by Jason Jones
“Enough!” Kalzarius boomed his voice, mixed with arcane force that tore shadows from walls and set the candles ablaze in his tower. He tapped his staff to the floor and walked slowly to the brazier, still glowing bright magenta against the wall.
“There will be no bloodshed in my tower, regardless of nobility, kingdom, or titles. Understood?”
The four men glared, dark brown stares slowly watched one another, Harlian to Caberran, blades drawn out and ready. No one wished to cross Kalzarius, yet none would lower their guard.
“Here, look here Prince Willian, son of King Marcellian. I beg of you.” Kalzarius focused hard, he was tired, and the distance far indeed. He could not see past into the dark that surrounded the far west, yet he had found the refugees of Saint Erinsburg.
“Your sister lives.”
Prince Willian backed up cautiously, and turned a hesitant gaze into the brazier. In the calm purple liquid light, he saw a man he recognized from his youth. He saw Cristoff Bradswellen the Third of Saint Erinsburg. He was kneeling next to a bed, at night, surrounded in white draperies. A woman in black, a priest of Alden, and a dwarf knelt with him. They looked to be praying. On the bed, fast asleep with a swollen belly, was his sister Rosana. Her hair was shorter than last he saw her, yet it was her. His eye teared a bit, his hand went to touch yet recoiled, he knew it was but magical sight.
He sheathed his blade. As he turned, Rodreigo, Balric, and Richmond were looking over his shoulder. They sheathed their blades in silence as well. No one spoke. Just stared.
“Is this real, old wizard?” Willian sniffled. “Or a trick?”
“I would never.” Kalzarius replied.
“The child, is it yours?” Without looking over his shoulder, Prince Willian asked Richmond of what he saw.
“No. The queen and I, Rosana and I, never consummated our marriage.” Richmond choked the words out, his eyes tearing up, happy and torn with sorrow upon seeing her alive and well.
“Whose is it then?” The Caberran prince spoke stern now, angry almost.
“Her secret husband, from before we met. The late Lord Knight Errant Savanno Lisario, of the Order of Saint Tarumin. Him, I did kill.” Richmond hung his head and let the tears fall.
“So be it. Where is she, Kalzarius?”
“Far to the west, beyond Shanador, past the city of Freemoore, nearly two months from here.”
“She is with Cristoff, a fine lord, he will keep her safe until we retrieve her. Obviously his evacuation of Saint Erinsburg and journey into exile has saved many, from a most wicked king.” Willian turned to Richmond as the arcane scene faded from the liquid.
“I am not king, not anymore.” Richmond wiped his face and pulled his chin up, trying to hold together.
“And the wicked part?” Balric asked sincerely.
“I would see it undone one hundred fold, if I had the chance.” Richmond met the eyes of the spy that was ordered to undo his rule, the one who had defended him just now, and the fierce stare of Balric D’Vrelle did not waver.
“Merely to regain your throne?” Rodreigo replied with a questioning stare.
“No, for justice and to right my wrongs. I want no crown.” Richmond trembled, these men had honor, something he knew little of.
“Then, if you are speaking of atonement, words are but something for a priest to hear. Actions are what makes a man forgiven.” Prince Willian turned to Richmond, somewhat calmed that his sister was alive, somewhere safe, and this man here had not killed her as he had been led to believe.
“Then I shall do what it takes.” Richmond nodded to Willian.
“I will believe it when I see it. For you, Richmond the Second, this may take a very long time indeed. So, it seems I will be staying in Harlaheim indefinitely, to see you redeemed.”
“With your permission my prince, I had planned on assisting our Harlian allies as well.” Rodreigo received the nod from his prince.
“Why would two Caberrans want to help a dethroned prince of Harlaheim?” Richmond looked to them both, not sure of their intentions.
“Because we have common enemies, you and I, and our kingdoms are about to be at war with one another. Johnas Valhera holds Harlaheim with Phillip, Willborne with this Valistor Waylen, and his battle for Chazzrynn goes on as we speak. Once it is over, he has mentioned turning his forces toward Caberra. This I cannot allow, so, uncommon allies are made.” Willian spoke solemnly, with a slight bit of fear in his voice at the mention of war.
