The Rise of Kings (The Flameweaver's Prophecy Book 1)

by Emery, Ben

  Galarus had been unable to sleep that night, despite his weariness. Every muscle in his body ached, and parts of him bore dark purple bruises from where he had been struck. His Wandeer armour had stood up to the task exceptionally well; without it he had no doubt that he would not have survived the day. Swords and axes and hammers had rung off of him, barely slowing him down, and his shield had absorbed more damage than ten Legion shields could ever have done. It was these unparalleled tools of war, and the men that stood beside him, that gave him hope that they might survive the situation in which they found themselves.

  It had occurred to him more than once throughout that day, that, at the end, it may only be the seven of them left against the might of Rural and his army. Seven warriors clad in black armour, standing against thousands. What a magnificent sight that would be.

  Snow fell heavily upon the valley amid the dark mountains, and the General trudged through it, his boots crunching down with each step. The amulet around his neck kept the cold at bay as he made his way down the steep pathways cut into the slopes, toward the powdery white flatlands beneath. It was strange how peaceful the night was, compared to the chaos that had raged only hours before, and would consume this place again the following day. The night was dark and without moonlight; pitch black but for the flickering of torches behind doors or the fires that warmed the watchmen.

  He stared up at the enormous wall that rose before him, unable to make out the battlements that crowned it. The damage to the gate had been extensive, to the point that it was visible from the inside; the wood had splintered and begun to buckle under the force of the rams, and the carts and supports that reinforced it had been shuddered backward.

  The men on guard duty moved to stand to attention as they saw the General approach. He waved them down; there was no need for ceremony now. Galarus inhaled deeply, cool air rushing into his lungs. He could taste the cold, and feel its bite in his throat, even if his skin could not.

  ‘Evening, General,’ one of the guards greeted him. ‘All quiet to…’

  He was interrupted by a thundering boom, and a groan of wood giving way that made them all jump.

  ‘Are they at the bloody gate?’ Galarus shouted; shocked at the complete surprise with which they had been taken.

  ‘I can’t see anything!’ another watchman called from atop the wall. ‘It’s too dark!’

  ‘Sound the alarm!’ the General instructed the dumbfounded guards around him. ‘Send Miran and my men to me, Draiden and his to the wall, in case they come at us that way.’

  The men did not move.

  ‘Now!’ Galarus bellowed at them, and each of them ran in different directions, fanning out to summon the garrison. ‘Shit,’ he muttered to himself. It looked like he wouldn’t be getting any rest at all tonight.

  Men scurried back and forth across the valley floor, rushing into position or to alert others, all the while the steady pounding of the ram on the gate echoed through the town.

  Miran and his archers arrived first, and Galarus instructed them to man the barricade, bows at the ready. Somewhere up on the mountainside, the General could hear Draiden barking orders at his men as they made their way to the wall.

  The axes of the enemy began to accompany the battering ram, hacking away at the weakening wood. It would not take much longer for them to break through now.

  The rest of Galarus’ men arrived, and joined him in bracing the gate, heaving the crude fortifications up against it to absorb the blows, but each time they were knocked back with the force from the other side. The blade of an axe split the wood in front of them, and was wrenched out and hammered in again. More joined in, and slivers of wood were punched out, forming small gaps throughout. The holes grew larger, and still the ram thudded eagerly and relentlessly into the gate.

  Several of the Vahc crossbowmen had forced their way to the front, firing bolts through the split wood. They stuck, harmlessly, into the barricade beyond, but not all of them would. The archers expertly returned fire, arrows whipping back through the narrow holes in the gate. Perhaps two or three of the horde fell, screaming, on the other side of the wall, but more readily took their place.

  The ram head finally burst through the gate, knocking Galarus and his men to the ground. The supports that had braced it were jarred loose and fell to the floor, else broken under the strain and made entirely useless. The hordes scraped at the fraying wood, ripping it back inch by inch, steadily creating a larger breach through which they could effectively attack, all the while, the ram continuing its deafening work.

  ‘Back to the barricade!’ Galarus ordered. ‘Fan out, we’ll defend from there!’

  But that was not to be the case. A voice, Draiden’s, Galarus guessed, echoed down the mountainside.

  ‘General! The spearmen are on the wall and in the town; we can’t hold them!’

