The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall

by Jason McWhirter

  This time Kivalla lowered his voice so only they could hear. “Captain, the palace is under attack.”

  “What?!” the Captain exclaimed, fighting to keep his voice low. He jumped to his feet as his hand moved automatically to his sword. The two other Legionnaires stood up with him. “How do you know this?”

  “While I was walking back to the palace, five men, cloaked in dark hooded capes ran by me, as if on some sort of mission. When I reached the front gate I saw more men in black converge on the Sentinels, taking them out quietly as well as the men on the wall. They seemed quite skilled, as they were able to accomplish this with incredible speed and almost total silence. Somehow they infiltrated the walls, taking out the guards on the wall as well. Then they put on the Sentinels’ uniforms and armor and took their place. I don’t know what is happening but it can’t be good.”

  “There are more Sentinel’s inside. They will be needing our help.”

  “How will we get in?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s get to the barracks and get a force up there right away. Don’t we have some Dygon Guard in the city right now?”

  “We do,” Kivalla answered. “Kulvar Rand will be at the council meeting scheduled this evening.”

  “I don’t think there will be a meeting tonight. Come on, let’s get more men,” the captain said as he ran from the bar, the three others hurrying after him.

  The sudden sounds of battle assaulted them as they ran from the building. The clash of weapons and the screams of men, women, and children filled the night air. Fifty men wearing black leather armor and carrying long swords moved relentlessly through the streets. They killed indiscriminately and methodically, without remorse, creating havoc and hysteria in their wake. Off in the distance a bright ball of fire shot into the air.

  “That was a signal!” Kivalla yelled. “We are under attack!”

  As they ran toward the palace, ten Legionnaires who had been stationed along the main street, joined them with swords drawn. The dark clad men were methodically making their way toward them, their weapons glistening crimson.

  “Captain, what is happening?” one of the Legionnaires asked wild eyed.

  “The palace has been taken. I’m sure the gate is under attack as we speak. But right now all I can see are those men massacring our people.” Captain Hagen looked at the men, his eyes hard and his jaw clenched. He drew his sword. “Form up with me and prepare to defend your city.” Then he looked at Kivalla. “Can you fight?”

  “I have not been trained in the art of combat. But I will try. Do you have a weapon?”

  One of the Legionnaires carried both an axe and a short sword. He gave the sword to Kivalla. “Use this.” Kivalla took it with trembling hands.

  Captain Hagen moved out into the street with his men, forming a line of Dy’ainian steel. Then he turned to Kivalla. “Listen, you should not be here,” he said. “Stay behind us and if we fall you need to go to the docks and take a boat.”

  “I will not leave you,” Kivalla said bravely, though his eyes betrayed his fear.

  “You must. If the king survives this, he will need you. If the prince lives, he will need you as well. We each have our role, Kivalla.” Captain Hagen swung his sword arm. “Mine is clear to me, just as yours should be clear to you. Now get behind us.”

  By this time five more Legionnaires had come running from the various roads that intersected the palace street to join them. Captain Hagen looked closer and noticed that the dark warriors had stopped. What were they doing? Then it came to him in a flash. They were opening a path to the palace, killing anyone who stood between them and the home of the royal family. Just as he came to this realization the sounds of battle moved closer, echoes of metal on metal coming from the palace and from the main entrance into the city.

  He lifted his sword in the air. “Men of Dy’ain, your king needs you! It is time to uphold your oath! It is time to show these invaders that honor and courage runs strong in our blood!” Then he started forward, his fifteen men behind him.

  The black clad warriors saw them coming, and one man ordered forty from the procession to meet the advancing threat. The Legionnaires, led by their captain, picked up speed, while the invaders crouched, their swords held before them, readying themselves for the attack.

