by J. W. Webb
He parted his sky-blue cloak to reveal a small golden harp hanging from his belt. Corin’s eyes widened. It was a thing of alien design and rare beauty.
“A way-blown minstrel,” continued Zallerak, “wandering the wide realms, free and easy. I tell fables of long ago to indolent kings and lascivious queens, of which many…ah.” He looked at the warriors with a conspirator’s expression.
“Crenna is but the start of your adventures, my young friend.” He was looking hard at Corin, much to the longswordsman’s discomfort.
“A false start it has proved, but no matter. I knew you were due here, so I decided to wait for your noisy arrival in the dungeons.”
Corin was painfully aware that this Zallerak was addressing him and completely ignoring Roman.
“After freeing the young Prince I needed time to think,” Zallerak said. “This dungeon proved ideal, apart from the smell, which got to me after a time. I thought that when my young, enthusiastic friends arrived they might need my help. I was right it seems. Thus I created the illusion of the cage.”
“So you never were imprisoned?” Roman shook his head in disbelief. This was all beyond him and he was aware time was passing. He glanced toward the passage and nudged Corin’s arm, but his friend was still locked in discussion with the stranger.
“Why did you not help us before?” Corin demanded. “We could have been killed while you were larking about in your pretend cage.”
“I needed to be sure of your courage and competence,” replied Zallerak. “I was curious of Oroonin’s choice. I expect I would have intervened before you were dead but assumed it would look better on you if you rescued me first.”
“What game are you playing, wizard?” Corin stared suspiciously at the self-proclaimed bard.
“Game! Game?” Zallerak’s eyes blazed for a moment like great angry spheres of lapis lazuli. “This is no game, young Corin. I am not a wizard. Wizards are petty, meddling troublemakers.
“I am a bard, a mystic. There is much more to lose here than you know, boyo, or will ever know. Be content with the knowledge that Prince Tarin is free.” He clapped a hand on Roman’s shoulder, who recoiled as one stung.
“Come, you pair, follow me! You have wasted enough time in foolish banter. That nasty Assassin fellow has taken your little Queen captive, and even now your large friend Barin battles for his life outside the gates of this most unpleasant fortress!”
The two cursed angrily when they heard this news, vowing bloody vengeance on Rael Hakkenon should anything happen to Ariane. They felt useless and stupid, but short of options, they decided it best to follow the guidance of this mysterious, and clearly eccentric, bard. Corin thought ruefully of his friend Barin, alone as an island in fog, surrounded by a sea of foes—and without his war axe.
“Well then, lead on!” he snapped at Zallerak.
“Worry not,” replied the self-styled bard with a reassuring wave of his hand. “We may yet have time to save them both. Follow me, dolts. We must make for the great hall of Kranek Keep where Rael the cruel is holding a feast for his chieftains. We will slip inside unnoticed, after a few dabblings on my part. I have, you see, already devised a plan that will enable us to rescue your young Queen, Roman Parrantios.”
“What about Barin?” enquired Ariane’s champion. “We cannot leave him to die unaided!”
“Oh, I believe he has help on the way also,” responded Zallerak with a shrug. “Follow me, I know a shortcut through these passages!”
“Then lead us there and stop wittering,” said Corin. He looked at Roman, who shrugged. What choice remained?
Together they followed the stranger called Zallerak up and out of the dungeon. As he led the two fighting men through the dark, Zallerak unraveled his plan. Corin questioned who this being really was and just what he was up to. What did he gain by aiding them? Time would tell. They caught up with the fleeing guards and slew them all.
***
Barin cursed and swore in frenzied fury. All about him, the slain bodies of the Assassin’s elite guard lay strewn like broken dolls. Back and forth went his short sword, whirling ceaselessly, a deadly arc of steel.
He blocked a spear thrust with his forearm, whirled round to kick an axe man in the ribs, launching him back to take three others with him as he fell. The man lay still with his chest caved in.
“Valkador!” roared Barin, seizing the dead man’s axe. “This hatchet will be better than nothing, I suppose.” He glared at his foes from beneath the great archway, his vast bulk almost filling the space beneath. They had surrounded him and were swarming like wasps, with spears thrusting from every direction. Undismayed, Barin fought on, axe in left hand, sword in right.