  Galarus roared into the air. He turned to the men around him. ‘Fall back and abandon the town. Miran, two of your men collect Isella and Vedeon’s body; carry them to safety. Head south, toward Meddas, we will try and meet up with the Cities and inform them of what has happened. Valgaard has fallen.’

  A pair of the archers did as they were told, slinging their bows over their shoulders as they ran; the others headed directly for the eastern gate and the relative safety of the Free Cities beyond.

  The western gate, now at their backs, gave a final reluctant groan as its timbers surrendered to the force of the ram on the other side. With a splintering crack, the wood was torn asunder, and the Vahc hordes poured into the valley, streaming over the crude barricade with bloodthirsty vehemence. In the darkness above, the Legion spearmen filed down the narrow streets on both sides of the town; the clatter of their armour unmistakeable as they moved forward, butchering any that were unfortunate enough to be caught or brave enough to resist.

  On the ground, Galarus stopped running and turned around, his eyes scouring the oppressive night for any sign of others that might have been left behind. He saw no one but the Vahc. A gap in the low clouds spilled the grey light of the moon onto the valley floor, enough for him to see the seething masses of the hordes hurtling toward him through the snow. Enough for him to see a lone crossbowman, near the front of the pack, take careful aim, and loose a bolt.

  The pain was instant and excruciating. The Wandeer-made missile had found, through sheer luck, a battered spot in his armour, below his ribs, on his right side. The General sank to one knee, spots of scarlet blood dripping down the shaft of the bolt onto the pure white canvas beneath him. Roars erupted from the enemy as they increased their speed, desperate to set upon the downed soldier. His hand became stained red where he tried to stop the bleeding, but to little effect. He could not outrun the Vahc. He was alone, in the snow-covered valley, against an army.

  The crunch of footsteps, oddly clear above the howling of the hordes, made Galarus look up, his breathing heavy. The behemoth had appeared, as if from nowhere, Fellammer hanging lazily in one hand. The giant positioned himself between his wounded ally and the Vahc, facing the flood of approaching enemies by himself.

  ‘On your feet, General,’ he said, calmly. ‘We are not done yet.’

  Galarus looked on in disbelief as one man stood over him, ready to defend him from thousands. He struggled to his feet, supporting his weight with his sword. A hand under each of his arms helped him up; Jaxon and Placatas were at his sides, and Coran with them. Beyond, Attais and Marrew emptied their quivers of throwing spears into the flanks of the enemy. The Vahc charge faltered slightly as seven men stood against them; the demons in black armour. The press of numbers from behind carried them forward, and the behemoth rushed in to greet them, the mighty blade and anvil of Fellammer glimmering menacingly.

  Coran and Placatas half carried the General toward the eastern gate, while Attais, Marrew, Jaxon and the indomitable Ironhand formed a defensive semicircle around them. The Vahc fell by the score as metal rang against metal, or bit deeply into the flesh of the hordes. The Vahc fanned
out, threatening to engulf the tiny formation.

  ‘Archers!’ Galarus heard Miran bellow ahead of him. ‘Loose!’

  The General looked up as fourteen hundred arrows flew into the paling sky, to rain death down upon the advancing enemy; the Crimstone archers had arrived, with Count Brettar at their head.

  Almost instantly the valley was littered with the bodies of hundreds of the Vahc dead, as each archer found his target and prepared another volley. Hundreds more of the hooded warriors were riddled with the thick shafts of arrows, as the seven men before them hurriedly made their way between the ranks of Brettar’s men.

  ‘Good to see you again, General,’ the Count said brightly as Galarus was carried through. ‘Even if you are looking a bit worse for wear.’

  ‘Are the Cities here?’ Galarus managed, weakly.

  Brettar shook his head, a grim look etched upon his face. ‘Just me, lad. And we’ll be no match against the Legions once they form up.’

  He heard Miran order the retreat, and the soldiers of Crimstone filed neatly out of the eastern gate and onto the rugged plains beyond, as Rural’s Legions advanced, shields raised, should any more arrows fall upon them. The battle for Valgaard was over.

  Rural stood upon the eastern wall of the Great Gate as the rising sun began to turn the snow-laden mountains to gold. To the south, Galarus and his allies had disappeared from view, lost to the riveted landscape of the unwelcoming Harshlands.

  The king balled his hands up into fists upon the cold, black stone. The siege that never should have been had cost him thousands of men for the sake of only a few hundred peasants, and a full three days progress lost; time in which the Cities would be able to rally their defences. The appearance of the Crimstone archers had proved that well enough.

