The Legends of Vandor: Anthology Volume 1 (The Legends of Vandor Anthologies)

by DJ Morand

  “Two thirds, then. Prepare the men. If they can walk, they fight. If they can’t, they’re already dead. Let’’s go!”

  The men stared in astonishment at their leader. He had just sentenced men to die who could be helped. Mackland looked at Gronwol gravely, and he understood. The old man had lost more men than had been born in ten years. The few here who were injured wouldn’t survive if the demons attacked, and they might keep those able to survive from doing so. Mackland knew this was the world he lived in, but still it left a dirty taste in his mouth.

  “Pack up and arm yourselves! We’re killing some of those bastards!” Mackland roared. “Take my blood! RAH!”

  The men picked up the song and sang it as they charged into battle. Gronwol charged at their head and prepared himself for death. He worried that Bridgeguard had fallen. No runners had come to signify help or that the siege engines were destroyed. He knew that a runner might have been killed, or worse captured. The thought did not give him any more confidence. He roared as his ax bit into demon flesh.

  * * *

  Riftland: Year 1100 AO

  23 Torfer: Fraal - 8th Hour of Feralda

  Beyond Darkwood

  The branch nearly took his head. Instead, it grazed his ear and tore a good chunk of it off. Bastion sidestepped and swung his ax with both hands. The blade split the woodland creature as he cleared the last of the Darkwood. The trek through the woods had taken them halfway into the night. The army was tired and at least a fourth of them were wounded. Bastion suspected another eighth of the wounded would die before the sun rose. Still he had a formidable force. Reports indicated that the siege engines were just to the south of Maker’s Pass. Bastion wondered if Bridgeguard-Master Gronwol had made it out alive. If he had not, someone would have to take his place. Bastion feared it would be himself. He did not want the responsibility of so many men. It would kill him losing the numbers that the Bridgeguard had lost in the recent war alone.

  Bastion stared out over the land. The density of the forest thinned here and the woodland cleared in another hundred yards. The open clearing was full. He had expected the sight, but it unnerved him all the same. Enormous machines constructed from the bones of some ancient beast. He had heard of dragons, but Bastion had never expected to see weapons of war fashioned from their bones. The legends told of the strength of the beasts’’ bones and likened them to steel. The thought of battling against the demons and overcoming their siege weapons gave him pause.

  How can we fight against such a foe? Visions of his past haunted him. Men falling before him and dying while screaming out the name of loved ones. He could hear their cries and for a brief moment he was there with them again. The cries of the fallen echoed around him as the scent of blood and sulfur assaulted his senses. Bastion could feel hands gripping his throat and threatening to tear away his life. Slowly, he withdrew from his memories. Slowly, he withdrew from his fear. Slowly, he strengthened his resolve. Good men have died so that we could end this threat. I will not falter.

  Bastion turned to his men. He could see the fear in their eyes and the determination of their hearts, “We cannot fail. We put everything on the line. Everything this day until our last breath. The entire world rests on our shoulders, the entire west lands require our bravery. The Riftland asks that you be strong, that you have the strength to fight and die for her. Our families, our fallen friends, they ask that we give all that we have this day. RAH!”

  The chorus echoed back to him as a single voice. RAH, he thought. He turned and raised his ax high above his head and charged into battle. The ground beyond the Darkwood was soft from the dew. Here the dew had not frozen, so it was also slick. Bastion did his best to keep his footing. The rhythmic stomp of the army behind him told Bastion that his soldiers were doing their best as well. With a cry they flooded into the demon camp. The creatures were caught unaware and began fighting back only after losing several of the larger beasts.

  Bastion recognized them, the Ramtoma, demons with ram’s horns curling around like a sea-conch. They bore men’s faces and bodies. The fiends lined up and roared in defiance at Bastion’s men. The Ramtoma were muscular and wore no armor or clothing save for loincloths. They brandished wicked looking polearms with spiked maces on their end. Bastion didn’t understand how they could be effective with such a weapon. When he saw them move in a unified fluid motion, he did understand. The first rank of his soldiers were caught under the attack. The mace-like weapons caused them to crash into each other as each soldier toppled from the massive strike. Several of the beasts had to drop their weapons because of spikes caught in his men’s armor.