Let them come; I haven’t started yet!
As he hewed and stabbed and gutted, Barin thought of his friends. He hoped Corin and the others would be all right, that they would be able to save brave Ariane from Rael Hakkenon’s thugs. Thinking of his friends gave him renewed vigor. He leapt forward, swinging the axe like a pendulum of death.
On Barin battled, breaking spear shafts with his stolen axe, piercing throats with the short sword, until bodies were piled high in front of him. But they kept coming. Others had arrived, and they pressed him back until he stood panting and sucking in gulps of breath, his back slammed hard into the shut gates.
Barin’s time was running out.
A sword thrust got through his defense, slicing his forearm to the bone, then a spear struck his mailed chest beneath his cloak, bruising a rib, causing him to stumble sideways and trip on the blood-soaked stones beneath. Barin closed his eyes. He was spent and exhausted.
Time to die…
Yelling, the spearman leapt forward, his long weapon raised for the kill.
Instead, the guard pitched face first onto the ground. He twitched briefly then lay still. Protruding through his throat was a slender grey arrow. More arrows came whistling out of the night. The guards turned from their prey, alarmed by this new invisible foe.
Up Barin leapt, roaring like a wounded bear.
He was still alive! With a shout of pure joy Barin grabbed the collar of a stunned guard. He hoisted the shouting man high over his head, then hurled him down on his fellows to lie there limp and broken. Arrows buzzed past his ear, burying themselves in enemy flesh. Bleyne’s arrows never missed. They found tiny gaps in armor and pierced eyeholes in helmets.
Snarling, Barin pounced and swung out with both weapons trailing blood in whirring circles of steel. Barin’s renewed ferocity panicked the Crenise, as did the mystery shafts swooping in from the dark. They hung back and gaped about in the gloom, confused and crestfallen.
Barin strode toward them. The Crenise axe was blunt and his short sword pitted, slippery with blood. He let them drop to the ground with a clatter and strode forward bare knuckled and undeterred. Barin’s dinner-plate fists pummeled one hapless guard to the ground. He laughed, hauled another off the ground and butted him in the face. Without a word, the man crumpled and joined his dead companion.
The Crenise warriors looked about desperately, searching for the murderous archer but to no avail. More shafts rained death.
How many did he have?
Then came a hoarse shout from across the square. Figures could be seen hurrying toward the city guards.
It was Fassof and the crew of The Starlight Wanderer! Wielding cutlasses and shouting in defiance, they entered the fight. Pale faced, the Assassin’s guards turned to confront these new enemies. They were worried. Things weren’t going as planned.
Bleyne the archer stepped out from behind one of the tall statues where he had been hiding, a slim dagger held in each hand now that his arrows were all spent. Barin yelled thanks, and the archer grinned in return. Then Fassof staggered toward Barin with the latter’s battle-axe strapped across his straining back.
“I’ve carried this bloody thing all the way up that sodding hill,” grumbled the fiery mate. He hefted Barin the axe. “I thought perhaps you might be missing it
,” he added with a lopsided grin.
Barin hugged the sweating mate, lifting Fassof off his feet.
“What kept you, shithead?” he gasped. “It’s been hard work up here!” Barin panted, then waved the huge weapon at the surviving guards, who still outnumbered them two to one.
“Want some of this, weasels?” Barin chided them. “Now we can have a proper fight!” Barin grinned like a deranged beaver, and stepping forward, closed on the spearmen again.
The Assassin’s guardsmen were starting to crumble despite their advantage in numbers. The ship’s crew fought like demons, and their giant captain appeared unkillable. Only a fear of their lord kept them in their place. Should they fail and remain alive, their heads would grace the castle walls tomorrow. So they fought on but lacked their earlier enthusiasm.
Barin laughed as he slew, his joy of battle having returned. They were winning and fighting alongside him. His crew whooped as they cut down the enemy with their curved blades.
