by James Fuller
Today, the enemy attacked in force. It had been a long and bloody morning, but Antiel and his fifty archers had held them at bay for longer than they could have ever expected to. The vial of Venenum quickly revived his strength, to a magnitude he could not have fathomed. He had been able to attack the enemy nearly endlessly all morning and had even healed several of his men from grievous wounds that would have otherwise been their end. But now, his strength dwindled down once more; the archers had nearly depleted the last quivers of arrows and to continue to fight would be foolish and fatal.
Antiel cracked the wax stopper and stared down at the small vial, deeply conflicted. Every fiber in his body screamed at him not to, yet he knew he had to. He shook the thought from his mind and drank the potent, bitter yellow liquid in a single swallow before giving the order. They fell back from the battlements, made their way to the main hall and waited nervously.
They did not have to wait long before the enemy began swarming over the empty walls, locusts invading a farmer’s crop. The enemy’s confusion was evident as they realized that no adversaries opposed them. A deadly arrow shaft through the chest of a warrior alerted them to the men standing ground at the castle doorway and a roar went up.
“Only two shots and then we retreat back, down to the underwater pathway!” Antiel shouted as the hordes of hundreds charged down the stone steps of the battlements and into the courtyard towards them. He had to swallow back his nerves at the terrifying sight.
The drug was already flowing within him, adrenaline quickening the effects. His mind sharpened, like an expertly honed blade and the weariness that had worked its way into his bones seemed to vanish almost instantly. He could scarcely believe that mere moments before he had doubted his abilities to see this through and wished he had held the wall a little longer.
A wall of wizard’s fire sprang from the debris-covered cobblestones, mere steps in front of the enemy. Those in front could not slow their charge and their fate was gruesomely sealed.
The archers released their first shafts through the wall of flames into the surprised enemy. Antiel held his hands out, his innate ability contorting the very air as it blew forward and pushed the wall of flames into the masses. Several spears skipped off the stone and suddenly Antiel was pulled back into the castle, the second wave of arrows cutting past him.
“Are you all right, Master Antiel?” A young archer gasped, his face ashen with worry.
“Yes of course I am - why do you ask?” Antiel’s gaze followed the archer’s eyes down to his side where a deep gash dripped blood at his side. He had not even realized he had been struck. “I will be fine…now let us make these bastards pay for every step they take in our home!” The wound was already beginning to seal itself.
The small group of Dragon’s Cove’s defenders made their way through several rooms, to a long corridor, moving slow enough to stay within the enemy’s sight. They reached the end of the long, slick hallway, stopped and turned to face the coming foes.
Master Antiel signaled for his archers to notch arrows, making sure the barbarians saw the move, allowing them time to raise their shields as they inched closer. Antiel smiled - the enemy was so fixated on them, they did not seem to notice what their feet were slipping in nor the crude smell in the air.
“Lower your bows!” Antiel called back to his men, not taking his gaze from the surprised look and mutters from the enemy as he called fire to the oil-slicked floor.
The defenders stood, watching in triumph as the hallway was engulfed in vicious, hungry flames. The excruciating screams and wails of the enemy were short as the fierce flames stole the air from their very lungs, silencing them forever.
“Quickly, Master Antiel, we must keep moving! The enemy will have found other means of entry by now!” The words came from a young archer, pulling him down the hall.
Antiel eyes were glazed with exhilaration as he watched the flames blacken and consume the bodies within the hallway. He had never been one for enjoying war and using his powers for this kind of destruction, yet he could not deny the thrill of seeing the invaders burn to death for entering his home.
The defenders continued their way through the castle, avoiding several deadly traps to the underground river pathway where they would make their stand. The echoing screams of the dying informed them several more of their traps had caught their enemy by surprise.
“I want you twelve to position yourselves by the bottom of the stairs; six kneel, six stand,” Antiel ordered. “Only hold them as long as you can - do not foolishly waste your lives!” The archers saluted and took position nervously. “The rest of you, down to the walkway and wait for me there.”