  Kivalla stood back with his pitiful sword, watching as they came together in a clash of steel, sword upon sword, adding to the cacophony of battle that was steadily drawing nearer from the gate. Bodies fell, cut and bleeding, and men screamed as they fought for their lives. A handful of Dy’ainian civilians, holding their own miscellaneous weapons, joined the fray, emboldened by the courage of the Legionnaires. Ten of the enemy were quickly killed, the heavily armored Legionnaires, aided by Captain Hagen’s superior swordsmanship, were cutting into them with deadly effect. But the invaders greatly outnumbered them and within moments, reinforced by their comrades, the enemy began to push them back and the Dy’ainians soon began to fall, their blood mixing with that of their enemies on the cobblestone road.

  Hundreds of civilians were frantically running towards the docks, hoping to escape, as Kivalla stood frozen, watching as the soldiers were cut down. He knew he should run. But he felt that somehow someone needed to document the courage and bravery he was witnessing. He wanted to run, but could not, his eyes recording everything so that he may tell others the story of this night.

  Captain Hagen growled and moved like a cornered she bear protecting her cubs, lunging forward and back, his sword a blur as it deflected attacks that should have killed him, while simultaneously darting in, slashing sideways and dispatching countless invaders. Their bodies were piling up around him and still he deflected, spun, and attacked, until the cobblestones were slick with blood.

  Captain Hagen’s heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that it was all he heard over the noise of battle. His lungs strained for air, and his sword felt increasingly heavy as he somehow managed to continue dispatching enemy soldiers. Finally he noticed he was alone among the invaders. His comrades had all been killed. Swords were now coming at him from all angles, yet still his well-trained body moved instinctively, and more of the enemy fell to his sword. For a brief moment his weary mind wondered how many he had killed. That was when he felt the searing pain of a sword slashing across his left bicep. Stumbling, he managed to run his sword through the man’s chest, only to feel another blade slice the back of his leg. Screaming, he dropped to his knees, and with great effort he slowly swung his sword in an arc, hoping to catch another enemy. Time slowed as his mind drifted to his daughter. Had she escaped? His last thoughts were of her as enemy steel pierced his flesh from all angles.

  As Captain Hagen’s body dropped to the ground Kivalla blinked for the first time. Awakening from his trance, he ran toward the eastern gate, toward the docks, joining the others fleeing the city. He ran in a daze, images of the carnage he had witnessed flashing in his mind. He made a vow…that somehow he would avenge the men whose courage and honor he had just witnessed. Their bravery demanded it, and he would make it happen.

  The scene at the docks was no better. Kivalla could see lantern lights out at sea as the few Dy’ainian ships that could muster their crews sailed out to meet the enemy navy. People shouted and screamed as they frantically hurried to find boats, while great explosions all around them sent flames into the air. Projectiles, presumably fired from the enemy vessels, landed amongst their own ships and some even made it the distance to the docks. Where they hit fiery explosions rocked the air, bright flashes of orange light illuminating the dark night. He had never before seen anything like it although he had read about the explosive devices used by the Saricons. The docks and the eastern wall were being bombarded with missiles from the Saricon ships, the invisible devices launched into the dark sky to land with devastating force. Sections of the docks were aflame and nearly half of the fishing and navy vessels were already burning, the light from the conflagration casting an eerie glow on the destruction.

  K
ivalla looked about frantically as he neared a section of the dock that was miraculously not aflame. Several smaller boats were already moving out into the harbor loaded with men, women, and children desperately trying to escape the destruction and death that had overtaken their homes. A shrill scream directed his attention to his right where he saw a small rowboat and a handful of people scrambling to climb aboard. A man lay on the wood planks nursing a bloody nose while a woman, held firmly in the grip of three men, was screaming at the top of her lungs. Standing near the injured man was his attacker, a stout club in his right hand. Kivalla looked down at his sword, took a deep breath, and ran to the boat.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, his short sword held low and non-threatening.

  The man with the club turned and glared at him, his face a visage of rage. “Stay out of it! We are taking their boat!”

  So that was it. Kivalla could see a young boy and girl already in the boat. It was the family’s boat and they were trying to get away, but the three ruffians were attempting to steal the vessel. “It is not yours to take. Find another.” Kivalla tried to sound as if he could back up his request, but he knew he sounded pathetic, and the men, like the predators they were, could sense it.

