by C J Brown
He looked to see the two thousand friendly northerners trying to shatter the river of enemies.
He turned back to the soldiers before him and cut them down.
–
The soldiers collided with the barred doors as Payjen and his men stood by the bonfire, watching the oak panels.
The enemy shouted as they struck the doors again.
“Soldiers, we are the Guardians of Light, we are the protectors of the Temple.” They all began chanting their words. “We oppose all evil. We uphold the good. For eternity, our lives guard the House of Light! Bright are our minds and stone is our will! We fear no danger, fear no threat but the darkness. We are the Guardians of the Temple!” The oak bar splintered and snapped, and the doors flew open.
The torrent of steel poured through, racing toward the bonfire.
Payjen and his men met enemy blades with their own, and the Temple resounded with the clash of steel. As the fighting went on just yards away, Enya stared at the fire.
She began to chant, and the other witches and warlocks followed suit. Their voices carried their words beyond the battle, beyond the roof of the Temple, and to the heavens. As they chanted, Enya looked to see northerners falling before the line of guardians, and then the first of them fell.
The warrior collapsed before the bonfire, and then another fell when a spear sprouted from his shoulder.
Payjen slashed at a northern soldier when an arrow cut through his collarplate, and he staggered back.
The chant continued, and light began to shine from their eyes.
Payjen stabilized himself before attacking another. He met the soldier’s uppercut, pushed his blade away, and lunged at the man, shearing through his surcoat and mail.
Around him, the Guardians were falling, and the fire was already guttering out.
Payjen slashed at another northerner, and then he buckled when a greatsword sprouted from his side.
Enya saw him spit blood, and then slash the man who had stabbed him.
The greatsword withdrew, and his blood spilled on the steps to the bonfire. Another Guardian fell beside him, and the northerners ran past their line, towards the witches and warlocks, shouting.
One of them raised their blade to strike Toryen, but when the greatsword fell, it cut through air, and Toryen remained standing.
“The light will always shine!” Payjen yelled, rising. An arrow found his back, and he nearly fell, but he kept himself up.
Around him, the last of the Guardians, five wounded men, rose from the stone ground, red with the blood of their brethren.
The northerner who’d tried to kill Toryen turned to see Payjen, arrows bristling from his shoulder and back, standing.
He turned and charged back at him.
Payjen darted aside when the Highlander raised his sword and slashed at him.
He turned and cut off the arm of another, and was about to slash a third, when the cold steel of his enemy’s blade drove through his chest.
Enya felt anger, grief, and regret welling, regret that they could not have helped them. They had tried, but whatever they had done clearly wasn’t enough. She felt grief as friends and family who had been by their side for decades fell, and anger as she saw the last of the light beginning to go out.
Her thoughts switched to Mergyle. The new king was cutting through the column of soldiers storming the gate with Fergus and his northerners. With red eyes and a black storm upon his face, grief and anger propelled him. He was not of the darkness, but there was no light either. Enya’s sight returned to the temple, and she could see the guardians lying upon the ground, their weapons at their side.
Payjen was lying by the steps, his green eyes blank, blood still pouring from his wounds.
The northerners ran through Toryen and the other warlocks.
“Find them!” One of them yelled. “They couldn’t have gone far!”
Toryen looked at Enya. “So, we’re gone then.”
Enya looked at all of them. “Until such time as the light can truly return to the Isle, our souls will remain here, neither dead nor living. The centuries will go past. We will see cities rise and fall. We will see the end of this war, the generations that go by, and we will see whether our people emerge from the darkness.”
–
Fergus and Mergyle ran through the gate, slashing at northern soldiers as their own men poured through. The yard was crowded with soldiers as the enemy stormed the battlements and tried to get through the doors to the Temple and the rest of the Keep. Mergyle drove his blade through the surcoat of one soldier, slashed at another, and caught an arrow as it raced toward him. An Ergar soldier, shouting as he ran, ran toward him, his ax held high.
Mergyle let the soldier charge at him, and just as he was about to strike, Mergyle lunged and cut off his arms.
The man didn’t even yell.
Mergyle turned and saw the soldiers rushing through the doors and running to the Temple. He ran after them, cutting down enemy soldiers when they tried to attack him as soldiers battled around him. He reached the snapped and splintered oak doors and slashed at one Ergar soldier.
The Demetian warriors spotted their king and ran to him as Mergyle slashed and cut his way through.
There was only one line of soldiers running past, so Mergyle did not find himself terribly outnumbered. And then his men arrived, and they cut down the enemy with almost no fight.
Mergyle ran straight for the Temple doors, cutting down an enemy soldier only when one tried to slay him.
That’s when he saw the Guardians.
Soldiers shouted around him, and the stone hall echoed the clangor of steel as the torches cast a shadow of the battle upon the bricks, and Mergyle’s heart turned heavy.
He could see the fallen Guardians before the bonfire, and none of the warlocks were there.