Antiel stood off to the side of the expanded cavern entrance, the sound of hundreds of heavy-placed boots and angry shouts could be heard above them. He knew they would not have to wait much longer. He watched his archers as they stood ready at the bottom of the damp granite steps, arrows notched and fingers anxiously shifting on waxed bowstrings. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could feel his Gift flowing eagerly within him, the sight of the archers pulling bows taut only fuelling it further.
Antiel’s enthusiasm was quickly cut short as the small hairs on his neck stood on end at the sound of hoarse chanting, echoing down the stairwell. He was about to order a retreat but it was already too late. A pungent gust of air rounded the stairs and with it a green dusty vapor enshrouded the doomed archers. Within moments, their screams were muted as the acidic mist liquefied their lungs and blistered their flesh. Antiel could do nothing except retreat back through the cavern, running in terror.
Lord Marcus sat astride a strong, well-tempered, tanned mare as ten of his finest soldiers flanked him. All were equipped with horses, full armor, lances, swords and all refused to leave his side. Out of Marcus’s two hundred soldiers that had stayed behind with him, thirty four had fallen the day before and forty were now mounted.
It had been two days since Dragon’s Cove had been abandoned and Marcus and his two hundred had done well to give the enemy pause. On the first day, they had made several calculated strikes within the outer camps of the enemy, making it seem their numbers were larger than they were. It worked as they had hoped and their foes abandoned their attack on the castle, afraid that another army was marching in behind them. The second day hadn’t gone as well.
Now he knew his castle was lost. He watched from atop a hillock as the enemy swarmed over the walls. He just prayed Antiel and his archers would stick to the plan and make it out alive.
Marcus pulled his eyes away from his beloved home and regarded the mounted soldier that galloped up to meet him. The man was covered in blood, but by the way he sat in his saddle, Marcus knew most of it would not be his.
The tall, fierce, blue-eyed solider pulled his horse to a stop at the crest of the hill and saluted. “My Lord, we have had great success in our raid upon their supplies.” Even as the man spoke, Marcus could see the men he had sent coming into view from the road - heavy filled wagons in tow and far more of them mounted than before. A weight lifted from his mind.
“Give me the report, Fredrick.”
“Four wagons of food supplies and two of armor and weapons my Lord. Twenty two horses were captured… and one prisoner.”
“How many did we lose?” Marcus asked, fearing the worst.
“Three of the forty, my Lord…and three others were injured but should recover fully with the aid of Master Antiel, when he arrives.” Fredrick explained.
“You have done well, Fredrick. Ensure each man with you eats his fill and see all the horses properly tended to.”
“Yes, my Lord… and the fate of the prisoner?”
Marcus had almost forgotten and his eyes darkened. “Have him bound in the middle of camp. I will deal with him shortly.” Fredrick saluted and rode off, back to his men.
Marcus felt his hand cramp and he gazed down to the reins. He had not noticed that he had clenched it in his stirring anger and now his gaunt knuckles were as
hen. He eased his grasp and felt the prickling of new blood working its way back into his fingers. He had lost much of his weight and strength in the months that he had been bedridden with the Fever and he knew it would be months before he recovered even half of his former vigor. But what his body now lacked, his mind would make up for.
Marcus turned his mare and began down the slope to the gathering soldiers who greeted their returned brethren with cheers and praise. Two things played in his mind; he knew his men and he knew war….his jaw firmed.
The barbarian prisoner was forced down to his knees, a ring of soldiers surrounding him. Still, his height was impressive and his head came near to Marcus’ shoulders - even on his knees. Marcus stared into the man’s eyes, and could see the fear hidden behind the pride as he held his head high. The prisoner knew he was a dead man and Marcus felt a twinge of respect for his ability to contain himself under such circumstances.
