rock fell from the ceiling.

  The demon’s horns shattered the wall, broken stones flying high into the air. The force of the impact shaking men from their high perch, their screams dying as they joined their brethren on the blood stained cobbles below. The Ma’ul tore through the wall and into the bailey beyond.

  Turning around the Ma’ul tore the gates from the towers base and strove to rip the keep down, stone by stone.

  The Rock steamed and glowed white-hot where the Demon’s hands struck. Oozing pools of liquid stone flowed about the Ma’ul’s hooves. The fierce heat generated by its wrath killed men by the hundreds, their armor melting and any exposed skin bursting into flame.

  Sur’kar climbed slowly to his feet, his resplendent armor destroyed, only a few half melted fragments clung to the blackened clothing he wore. With a voice ripe with power he summoned the beast back. He was tempted to allow his servant to sate its vengeance but he knew that the creature could very well bring the entire mountain down sealing off his passage to the east.

  The Ma’ul reluctantly left the ruined tower and returned to Sur’kar’s side, the heat of its rage was so intense it melted the stone beneath its hooves.

  Gaelan climbed to his feet, he was singed, and the skin of his right hand was bright red and beginning to blister. He shook his head and looked at the devastation in horror.

  Timosh had been breached! The stalwart keep that had long warded his home was now little more than a smoking ruin. Two thirds of the structure lay strewn throughout the comb. Shattered masonry intermixed with the bodies of her fallen defenders. Only a small portion of the wall remained, a sad reminder of the strength this keep had once displayed.

  On a hilltop a mile to the north four riders watched in stunned disbelief.

  Connell drew his sword. “Now while confusion reigns!” He shouted. “Make for the keep!” He spurred his skittish mount forward. “Let nothing stop you, no matter what befalls us. Word must reach Gaelan of the quests failure.”

  Spurring their mounts forward they galloped across the rough ground with reckless abandon. Leaping small fissures and ducking to avoid low branches they tore through the night.

  The Army of Sur’kar was in complete chaos. Morne lay dead by the tens of thousands. Many more wounded cried out in the darkness as giants blinded by the brightness of the blast and driven mad in pain fell about themselves with their mighty cudgels.

  The four warriors raced past wagons by the hundreds and into the heart of the devastation.

  Connell’s heart sank as he could clearly see the damage done to the great keep. Several hundred years worth of arduous labor had been reduced to smoking ruin.

  They rode through the scattered ranks, riding down any who failed to leap clear. Connell’s blade flashed in the scattered firelight, mowing Morne down as easily as a farmer reaping standing hay.

  He caught a glimpse of Sur’kar wreathed in emerald fire driving the Morne onto their feet with blasts of power. At his side stood the fuming Ma’ul, the demon watching their passage with mild interest.

  Something hissed through the air just missing his left ear. Connell flinched and huddled low across his horse’s neck. The Morne were recovering and a few were now firing arrows at them.

  Another black shaft thumped into his saddle just missing his thigh. The iron tipped shaft easily piercing the leather and plunging deep into his horse’s back.

  The Animal kicked high and Connell was thrown off its back. Maddened in pain the horse bucked in circles seeking to free itself of the arrow.

  Connell hit the ground hard, the air rushing from his lungs. He watched in dazed amazement as Yoladt’s racing steed leapt over him. He rolled onto his side and was nearly trampled by Turlock’s mount as it passed.

  Less than a hundred yards separated him from the battered Morne. The dark warriors were drawing their blades and rushing for him.

  Connell grabbed his fallen blade and raced for the safety of the keep. He ran as he had never run before. His lungs burned and his back ached. He could see that Turlock and Ild had made it through the rubble of the keeps wall.

  Yoladt waited until the men were beyond the opening, with a harsh yank upon his reins he hauled his horse about and galloped back towards Connell.

  Up the steep slope the Prince of Kesh dashed, until he came to a leaning wooden post. From the rough timber hung a body, preserved from corruption by the biting cold.

  Connell slid to a stop and fell to his knees struck
by both intense grief and anger. He shook with fury staring up into the dead eyes of his father.

  The deceased King’s body was battered and peppered with at least a hundred arrows. No blood stained the shafts; his father had been shot after his death.

  Connell tore off his cloak and came to his feet swiping the air before him with a savage swing of his sword.