Somewhere in their midst were two figures who looked out of place and unsure of themselves. Cale had stolen ashore, leaving Galed no choice but to try and protect him. The squire stabbed about wildly with the unfamiliar cutlass, as much a hindrance to his comrades as a help.
Cale had persuaded Fassof to lend him a spare blade. He was fourteen, he’d told the redhead, old enough to fight. Galed had despaired at that.
“If my Queen is in peril, then my place is with her,” Cale had announced to him with passion while the ship’s crew was getting ready for the battle ahead. Galed finally conceded, deeming the terror of waiting alone on board ship more than either he or the boy could bear. And if the crew were lost —well, so were they.
And so they had followed the crew into the city and joined the carnage at the gates. Cale had watched in fascination when Fassof and Cogga silently dispatched the four guards in the harbor.
They had reached Kranek Castle just as Bleyne fired his final arrow. Without a moment’s hesitation, Fassof had rushed headlong into the attack. The others followed, including the boy, hollering and waving his cutlass with both hands.
Galed gulped back bile, then he too entered the fray. At least they were winning. There were fewer of the enemy, and those remaining were clearly losing heart.
It would soon be over. Galed felt a flood of relief. He grinned at Cale, whose face was flushed with pride. Together they stole glances across the great square, where the pink hint of dawn revealed the snow-clad slopes of the mountains high above. Huge and majestic they reared, steep ridges burnished by a wintry sun that even now rose gold and dazzling, hailing the arrival of morning and the return of hope.
Movement caught Galed’s eye as he watched the dawn awaken. He froze, rooted to the spot, an icy dread gripping his bowels. He glanced at Cale. The boy had seen it too. Galed gulped, his mouth tinder dry.
This cannot be happening.
Galed felt his bladder loosen and his knees buckle. It wasn’t over but had only just begun.
Across the square, marching purposely toward them, came the weasel-faced captain Pollomoi. Behind him tramped a hundred guardsmen, all shouting for their blood. But it wasn’t these reinforcements that terrified Cale and the squire.
Across the granite square the gruesome stone statues were moving. As the cold early sunlight touched their weird shapes, they shook, contorted, and shuddered into ghastly motion.
It was horrible to witness. Slowly, the statues creaked and scraped toward the stunned fighters. The noise was unbearable, a groaning and grinding and tearing of stone on stone. Barin’s sailors watched in stupefied horror, certain they faced death.
The surviving guards ran to join Pollomoi’s men. They too gaped at the approaching stone giants, grateful but terrified of the dark power that had risen up to aid them, not knowing from whence it came. On they came, grim monoliths, stone scraping stone— a hideous mixture of deformed beast and skeletal bird, eyes glowing amber with a malice not their own.
“What sorcery is this?” Barin’s face was bleak. Then he saw the hooded figure watching them from the shadows beyond. He glimpsed a ravaged face beneath that hood, a long snout and wide twitching nostrils.
The Dog Lord had come.
Barin shuddered at the numbing terror assaulting him. Almost he was unmanned by it. His mighty hands sweated as they gripped the axe shaft. This time there would be no one to aid him and his men. This time they were doomed.
He looked at Galed and the boy, both livid with fear. It was more than Barin could bear. Beside him stood Bleyne the archer as horror-struck as the rest. He’d regained some of his arrows, but they would be useless now.
“It is Morak,” Bleyne muttered. “The Dog Lord, a servant of Old Night! The Urgolais have returned. Elanion help us!” Bleyne’s voice was swallowed by grinding, scraping granite. The stone beasts surrounded them.
Chapter 27: Vaarg
Dawn brought the urgent clatter of hooves on cobbled stone. The late autumn sun rose almost reluctantly to reveal a rider. Travel worn and drenched in sweat, he clung to his exhausted horse with stubborn tenacity. Relief flooded through him as he read the ivy-strewn marker showing that at last he drew near to his destination.
The rider willed himself on, pushing his struggling horse beyond exhaustion. He crested the final hill, saw the Sorcerer’s tower piercing the sky like a finger of doom, casting weird shadows on the great city that clustered nervous below.