“I want you all to look at this bastard!” He yelled out to the circle of soldiers, his eyes firmly pressed on the enemy before him. “You see the fear in those eyes?” His men jeered. “Do you know why that fear is there?” They heckled louder. “I will tell you why…because he knows what kind of men we are! We are the ghosts of these lands, beasts with but one purpose!” Marcus roared, drawing his dagger from his sheath. “To slaughter every filthy heathen who has defiled our home!” He ran his blade across the barbarian’s throat and kicked him onto his back, “and we take no fucking prisoners!” His men roared with enthusiasm as he languidly cleaned and then sheathed his dagger, before returning to his tent.
“That was quite the display,” Captain Larik commented, ducking his head under the tent flap.
“One that was needed, to keep our morale high and our motives clear,” Marcus replied. “I need you to seat every mount we have with fresh men. The enemy has taken the castle. Their camps outside the walls will be weak. I want to strike them hard before they make themselves too comfortable in our home.”
Chapter 12
The sound of raindrops dripping from the jungle’s canopy, down the maze of leafy obstacles to the sodden earth, was barely audible over the frigid shivering of the two hunted wizards. It had rained nearly day and night for half a fortnight. Everything around them was soaking and cold - the ground was thoroughly saturated and dangerously muddy. They had not been able to find dry shelter for the past two days, making sleep practically impossible.
When the rains had finally stopped, he had quickly taken the opportunity to start a fire, regardless of the instinctive nagging reminder that they were being hunted.
Astaroth sat utterly miserable around the small Gift-influenced flames, absorbing as much of the warmth into his bitterly cold and saturated body as he could. Each fat droplet of water that struck him grated his nerves further - a constant reminder of where he was and not where he should be. He had planned so meticulously, yet unforeseen events had hindered his every step and now, he was no closer to his goal than he had been when he and Vashina had first started.
Since they had narrowly escaped the castle, they had been discovered twice; both times had ended badly for those who had tried to take them. Astaroth was sure they had covered their trail well enough, so that anyone following would be at least a day behind. They had used animal trails to travel by within the dense growth and seldom ventured onto roads. As arrogant as Astaroth was, he knew better than to risk detection by foolishly spending too much time out in the open. No, they would trudge through the jungle until they crossed over the Sheeva River. Once across, traveling the open roads would work in their favor as the lands were swarming with savages and they could lead them to Vashina and Kinor.
He nearly smiled at the thought, before he considered the reality and turned dour. He still needed a way to get the enchanted ring from the cunning shaman. No easy task he knew, but he needed that ring if he had any hope of reclaiming what was rightfully his. He had tried a deceptive and shrewd plot to manipulate circumstances in his favor and it had failed. Now it was time for him to just take what was duly his and be done with it. He knew what he was about to attempt would turn Kinor against him, but that would matter little once he was within Salvas once more.
“I was beginning to think it would never stop raining,” Keithen said through chattering teeth as he edged closer to the crackling fire. The damp wood had finally dried enough to take flame without the aid of Astaroth. “I hate this time of year. What I would not give to be in my small, forgotten about stone room right about now.” He chuckled sorrowfully. “Never thought I would miss that.”
Astaroth had to suppress a snarl at his thoughts being disrupted. His mood was dour already and the reminder of his dimwitted companion only worsened it. Several times since their escape, he had come close to killing the halfwit, just to be rid of him but he had managed to contain himself. His lust for power would not let him waste Keithen’s Gift without…proper extraction. Plus, Keithen’s loyalty might still prove useful.
“So how do you plan on getting Kinor to give you what you seek now that your plan has failed?” Keithen asked tactlessly.
This time Astaroth did not suppress his temper and he backhanded the young wizard across the face, catching him off guard and sending him sprawling across the wet dirt. “Do not speak to me in such a way again. You forget your place!”
Keithen held his hand to his face, his eyes welling up with fear. “I... I am sorry, Master. I meant no disrespect.”