  But, he admitted grudgingly to himself, that was good news. If the men of Crimstone had appeared alone, then the military alliance of the Cities had wavered. All it needed now was the slightest push and it would fall apart altogether. Taking the Cities then, one by one, would prove far less of a challenge, particularly if much of their force still fought to repel Maeoraph in the south.

  The stench of acrid smoke reached his nose as the Vahc began to turn Valgaard to ash. Homes and stores had been looted for anything of value, and the bodies of the dead defenders, stripped of their armour and weapons, were dragged into a slippery mass of tangled limbs to be burnt unceremoniously.

  Rural turned his attention to the east. At the edge of the world stood Gerder, closest city to the Great Gate and the Legions’ next target. It would fall, one way or the other, defended or otherwise, and afterwards Meddas and Crimstone would suffer the same fate. Defeat and capture, yes, but such things would pale in comparison to the monstrosities the Vahc would wreak upon Bannerbridge.

  General Boreas appeared at his shoulder, looking pleased with himself, as though this victory, if it dared to be called one, was his own doing.

  ‘Valgaard is yours, my king,’ he began with an eager bow. ‘Everything of worth has been salvaged, and any survivors taken care of.’

  Rural did not turn to face him, only nodded once. ‘Is that all, General?’

  ‘No, your highness,’ Boreas continued, still with an air of self pride. ‘The Vahc are claiming Galarus was killed during his escape. They say he took a crossbow bolt to the heart as he fled. Many of them were witness to it, before the archers arrived.’

  The king had heard the same rumour already. How could he not? It seemed to be the only conversation between the hordes and the Legions since Valgaard’s fall.

  ‘Take me to his body,’ Rural said, turning this time to face his General.

  ‘We do not have it your highness,’ Boreas replied, his smile faltering.

  Rural nodded again, once more facing out across the lands of the Free Cities. ‘See that the men are well fed tonight,’ he ordered instead. ‘And make sure there is plenty of wine to go around.’

  Boreas bowed again and left without another word.

  The king grunted to himself, half amused. He would not believe a man that told him Galarus was defeated unless he held the former General’s head in his hands.

  ‘Make sure he is dead,’ Rural spoke softly, as a shadow rippled to his left.

  There was no answer, no sound of any kind, but he had been heard.

  To Gerder then, the king thought, and the first of the Cities would fall beneath his might; the first of five to kneel before him, before the entire world would follow suit and be united under the greatest ruler Banmer had ever seen. A power like no other was within his grasp, as the war for the Free Cities began.

  EPILOGUE

  Vanneus was weary. He had been for a century now. He sighed heavily as he stared out across the Outer Sea, at the ominous curtain of the Fog Banks that were anchored to his island, and surrounded the small world of Banmer. The waves lapped noisily at the base of the pallid cliffs atop which he had built his home. The low grumbling of thunder that emanated from the dark clouds about him went almost unnoticed after so long among them. Nearly a thousand years had passed since he and the other Elders arrived here to find it in the throes of a turmoil caused by the same darkness from which they had fled. It still haunted him; the actions they had taken in the name of protecting these people. And his self-imposed exile had given him plenty of time to think about it.

  He clasped his hands behind his back as he walked, his fingers brushing the lowest strands of his white hair. He knew every inch of these Thundering Islands; every stone, every blade of grass, every smooth step of the staircases and pathways he had carved from the rock between the dotted masses of land. He took another deep breath. He could feel a shift in the winds. The death of Terran, Blood of the Earthbreaker, had stirred him in a way he had not felt in countless ages. Events were transpiring that would see the prophecy come to pass soon. He willed his brother to pay heed; Lanoan had always been a strong-minded individual and overly protective of his own. Vanneus hoped not to a fault. He almost smiled to himself at his memories of the others.

  He shuddered suddenly, as though a breeze, not of his control, blew through his bones. There was not much time left. He could feel his power waning, and the most distant reaches of the Fog Banks in the east had already begun to thin. The probing fingers of darkness crept toward his heart. He would not embrace it, as those wretched few had a millennium before. He would fight it, with every last ounce of strength in his possession. This world would not fall, like his own, to the blackened will of Anarchus.

  Copyright © 2015 Ben Emery

  Cover Art Copyright © by Jon Torres

  Associated Concept Art by Jon Torres

  www.jontorresart.com

  The right of Ben Emery to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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