  Bastion slowed his charged, “Archers! Loose!” he bellowed the command.

  The combined twang of the release of a hundred bows was music to Bastion’s ears. The arrows sailed overhead with a light whistle as they rained down on the demons. Some arrows dug deep and found their true mark. The Ramtoma fell howling in agony, but many more roared. A second unified swing came, but the soldiers recognized the slow action this time. Few were caught unaware and those that were hit managed to evade the worst of it. The demons recognized their attack was ineffective and broke ranks. A large bull of a beast came barreling from behind them. Bastion couldn’t tell what it was. The creature was at least three times the height and width of a man. Its back legs pumped furiously as it charged on all fours. He had no word for this demon. Bastion assumed it was some pet of the demon-spawn.

  The beast roared with the voice of a man and demon combined. The echo of it hung in the air. Bastion felt the fear emanating from his men. He motioned them back and stepped into the beasts path. The blood-lust in the charging demon’s eyes spoke volumes to its state of mind. It continued to barrel forward as Bastion set his feet. It snarled and snorted. Hot gusts of rancid breath puffed from its nostrils. The tips of its horns gleamed in the afternoon light. Bastion kept his ax at his side seemingly unprepared for the beast’s attack. The other Ramtoma stood back and chanted in their strange dialect.

  The monstrosity bore down on Bastion. He stared at it defiantly. The beast rushed and lowered its head. Bastion stepped to the side and swung his ax in a wide arc and above his head. The beast barreled past. In the same smooth motion, Bastion brought his ax down. The beast howled in agony as Bastion yanked the ax free from the back of its thick neck. Without pause he swung again and again. Hot blood gushed from the wound and dressed him in crimson.The beast shuddered and fell. Bastion turned to the demon horde. He raised his ax and roared. The blood soaked visage of their leader sparked Bastion’s army into a frenzy. They slammed axes against shields.

  RAH!

  RAH!

  RAH!

  They bellowed their battle cry. The Ramtoma took a step back. A collective gasp of disbelief swam through them.

  RAH!

  RAH!

  RAH!

  The demons swelled like a wave in their panic. The wave rippled and curled as they turned and fled. They left their siege engines unattended and sounded the retreat.

  Bastion called for the attack, “Attack!” His army surged forward and he went with them. Even in their fueled battle-lust they chanted, RAH!

  * * *

  Riftland: Year 1100 AO

  23 Torfer: Fraal - 8th Hour of Eralda

  Darkwood Clearing

  Bridgeguard-Master Gronwol stood at the head of his army. He watched as Ramtoma ran at them. He steeled himself. His blood ran cold as he hefted his ax. A snarl replaced the tired look on his face. With his left fist he banged it against his breastplate. RAH, RAH, RAH, he thought in rhythm with his beating fist. His men took up the signal and clashed sword and ax against shield. The song echoed. They could see the field splattered with the blood of the fallen. It was obvious battle had been fought.

  “Not this day! The Bridgeguard must stand! To me! To Arms! To WAR!” Gronwol rushed the fleeing demons.

  His men followed, but for Gronwol he was alone. The ground ripped and tore under their charge. Mud, grass, and
dirt kicked up by their passing looked like the mangled form of a man trampled under a horse. The ram-horned men slowed their flight and took account of Gronwol and his men. They looked uneasy and wary. A brave leader among them drew a wicked scythe and challenged the host of Gronwol’’s army. The Bridgeguard army took up the challenge.

  RAH!

  Take my blood!

  RAH!

  Take my name!

  RAH!

  Take my wealth!

  RAH!

  RAH!

  They sang as they advanced. The return echo from behind the Ramtoma made Gronwol smile, “Bastion you sly dog,” he whispered between frenzied chants.

  Realizing they had not escaped the demons, they drew their weapons and prepared to fight. Gronwol struck first. His ax bit deeply into the conch horn of the nearest Ramtoma. The creature bucked its head and deflected the strike away from its head. Gronwol had to step back to recover his balance, but by then the fiend was upon him. He used the butt of the ax handle to deflect a strike at his abdomen. Gronwol growled and flung himself forward. His ax led and it winged the ram-horn in its shoulder. The scythe arm fell limp, and Gronwol pulled his ax hard to his right, embedding the blade in the demon’s neck.