  Stepping around his father’s corpse he stood facing the onrushing Morne, Rage now overpowering his common sense.

  The Morne had closed the distance to less than fifty yards. Black shafted arrows bounced from the stone at his feet.

  “Ye charock!” A voice of power roared above the clamoring Morne.

  The disorganized charge came to an abrupt halt, the Morne lowering their weapons and hastily stepping aside as a towering warrior strode forth.

  He was encased in ebon plate, an imposing figure with fire burning within his helms visor. Although great strength seemed to flow from him, his armor yet bore the damage of combat. The right horn upon his helm was severed near the base and upon his thigh a smoking rent marred the ornate steel.

  Yoladt reined his horse in beside Connell. “Come,” He said holding out his hand. “You cannot hope to win this battle.”

  Connell ignored him and cut the bindings holding his father to the post. With great care he lifted his body from the hard earth and laid him across Yoladt’s saddle.

  “Take my sire from this place.” He said to the Mahjie.

  Yoladt nodded sadly. “You will die here.” He said looking into the man’s eyes. What he saw there caused him to shiver, a cold burning anger. He knew any argument he could make would fall upon deaf ears. Connell’s eyes were filled with rage; no Mahjie would ever deny him his vengeance, for honor and justice were the right of every man.

  Connell reached up and grasped the Mahjie’s forearm. “We all die,” He said simply. “It’s just a matter of when.”

  Yoladt bowed his head and galloped back to the broken keep. He had no words to answer Connell and knew that should their places be reversed he would do the same. “Fight well my friend,” He said looking over his shoulder at the lone man standing before tens of thousands of Morne.

  Connell turned his attention to the advancing warrior. He swung his father’s sword through the air a few times to loosen his tense muscles.

  “You have taken my trophy.” The dark warriors voice hissed. “Your body will take the foolish Kings place as payment.” From a scabbard across his back the warrior drew forth a broadsword whose blade burned with an eldritch light of many colors.

  “Wolhan was my sire fiend.” Connell said in a soft voice filled with loathing. The calm of battle had settled over him and tempered his rage. “I smell your taint and I know what you are, Balhain.” He spat the word as if merely speaking it disgusted him. “I watched your brother pass beyond this world, and so shall I send you into oblivion to join him.”

  The Balhain laughed at his impudence. “Brave words, foolish man. Even were you twice the warrior as was your father you would still fail.”

  Connell advanced and circled about the Balhain studying his opponent for any sign of weakness. Doubt flickered weakly in his heart. King Wolhan had been the greatest swordsman the world had ever known, and yet he had failed to best this creature. How could he hope to succeed where his father could not?

  Moving faster than Connell had ever seen any man before. The Balhain’s sword clove the air seeking to remove his head.

  Connell parried the blow upward, redirecting the cut. The blade passed over his head, missing him by a fraction of an inch. Connell completed the parry by bringing his sword low in a vicious slice across the Balhain’s chest.

  Sparks flew from the dark armor and a thin line glowed white hot where Connell’s sword had struck.

  The Balhain staggered backwards clutching at the mark with his free hand. “Impossible!” He shouted in disbelief.

  “Tis the sword of my ancestors, the blade of Bel’Vir.” Connell said with renewed confidence. The Balhain could be killed and he held in his hand the weapon for the task.

  Connell attacked with a vengeance, the king’s sword glowing white hot as he hammered at his opponent.

  The Balhain was driven back towards the keep away from the Morne onlookers. Try as he might he could not counter fast enough to strike the warrior before him, nor could he prevent all of Connell’s blows from reaching their mark. A dozen white-hot cuts marred his armor and helm.

  Connell’s father had been an extremely adept swordsman but he was nothing compared to the skills his son possessed.

  In desperation the Balhain struck the ground with his blade. A wave of force flowed outward knocking anyone nearby from their feet. The Stone groaned in protest and several massive slabs of rock fell from above crushing Morne and Troll alike.

  Connell saw the attack and leapt upward, landing as the wave passed beneath. He brought his blade downward with all the strength he possessed.

  The Balhain’s sword shattered into a hundred pieces. A flash of uncontained power lit the night as if a new sun had suddenly erupted from the earth at Connell’s feet.

  The blade of Bel’Vir hummed with power and glowed with its own golden light.