Astaroth glared down at him - maybe he would give Keithen over to Kinor as a gift, in exchange for what he sought. “Get up.” He was not truly angry with Keithen for what he said, but instead at himself for allowing such a failure to happen and being so simply reminded of it. He truly had no idea how he would get the ring from Kinor yet; had he known a way to do so he would have not agreed to go along with this whole plan. Kinor was crafty and far more powerful than Astaroth cared to admit, but he would find a way. He had to. “I do not know yet.”
“You are most powerful, Master… he cannot stop you from taking it,” Keithen replied proudly, wiping his muddy hands on his leggings. “I will do anything you need of me to help you get it from him!”
Astaroth nearly laughed aloud at Keithen’s bold yet foolish statement. “To face Kinor in a fair fight would be foolish and deadly - he is not one to be taken lightly.”
Keithen stepped closer to the flames, his eyes gleaming with iniquity. “Why would we fight fair, Master?”
Astaroth grinned, the young wizard’s eagerness to serve him buoying his spirits. He could not wait until he had more such faithful servants; be them by admiration or fear mattered not at all to him. “I will think of a way, Keithen, just be ready to act without question when I require it.”
The distinct hum of an arrow cut through the damp air and slammed into Astaroth’s shoulder, spinning him around to the earth. Within a breath, armed men poured out around them as silently as death - not soldiers, but the Zandorian’s most prized and skilled gifted hunters. The Sintu.
Keithen froze - his first instinct was to submit at the sight of the dangerously overwhelming odds but his moment of fear lifted as an arc of white power escaped Astaroth’s hand, lacerating through the bowels of a charging warrior. Without thought, Keithen’s innate ability came to life, a blade of ice fabricating within his hand as he turned to face the coming enemy. He grinned as his crystal blade punched through a boiled leather breastplate and the warrior pitched to the ground. Another such frozen shard left his hand, but instead of meeting flesh, it shattered upon a raised metal buckler. Keithen panicked and tried to summon his powers once more, but before he could act, his vision exploded in an array of bright light as the hilt of a sword smashed into his face, sending him sprawling to the damp ground.
Astaroth rolled to the side, barely avoiding the trident that punctured into the earth beside him. Wizard’s fire sprang up into the grizzled face of the man who thought to make an easy victim of him while he was on his back. The man screamed in agony as he
flailed away, trying to put out the flames that would rob him of life within moments. Astaroth began to feel lightheaded as a strange, creeping agony began to spread through his body. He did his best to ignore it and regained his feet, his rage seething through his every fiber at the real possibility of defeat. He tore the arrow shaft from his shoulder with a bitter curse. The battle cry of a charging Sintu was cut short by his rage as an arc of light took the enemy’s head from his shoulders.
With nothing more than a thought, a wall of earth propelled up behind him and the sound of a powerful axe blow being stopped was all he heard as his attention was pulled elsewhere. He did not have time to draw his own sword as one came for his midsection. Astaroth slapped the deadly blade out to the side with unrelenting force, a trick of his former teacher in Salvas. The Sintu warrior seemed unfazed and reversed his blade high. Astaroth crouched low; his palm pressed up against the enemy’s chest and released the surge of power, crushing the warrior’s chest. The body hurtled back a score of paces into two others breaking from the tree line.
Another arrow hissed from the trees and embedded into Astaroth’s thigh. A burning sensation flooded throughout his leg as it gave out and he fell to his knees. Before he could act, a metal shield smashed into his face and pitched him backwards. His eyes cleared just in time to see a spear thrusting down. He shifted to the side but the spear plunged clean through his collarbone, pinning him to the ground. He howled out in agony, which only drew a malicious grin from the man above him.
“All the powers of the Keeper could not save you from us!” The scar-faced man hissed, drawing his short sword. “Your head will make a pretty trophy for my wall.”
A warm spray caressed Astaroth’s face as a thin blade erupted from the Sintu’s chest, ending his life with a gurgle. The warrior fell away and all Astaroth caught sight of was a wisp of blonde hair as the figure darted away with outmatched speed and grace.