  The injured man tried to stand when the club wielder kicked him in the stomach. Then he turned again to look at Kivalla. The scene around them was utter chaos as countless men, women, and families fled from the eastern gate to the docks, while Saricon missiles exploded around them, killing and maiming indiscriminately. Nearly a hundred refugees perished as they fled, while twice that number had been seriously wounded. The increasing sounds of battle from inside the city added to the chaos and sense of impending doom, emboldening the men to take action and secure the boat.

  Without another word the man with the club lunged at Kivalla, the heavy weapon descending towards his head. Kivalla was not a trained fighter, but he instinctively lifted his sword arm to block the blow. The strength of the strike nearly knocked the sword into his face. But, despite the pain in his arm as the power of the strike reverberated through the sword, he was able to keep the club from crushing his skull.

  Then suddenly Kivalla’s attacker was gone, flying through the air and off the dock to land with a splash in the cold harbor. Kivalla blinked in surprise, staring at the large man who had suddenly appeared before him, dressed in black clothing, black leather armor, and carrying a long sword. One of the men holding the woman drew a long knife and lunged towards the newcomer in black. Several sword swings later and the knife wielder was moaning in pain nursing a sliced arm and leg, his blood pooling around him on the wood planks. The other two men, wanting nothing to do with the swordsman, released the woman and ran off into the night.

  The dark clad warrior helped the man with the bloody nose to his feet before he turned to Kivalla who, once he had gotten a good look at him, was taken aback by his stern visage. The man’s large bald head displayed two prominent scars that ran from his eyebrows down both sides of his face to his chin. He looked more frightening than the thieves he had just run off. “Are you hurt?” he asked Kivalla.

  “I’m fine. Thank you for coming to my aid.”

  “Thank you both for coming to our aid,” the man with the broken nose said, clearly in pain. “I need to get my family out of here. It will be tight, but I’d like to repay you both by offering you passage.”

  Kivalla looked around. The situation at the docks was getting worse and he was afraid that it wouldn’t be long before either the enemy navy docked and came ashore, or that the invaders from inside the city would make their way to the wharf. He didn’t want to be around when either of those scenarios might happen. “I’ll take you up on that,” he said to the man.

  “And I,” the burly warrior said, scanning the darkness, his bloodied sword held at the ready.

  “Good. I’m Banic and this is my wife, Loriel, my son, Tavi, and my daughter, Tayin.”

  “I’m Kivalla.”

  “I’m Banrigar,” the warrior said as he looked around the chaos with uncertainty. “Get in and I’ll push off.”

  Kivalla helped Banic into the boat and a few heartbeats later the heavily laden vessel, with Banrigar at the oars, silently disappeared into the night.

  Elsewhere, Serix and Endler Ral fought valiantly just outside the palace grounds. Hundreds of Legionnaires had joined them when the thousands of Saricons had flooded into the city, which was now in total chaos. The invaders were slaughtering everyone they encountered, whether civilians or the Legionnaires who were trying to defend their city. They pillaged homes, businesses, and temples, filling the beleaguered city with the screams and futile pleas for mercy from those within, sounds that even the din of battle could not mask.

  The wave of Saricon invaders seemed endless and the original three hundred defenders standing before the palace gates were now reduced to fifty, the bloody bodies of their comrades sprawled across the stone pavers, in testament to their last act of loyalty, protecting the memory of their king and queen. Word had reached them quickly that their beloved king and queen had been murdered, but soon after the city gate was secured by the Saricons and the city had been overrun by the enemy. They had had little time to prepare a defense.

  Endler fought with sword and shield, pulling energy from the enemies before him and filtering it for Serix Rilonan. Serix, standing on his left, spun and dodged, his long sword delivering death as his left hand, crackling with blue energy, shot bolts of lightning into the howling conquerors. It was a hopeless scenario. The Legion shield wall was ready to collapse under the sheer number of the Saricon invaders.