  On the other side of the battle, Bastion whipped his ax low and hooked the ankle of one of the beast-men. He pulled hard and swept the ram-horn off his feet. With the momentum he swung the ax overhead and let the blade fall into the creature’s belly. Still covered in the demon’’s blood, Bastion swept his ax to the left and leaned into the attack. One of the Ramtoma had lowered its head and bulled into him. Bastion’s ax clipped the side of its horn and slashed its face. The creature yelped in pain as Bastion followed up the strike with another overhand swing. The ax severed the demon’’s spine. The demon spawned Ramtoma began to back away from Bastion. The old warrior let visions of his slain friends fuel his rage and he screamed bestially at the creatures. They took another step back.

  “RAH!” Gronwol spat in the face of one of the demon spawn. He held the demon’s chin hair in a balled fist and head-butted it. He dropped his ax and grasped both of its horns and head-butted it again. The creature fell to one knee and swung up with its scythe. The rusty blade rang against Gronwol’s breastplate and sung the sound of battle. Releasing the left horn, Gronwol grabbed the demon’s wrist and forced it to drop the weapon. They wrestled like that for what felt like hours.

  “RAH!” Gronwol bellowed as he brought the monster’s face down upon his armored knee. Teeth flew from the beast’’s mouth as it fell back. Gronwol released its horns and knelt to retrieve his ax. He stepped forward and slammed the weapon into the Ramtoma’s chest.

  “On the captain!” Bastion’s soldiers cried out.

  The men formed around Bridgeguard-Captain Bastion Frell and became a flurry of axes, swords, and arrows. They steadily advanced. Whenever they saw one of the demons they attacked as one. The creature would fall before it had a chance to fight back. They continued like this until the two armies merged. Gronwol was repeatedly slamming an ax into one of the ram-horns when Bastion reached him. Both men looked weary and worn. Both men were dressed in the red of their enemy. Bastion reached up with a bloody sleeve and wiped his face. The effect was a bloody smear across his brow. He looked down at his arm and shrugged.

  “Bravo Bridgeguard-Master Gronwol,” Bastion said. “We thought you were trapped in Maker’s Pass.”

  “We were,” Gronwol said gruffly. “We managed to fight our way through. Seems it was because they thought us finished. They only left a small force. It concerns me that we’ve only found the Ramtoma here. They had a whole contingent of possessed and their masters.”

  “We encountered the possessed,” visions of Mason’s puffy face filled Bastion’s head as he spoke. “They’re slain.”

  “Who guards the keep then?” Gronwol asked.

  “There is a small force there. If we take the long route around the Darkwood, we should reach them before the night ends.”

  “We must reach them before then, I fear the host of the army marches on Bridgeguard Keep,” Gronwol said.

  * * *

  Riftland: Year 1100 AO

  23 Torfer: Fraal - 10th Hour of Eralda

  Darkwood

  Gronwol leading, the army crossed the Darkwood in less than two hours. Bastion knew it had taken him slightly longer, but they were fewer. When they crossed through the last lines of the forest, they could see that Bridgeguard Keep was under siege. The engine drivers they had slain in the clearing had been a diversion. While the main host of the army and Bastion’s expeditionary force were occupied, another force of demons advanced on Bridgeguard Keep.

  Gronwol stood beside Bastion. Both men looked at the other, knowing this fight would be the last of the Bridgeguard if they failed. Simultaneously, they both uttered the same words, “RAH!”

  Sharing in the battle-hardened bond of brotherhood the two warriors lifted their axes and signaled the army. The chorus of axes, swords, and shields clanged and echoed at the edge of the wood. The sun was dipping low behind Bridgeguard Keep. It shone around the castle walls like a beacon of hope. Gronwol knew that if the Bridgeguard should fall then all men would fall. The Riftlands would be first, followed by the Welds, and then the east lands. He paused and took Bastion by the arm.