–
Thirty years before the Huns attack
In the Wizard’s Plane
Stars shone amidst the night sky. As white points of light, they kept the worst of the darkness at bay. Enya looked at them, watching as the trees rustled and the great fires at the top of the watchtowers guttered. She looked towards the oak grove. The streets between the trees and the Green Keep had once been the site of fire, pain, and battle. She remembered the houses that had burned, the stone buildings that had collapsed from the fires, the clash of steel and the shouting. She remembered the day Land’s End fell, the time madness stepped out of the shadows, the time all human character failed.
“My lady,” Toryen said. “You seem disturbed.”
Enya looked at him. “It’s nothing. I just still remember that day.”
“We all do,” Toryen said. “But we can find a way to make things right.”
“I know. Any premonitions?”
“Not as of yet,” Toryen said. “For that, I’m grateful.”
“Good,” Enya said. “How are the others?”
“Solemn as always.” His yellow eyes scanned the horizon, as if looking for some threat.
“I can still remember the smoke,” he said. “You could see it from ten miles away.”
“Best not dwell,” Enya said, but she knew it was easier to say than to actually move on. That day had been the worst of Britannian history. And not because a city had been burned, but because the lives who were lost that day, were lost at the hands of those whom they believed to be friends. All the world had believed Ergar to be the one who would end the centuries of civil war amongst the peoples of the Isle. And for ten years, he was the friend and king Britons had been looking for. But what the warlocks could not see was that there was darkness hidden amidst the light of the Chosen King, darkness that had not been tampered or dealt with. Darkness alone did not drive Ergar mad. It was his lacking will that let the darkness consume him, poison his mind, and poison his world. The idea that he was a chosen one made him arro
gant, made him paranoid, afraid that another might wish to overthrow him. Mergus tried to convince him of the truth, but Ergar would not see it. He called Mergus a traitor and accused him of plotting to steal the throne. And then he sent Lord Fergus to attack Demetia, but neither he nor his soldiers were willing to carry out the orders of a mad king, and to attack brothers. So, Ergar cast him out as well, and raised a mercenary army of a hundred thousand to quell all those who opposed him.
There were warlocks everywhere at the time, and the world knew that warlocks all derived their power from Demetia. Ergar feared they worked for Mergus, and so he executed them. And just a year after the war had begun, the Isle had changed forever. Most of the warlocks were gone. All those who remained were at Land’s End and Demetia. Entire cities had been torched. Entire fields had been turned to muddy wastelands, and Ergar’s madness grew beyond hope. A dark shadow fell upon the lands he controlled. Fearful of opposition, the cities that had survived the fire were controlled by mercenaries. The blade replaced the law, and a criminal was a criminal if judged so by Ergar. People managed to escape, crossing the border to Demetia, Land’s End, and the last of the free realms. As the war continued, Mergus and his armies fought to keep the northern storm back. But no matter the battles when they defeated Ergar, Mergus knew the light was fading. Darkness truly displaced all the light when the last of their allies defected to Ergar’s side, and all who remained were the northern soldiers commanded by Fergus, and Demetia. Three years after the war began, Ergar’s armies reached the capital of Land’s End. Demetia had already fallen, and its survivors staged a last stand at the fishing town. The warlocks and witches perished that day, and all light had gone out. But Mergus’ heir, Mergyle, was able to send the northern armies retreating, though at great cost. When word of this turn of events reached their former allies, they rejoined their banners, and marched to Pittentrail, freeing cities as they went.
Months later, they arrived at the capital of Caledonia. Ergar, not able to comprehend what had happened, fled. No one ever saw him again. Excalibur, the great sword of kings that Ergar had wielded, could only be wielded by he who was worthy, and had now been left behind. Warlocks could carry it too, though they could not wield it. If they tried to cut someone down, the blade would stop before it reached their target.
Mergyle melted the blade and forged sixteen new ones from it. None of them contained the magic of the one blade, so others could wield them. The blades were given to the sixteen kings of the Isle, for them to safeguard and wait for a time when another, wiser and truer than Ergar, appeared.
No one had, and the three-thousand-year-old prophecy faded away to legend.
But the warlocks remembered. Enya removed herself from her thoughts and returned her focus to the present world. She remembered the fields were no longer afire, that the city was peaceful, and that things were better than they had ever been. But something still wasn’t right. Not all the light had returned, and the warlocks and witches of the Isle were still waiting to return to the land of the living.
Enya turned to see two warlocks walking just outside the main gate, their forms glowing.
She heard the sound of the waves just then, and then she was not standing before the merlons of the keep’s bailey, but standing upon the shores of Demetia, looking at the Narrow Sea.
She looked around.
A cold air, frigid and dreary, raced across the beach.
Birds flew out of the trees, squawking and cawing, and that’s when she saw it.
A fleet of warships, their sails black with a golden crest. Ranks of galleys and cogs and triremes charged for the shore. Fur-clad men bristled upon the decks, their warhammers and blades reflecting the rings of torches that crackled along the rails.
And then the first galleys were landing, and Enya was watching with fear and dread as the dark warriors, growling and foul, jumped from the ships and ran towards the trees.
One of them was running towards her, and Enya saw that his face was Toryen’s, and he was shouting.