“And he holds power in the Church somewhere besides the late Cardinal Desmonde. He has eliminated the Broken Wing.” Balric added.
“The new Cardinal is arriving soon, to be greeted by Phillip the First, new king of Harlaheim. I have an invitation to attend the ceremony, but had not planned on attending. Now however, perhaps I should.” Kalzarius interjected with a smile.
“And what will we be doing while you keep them occupied?” Balric shot a questioning glance.
The old master of the arcane walked toward the chests, past the table with the ancient books, and lifted the lids. “As I was saying earlier, before young nobles found their egos more important than the words of an old sage, in these chests lies the answer.”
“I know that symbol, all too well, yet Altestan saw them all destroyed many centuries ago, they will not be remembered. How did you find this?” Lord Rodreigo spoke as they all stared.
“I have many old and powerful friends, and we leave it at that.” Kalzarius motioned for them to take out the contents and smiled.
“The Red Wolves of Agara fought secretly against agents of Altestan, their armies, and in the dark against those allied with the northern empires in their last occupation of this continent, four hundred years ago. They fought hard, they dealt deadly blows, and no one knew who they were. Packs of brothers they were, all from different kingdoms and orders, rulers and peasants, all with purpose and steel. Their identities concealed with red masks and crimson paints of enchanted natures, their wolf lined ruby cloaks were a symbol of freedom and hope, under God. Their banners would raise and inspire revolution in the people, and strike fear into Altestani soldiers. And, their blades of divine and arcane design, cut down both invader and traitor alike in the dark nights and cities of ages past.”
Balric held up a rapier, its golden hilt glistened red, its steel was engraved with old etchings, it was nearly weightless and surely flawless in craft. Richmond lifted a cloak, thick as wool yet soft as silk, the wolf pelt lining seemed to move but did not. Rodreigo picked up a mask, it had a snarling snout and fangs, a hard thing it was, made of steel and covered with some sort of red plaster. Willian reached for a curved shamshir, a curved dagger, even steel bracers with the same plaster or paint of crimson upon them. Then, he lifted a flag and let it unfurrel. It was crimson, old and smelled of mildew, yet the deep red and black symbol of a snarling open mouthed wolf head was plain to see.
Armors, longblades, shortblades, knives, and more all littered the chests, all marked and enchanted the same.
“There are enough weapons and arms here for about twenty men, we are but four.” Rodreigo dell Amarr handed Balric a sabre, and it was refused. He raised an eyebrow toward the Harlian swordsman.
“Then four is where it starts, as you said to me. The White Spider will have a predator on the field of night.” Balric smiled, he felt something, he looked to Richmond.
“Your skills with a blade will have to be honed, your majesty.”
“Agreed. I took a few months lessons from the greatest swordsman in Harlaheim, but I retained little in truth. Now, he is dead.” Richmond stared as the crimson wares and wolf head symbols began to decorate the floor of the tower.
“I cannot do what you men do, I..I am not worthy of this.”
“You will have to be.” Balric said without room for question.
“You must speak of Sulian Lisario, master of the rapier. He is legendary in Caberra as well. You were fortunate to have learned anything from such a talented man, many would hav
e killed for the opportunity.” Prince Willian handed some bracers and a shirt of weightless steel ringed armor to Rodreigo.
“You want to learn the rapier, Richmond?” Balric D’Vrelle unbuckled his belt, took of the scabbard holding his sabre, and set it down.
“Well yes, it is the official blade of my kingd…of Harlaheim. But you use the sabre and are most magnificent with it---“
“To blend in with Chazzrynn, to bely my heritage, not by choice. Why was Sulian Lisario the deadliest blade in Harlaheim?” Balric swished the rapier of the Red Wolves through the air, three times, faster than light.