  “We cannot keep this up!” Serix yelled.

  “What do you suggest?” Endler responded, taking a Saricon sword on his shield, sweeping low and cutting the man across his thigh.

  “Plug the hole when I jump back!” Serix shouted to both Endler and the Legionnaire fighting on his left. At this point, only the luckiest and most able warriors remained…veteran fighters with years of experience. Without waiting for a response, Serix leaped back and the hole closed, both fighters sliding closer together.

  It would be only moments before they would be overrun. Everyone would die. Serix, forced to make a difficult choice, pulled energy from Endler and focused on his last spell. It took him a moment, the intricacies of the spell more challenging. Pulling the energy from his tarnum, Serix spun and wove it, lacing it into a pattern of whirling wind. “Hold tight!” he yelled as he reached forward and gripped Endler around the waist, simultaneously pushing immense amounts of wind forward, knocking the enemy before them back three paces. Quickly, he redirected the wind under them, using the power of it to lift them off the ground.

  Endler screamed as they launched straight up into the air. One Saricon cocked his arm ready to throw a javelin, the close distance allowing for a sure hit as the two left the ground. But just as the weapon was about to be released, a soldier lunched forward and rammed his sword into his chest, just as two nearby Saricons cut the man down with brutal efficiency. The weapon dropped harmlessly to the ground as Endler looked down woefully at the young warrior’s body as it lay still in the comfort of death.

  Serix, perhaps the most skilled mage in Corvell, spun the wind under and around their legs, keeping them upright as they quickly moved away from the fighting and into the safety of darkness.

  Filled with despair, they looked down and watched their men being cut down, the palace gate destroyed and now open. They could have died alongside their men, but Serix wasn’t willing to give up just yet.

  “What now?” Endler asked.

  “We find Prince Jarak.”

  “Is he alive?”

  Serix guided them over the city walls, looking for a safe place to land. “I hope so,” he said wistfully.

  Epilogue

  Brant scattered the table’s contents onto the floor and helped Cat lay Jarak onto the flat surface. Ari stood beside him, his eyes wide with fright.

  “Where is everyone?” Brant as
ked Ari, his voice tense.

  “When the screams started, most left to find their families. I do not know what has become of them.” Ari’s eyes were now rimmed with tears. Like Ari, several of the servants lived at Master Rand’s estate full time, but most had homes in town or the outer city and came to work every day.

  “What of Rylene?”

  “I sent her to Master Rand’s study to collect a few things in case we need to leave in a hurry. What is happening out there?”

  “Listen, Ari. The city is under attack. We are under attack. I need Rylene to see what she can do for Prince Jarak. Then we need to get out of here.”

  “That is Prince Jarak?” Ari asked incredulously.

  “Yes. Now go get Rylene. You can gather what you think is important and send her down here! Hurry!”

  Ari needed no further encouragement. He raced down the long hall and ran up the stairs to the study.

  Brant turned to Cat. “How well can you fight?”

  “I’m good. Who in Argon’s name are you?”

  “Now is not the time. Go and guard the door. If anyone breaks through the main gate make sure you call for help.” Then he looked at Rath. “Can you fight?”

  Shamefaced, Rath shook his head. “Not really. But I’m willing to help. Do you have a weapon?”

  “Follow Ari to the study. There are weapons there. Find something you think will suit you and help Ari pack.”

  Rath nodded and ran after Ari.

  Cat drew her sword. “What are you going to do?”

  “Listen, we cannot stay here. They are going to ransack the city and kill everyone. We need to get the prince fit for travel. Then we need to leave.”

  “And go where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A middle-aged woman in a brown muslin skirt and blouse, the servants’ uniform at the Rand estate, ran from the hallway towards them. She was clearly frightened, but as soon as she saw Prince Jarak groaning on the table, his chest burnt, her fear seemed to vanish, replaced by a confident desire to help. “What happened to him?” she asked briskly as she moved to the table.