Enya awoke to find herself weak and cold.
Toryen was standing beside her, shouting, and the other witches and warlocks were there as well.
“What happened?” Toryen said. “Your eyes turned black.”
Enya looked at him. “Darkness,” she said.
“What are you talking about?” Another one of the warlocks asked as a Green Keep guard walked through another warlock, not aware at all that ancient spirits stood by him. “I saw a fleet of hundreds of ships. There were thousands of soldiers, all flying the banner of the Huns.”
“The Huns?”
“But Emperor Constantine is fighting them now,” Toryen said. “They are weak. They could not possibly be planning to attack the Isle.”
“This isn’t now,” Enya told them. “This is decades from now, when the Huns will be commanded by the foulest person who has ever walked.”
Toryen thought for a moment.
“What do you suggest we do?” Toryen asked. “We cannot change the course of events. We can only direct time.”
“So that’s what we do. For three thousand years, the Isle has not seen more than a few wizards. De Grance’s daughter will be born tonight, but Leo fears that neither she nor his wife will see the dawn. I can hear him. He is praying now. Someone must answer.”
Toryen looked at her.
“I will,” a younger witch said. Enya turned to see her. Her yellow eyes glowed as she looked at her. Her face was kind and her energy, good.
“You know what you will be giving up, Katyana” Enya said. “Once all good returns, all of us will return to the world as we are, and you may know nothing of your true self.”
“Why does this have to happen?” Toryen asked. “Why does Lord De Grance’s daughter mean anything?”
“The wizard who returns to the world of the living by her is destined to change the course of the future. What I saw, Toryen, will happen. And a second darkness from which we cannot escape will shroud the Isle if we do not act. De Grance is praying for his daughter to live. It is the only chance we have.”
“I can do it,” the young witch repeated. “I had no family of my own three thousand years ago. I shall have one now. You are my family as well, but I sense we will all perish if this does not happen.”
Enya looked at her. She knew what Katyana was sacrificing, what she was giving up.
“No,” she said. “I’ll go.”
“Enya, you cannot do this,” Toryen argued.
“I’m sorry, Toryen. But this has to be done.” She looked back at Katyana.
“I will not let you give up your life. Twenty years from now, when the fight is here, you will fight from this world, and when the light prevails, you will return to the land of the living.”
Katyana looked at her. “I have decided,” she said. “I will go. I will not die. And maybe one day, I will remember all of this. Now, I must go.”
“Katyana,” Toryen was saying, but she disappeared.
“She cannot be stopped now,” Enya said. “We can only hope that her sacrifice will not be for nothing.”
Katyana found herself racing through the night.
Guards walked the streets as chatter drifted out of the taverns and water crashed upon the rocks at the harbor.
But Katyana did not pay that any mind. She was racing for the top of the Green Keep.
Flying past guards and mortared stone, she reached the chamber just moments later.
She could hear the midwife’s voice, but not Genie’s nor a baby’s.
By the rail of the balcony, she walked around to find De Grance looking up at the night.
His hands were clasped, and tears were rolling from his eyes.
“Just save my family,” he said. “Just save them.”
She walked to the doors and looked at the baby. She was swaddled up and silent. The midwife trie
d to warm her by the fire, but she wouldn’t wake. Leo turned and walked past her, straight to his daughter. “There’s no heartbeat,” the midwife said.
Katyana knew there was no time to reconsider or think. If she did not give life to that baby, she knew dark things were going to happen.
She closed her eyes and chanted a spell.
She felt her memories fade away. She forgot what Enya and the other warlocks taught her. She forgot all she had ever known, and then she remembered nothing. Not even how to speak.
1
Hunted
In the time of Arthur
In the Enchanted Forest
Horses neighed and reared, kicking up dirt with their hooves as they thundered away from the city.
The Huns shrieked behind them as Demetia and the enchanted forest blazed and burned, sending columns of smoke billowing up. Red embers swirled amidst the trees as the ancient barks collapsed.
The barbarians loosed arrows and hurled spears at the Demetians, killing those at the end of the retreating force.
Merlin raced ahead beside his father, Arthur’s body slumped before him as fireballs crashed around them, lighting up the fields.
The sounds of battle could still be heard as Magi Ro Hul fought the Hun force at the western sectors of the city, distracting them from the retreat. The fierce fighting could be heard and seen from where Megolin was leading the retreat.
Men shouted and fell amidst the melee and the fire.
But Merlin almost couldn’t hear it.
He was staring at Arthur, the rest of the world a blurry, chaotic, senseless haze.
This was not supposed to happen. Arthur was the chosen one, predicted by the ancient warlocks to be the one who would unite the lands and bring peace to the Isle. And yet he was dead.
A fireball crashed beside them, scattering burning tar on the ground. The autumn greenery caught the flames and began to burn.
Merlin knew he had to revive Arthur. But he could not do it now, not here. But Arthur’s soul would be lost forever beyond hope of returning to this world if it was not kept here.
Merlin closed his eyes and chanted an ancient chant. Slurring syllables and words of an ancient language made it past the din of battle.