  “So forth I name you Bridgeguard-Master, protector of the West Lands, Master of the Bridgeguard, and Watchman over the Rift. Bastion Frell, Riftlander you son, you must survive. This day we go to die and this day we will give all that we must, but you must make a greater sacrifice. You, must live; and you must make sure that the Bridgeguard never dies,”” Gronwol stared at Bastion gravely. “Take your men, head west and establish a new keep. This lost post cannot be reclaimed, but I’ll be fucking damned if I let those sulfur sucking demons take it without a fight. Go!”

  Bastion was speechless. He could see the lives of the men he’d lost, the men he would lose, and Gronwol. Bastion Frell knew that he must, for the sake of the Bridgeguard and the world, obey the last command of Bridgeguard-Master Gronwol. Still, he stared stubbornly at the old commander. Bastion realized that even if he gave the order to retreat, Gronwol would stay and fight.

  “I cannot take the army from you,” Bastion said. “However, I cannot leave them all to die either,”” Bastion turned to the men. “I have told you that we must sacrifice and so now we must. Our duty is to protect the Riftlands, the west lands, the east lands, and the world from the horrors of the Rift. I cannot ask you to abandon this in a quest for vengeance, but I cannot leave Gronwol alone!”” he left off the honorary title. Gronwol had given to him. “Who will go with Gronwol and attempt to retake Bridgeguard Keep or die trying?” he paused and let men step forward. Nearly a third of their forces stepped forward. Bastion memorized their faces. The young and the old. He memorized their expressions, their hair, and their eyes. Most of all, he memorized their eyes. Those eyes would haunt him to the end of his days.

  “You go then,” he choked. “You go with Gronwol. You follow him and retake the keep ... or die in the attempt.””

  Gronwol looked to Bastion and nodded. The two clasped arms and Bastion turned to the rest of the army, “Come,” his voice was full of pain. “We march west to establish a new keep and keep the Bridgeguard alive.”

  With a last look to Gronwol, Bridgeguard-Master Bastion Frell led his men to the west. They listened as they marched. They could hear the call of Alder Gronwol and his men as they battled against the demonic host.

  RAH!

  Take my blood!

  RAH!

  Take my name!

  RAH!

  Take my wealth!

  RAH!

  RAH!

  Give me pain!

  RAH!

  Cut my limbs!

  RAH!

  Take your aim!

  RAH!

  For if you don't, RAH!

  I strike!

  RAH!

  Take your blood!

  RAH!
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  Take your name!

  RAH!

  Take your wealth!

  RAH!

  Take your life, at my Blade! RAH!

  * * *

  Riftland: Year 1100 AO

  24 Torfer: Toral - 1st Hour of Eralda

  Bridgeguard Keep

  Alder Gronwol lifted his voice high and sang with his men. The echoes of battle crashed on the air. The old man led the charge. The Keep laid in disarray. The host following Gronwol crashed through the gates of the keep. An eerie pallor of death hung over the place. Silence greeted the army as they entered. The song had died on their lips as they found no foes to fight.

  “Sir,” Mackland took Gronwol’s elbow. “Everyone is dead, the keep is lost.”

  Gronwol turned to look at his second in command, “We must hunt them.” Fury burned in his dark eyes.

  “Sir,” Mackland nodded. “I am at your side.”

  The sudden cries of their men startled them from conversation. The gates of the keep closed behind them.As a subtle laugh rumbled from the parapets. A great black dragon leapt from the tower and landed in the courtyard. Gronwol wheeled his mount and turned on the newest foe.

  “For Bridgeguard!” Gronwol cried.

  “Come and meet thy doom at the maw of Diafol,” the dragon rumbled.

  Gronwol signaled the attack, “For Honor! For the Riftland! For the Bridgeguard! RAH!”

  * * *

  Riftland: Year 1100 AO

  24 Torfer: Toral - 3rd Hour of Eralda

  East Road

  Bastion watched as flames engulfed the keep. Thick and billowing black smoke rose across the western horizon. He knew that beyond that smoke would be the eternal flame of the Rift. Bastion Frell drew his belt knife and drew it across his palm. The blood felt hot between his fingers. Hot like the flames that engulfed the Keep.