  “Dawn Singer…” The Balhain muttered in disbelief. He knew the bite of Lo’Wyren, sword of Na’Boal. One of the lesser swords of power forged long ago. A weapon, which could kill even a being as powerful as the Balhain.

  Connell struck severing the remaining horn from the black helm. The Balhain fell onto his back, the golden light from Lo’Wyren blinding him.

  Horns trumpeted in the dark. From the ruined keep two thousand horses charged. The horse lords of Kesh sallied forth to the aid of their prince, their long lances shining in the gloom.

  A stir passed through the Morne ranks as the ground trembled from the hoof beats of the horses.

  Connell was oblivious to the approaching charge. His eyes were locked onto the visage of his fallen enemy. He stabbed forward driving the golden blade through the Balhain’s breastplate. The air was rent by a terrible screeching sound and sparks showered around the two combatants. The Balhain died, his wordless cry of agony echoing from the cold stonewalls of the comb.

  The light of Connell’s blade faded as he wrenched the weapon free. He spun about as the charging warriors rushed past. Their lances driving deep into the confused Morne, in a loud clash of steel and flesh.

  Both men and Morne died in that charge. Lances broke and shields were shattered. Wounded horses rushed about kicking any who drew near. Connell watched as men were pulled from their mounts, their bodies hacked apart by hundreds of swords.

  “My liege!” One of the riders shouted to Connell. He tossed the reins of a horse to him. “We must make haste, even now the Morne rally!”

  Connell swung up into the saddle, his sword still in hand.

  The rider raised a bronze horn to his lips and sounded two sharp blasts. The call to retreat was heeded and the surviving men turned their mounts as one and charged out of the chaotic mass of Morne.

  They raced for the keep leaving behind more than half their number. The Morne took another twenty-three with arrows before the warriors reached the foundations of the rent wall.

  The Morne would no longer be restrained, they charged and were driven back by a sleeting rain of arrows from the keeps defenders.

  Beyond the ranks of dying Morne the Ma’ul roared and a blast of fear drove the men to their knees. Horses reared and many riders were unseated ere they gained the keep.

  Even the Morne were affected and many fell to the ground their weapons all but forgotten.

  Connell fought to control his steed and with great effort he set aside his own terror and forced the mount through the breach.

  The remaining riders and soldiers afoot assembled into a mob in the ruined bailey. Gaelan rode his frightened horse to his cousin’s side. With him came Yoladt, leading a spare horse bearing the body of Wolhan. The old king was now wrapped in a cloak of sca
rlet and securely tied across the saddle.

  Connell was shocked by the changes in his cousin. He was lean, his cheeks were sunken and his eyes bore the haunted look of a man who had seen too much death.

  Beyond Gaelan he watched as men by the thousands escaped through the tunnel back into Trondhiem.

  Gaelan could see the disapproving look on Connell’s face as he watched the men retreat. “We must leave now Connell.” He said.

  “Relinquish Timosh?” Connell shouted to be heard over the din.

  “Look around you!” Gaelan shouted back, anger turning his ashen face scarlet. “Timosh is lost, I have not the men to save it!” Gaelan looked over his shoulder to the fleeing warriors. “I lost most of the men who came here. Brave warriors all, they fought heroically and yet died.” His eyes narrowed in anger. “Do not dare judge them to be cowards. No one can withstand the might Sur’kar has brought. Can you slay the Ma’ul?” Gaelan paused allowing the question to sink in. “It is the people of Trondhiem I’m sworn to defend not some ruined fortress of stone.”

  Connell took a deep breath knowing Gaelan was right. “Where to?” He asked.

  “We will defend the tunnel as long as humanly possible.” Gaelan answered.

  From the gloom D’Yana rushed and embraced Connell.

  “I saw the attack,” Connell said softly in her ear. “And yet I dared to believe that you were safe.”

  D’Yana kissed him soundly. “I had prayed many a night to see you once more my love.” She said with tears of joy blurring her eyes.

  Beyond the walls drums began to sound.

  “My lord!” A lookout perched upon the pile of rubble shouted. “The Giants come!”

  Gaelan and Connell rode to the breach and watched as a thousand shield bearing Trolls marched forth. Behind them came rank after rank of Morne, their golden eyes shining with the knowledge of the slaughter to come. Too long these men had held them at bay and now they would pay the price for their folly.