The rider saw a faint light high up in the tower and quailed. Did sorcerers never sleep? He steeled himself, approached the ornate gates, and then waited anxiously as they creaked open. Men coming toward him garbed in wool and iron. He spoke, and they waved him through.
Perani watched in thoughtful silence as the sweating horseman dismounted and ran up to join him on the battlements of the northern wall. The Captain of the Citadel waited for the man to regain his breath, before he raised a quizzical brow.
“What’s the news from the east, messenger?” he demanded. “I heard word the eastern castles are under attack. Is this true?”
“Aye, my lord,” replied the rider. “I bring grave tidings from Car Carranis,” he said. “There’s rumor Point Keep has fallen to the eastern barbarians, although nothing is certain.” He paused, wiped snot from his nose.
“Also, word arrived from Morwella just as I was leaving, dire news. Vangaris Harbor is under siege, awash with ships out of Leeth!” The messenger paused again, this time gratefully downing a flagon of offered wine in nervous gulps whilst Perani waited for him to continue.
“Our scouts have reported sighting a vast horde gathering in the eastern forests. It would appear King Haal is bent on invasion, my lord!”
“Yes, so it would seem,” responded Perani, unsurprised by the news. “Get some food and rest man,” he told the messenger. “Doubtless I will require your services soon enough. First I must consult Lord Caswallon. Await here for my return.” Perani left the messenger at the wall without further comment. He barked a few curt commands, then made ready to leave.
The city was waking: Carts ground over cobbles, and market stores were manned by wan-faced vendors. Men spoke in whispers whilst women walked with heads kept low. Children were not much in evidence. Parents had learned to keep their little ones in doors soon after the arrival of the ghastly Groil. Several had gone missing. Cats skulked hungry and skinny dogs lurked mean in back alleys. This was Kella City of an early morn.
Ignoring all, Perani strode toward the palace, purposeful and grim, aware as always of the hate-filled eyes that watched him pass. Let them think what they will; his place of power was assured.
***
Caswallon reluctantly released his gaze from the crystal. He’d been transfixed watching the events on Crenna. He had tapped into Urgolais power on Morak’s permission, recently renewing his fargaze skills so that he could easily control the glass orb over greater distance and watch events unfold in most areas—as long as he linked with the Dog Lords first and got their permission, which was, i
n point of fact, a bone of contention.
Morak had invited Caswallon to watch his show over on Crenna, and it was proving high entertainment indeed. Caswallon had witnessed in awe how the Dog Lord worked his spell on the stone creatures outside Kranek Castle.
If only he had such power. Well, he would in time. Then the Urgolais would be afraid of him, not the other way round. Patience. He’d learn all their tricks and then turn on them when the hour was right. The Dog Lord had been a fool to aid him.
Every day Caswallon’s knowledge waxed. He had more Groil on loan, and other fell beings would follow as promised. Soon Caswallon wouldn’t need the help of men. Soon… but not just yet.
Caswallon chuckled, his eyes on the crystal again. The stone ogres had surrounded the pathetic troop. Soon the fools would be no more.
Job done.
Caswallon’s attentions turned to the walls below. With witch-tuned ears he’d locked onto the messenger reporting to Perani, heard the man imparting the “grievous” news. Caswallon smiled. This too had been part of his plan.
Only Perani knew the depth of his treachery, and the calculating general would play his part well enough. Perani knew where his loyalties need lay, thus was safe for the short term.
War was coming to Ansu. It would be Caswallon’s war, and it would be as dark and dreadful as were his ambitions. Caswallon would guest the brutal King of Leeth and his violent sons here in Kelsalion’s palace, whilst their savage men spread ruin throughout the countryside. He’d sent the King a letter promising a welcome once they brought Car Carranis low.
Let the barbarians have their time of glory. Once they had served his purpose they too would become his vassals. King Haal would swear fealty to the new Lord of Kelthaine. Caswallon’s armies would swell in number and strength. Kelthaine was his, very soon Morwella would be reduced to ash, and the other two kingdoms would follow. Within a year Caswallon would become overlord of the western realms. He would seduce the neighboring lands with riches until they too were brought to heel.