“He trained with the Crossguard Legion, he practiced with them in Shanador and…had over twenty duels he won in three kingdoms…” Richmond looked at the smile of Balric, then to the blade in his hand, and then back up.
“He trained under me for three years, every single day, in the Broken Wing. My orders were sent, as were his, and we parted ways. He was my best student. When I met him, he knew as much about the sword as you do.”
“Will you teach me, Balric?” Richmond raised his blade, it was subsequently knocked away with a quick disarm, too fast for the untrained eye.
“It would seem, if we are to survive and revolt, that I have little choice. The agents of the White Spider are trained by Domenarchs, who are trained by the Emerald Eight, who are all trained by Johnas Valhera. And Johnas is the only man I failed to kill when blades were crossed, it was a draw.” Balric paced, timed his steps, reliving that duel in his mind.
“A battle that will have to wait, for now.” Kalzarius piped in.
“You have our attention, our honor, and our allegiance to cause, great Kalzarius. What is your plan?” Balric, with a Caberran prince, a former king, and a foreign swordsman lord, all waited and listened.
“To raise the Red Wolves once again, and see justice done in Harlaheim, then you spread further and gain numbers where you can. Now listen carefully, this is what I have thought up, rather quickly mind you…”
Princes IV:III
Valhirst
Chazzrynn
Mikhail withdrew his broadsword, covered in blue and purple blood, then slashed Johnas Valhera across the chest and sent him over the walls of the castle. He watched as the doppelganger reverted to the broken and bloody creature of pale white that it was, then hit the bridge below with a sickening smash of flesh. That was the third Johnas he had killed this battle, the third set of black eyes that stared back at him with inhuman wickedness, and now he was covered with the blood of shapeshifters alone on the castle walls.
“Retreat, fall back to the west!”
The king of Chazzrynn heard his own voice, nearly perfect, but it was not him giving the orders. He looked across the smoke filled courtyard, full of thousands in bloody battle, and saw himself shouting commands to the forces.
“Stand your ground men! That is an imposter! Kill it!” Mikhail yelled and pointed his sword to the doppelganger on the north wall. He walked down the steps, many men falling in around him. He saw the shapeshifter lose its head, courtesy of a Knight of Southwind Keep.
“No, that is the imposter, archers, fire!” Another shapeshifter appeared on the west wall, looking like the king, and arrows flew like rain toward the true Mikhail Salganat.
He raised his shield, as did the men around him, as hundreds of flights from bows and crossbows riddled the stairs. Six men fell dead to his sides, three more with injury, yet the king kept his march into the courtyard. His shield had at least five arrows lodged into it, yet he did not flinch. His orders had to be heard and executed for victory, so he looked for his captains and knights in the brutal foray.
Lord Corey of Thurick was dead at the gates, his body full of flights. Lord Dimitri of Addisonia was not to be found, nor his men, yet he thought he saw the banners withdraw with the false order to retreat. Lord Burraine of Silverbridge was in the thick, alongside Sir Jallan of Hurne, surrounded by the forces of the traitorous Lord Unarvin of Saint Gavrielle. Mikhail saw General Fandruss of Loucas and Marcus Mederris to the eastern walls, battling black masked soldiers and the Valhirst legions, outnumbered three to one.
Smoke rose heavy to the south, night was upon them, yet the king could make out the horror there with the flashes of arcane lights that Aelaine Lazlette was unleashing. She had withdrawn back outside the walls, surrounded by her men, and she was decimating a massing force that moved too fast to see. Black shadows, massive cats by the hundreds, leapt and pounced, tearing apart what remained of the Vallakazz army led by Kendrynn Shilde. It was too much to keep the south gate, and they had no choice but to battle the cats in the open fields and retreat.
“The field is lost, we return to fight another day, long live Chazzrynn!”
Another order came, from the east wall now, this time the doppelganger had the Chazzrynn banner waving, the order sounded real. It was not Mikhail, but it might as well have been. The timing of the false orders caused confusion in the ranks, in the men already outnumbered on a bloody field of battle. In that confusion, there was a momentary lapse of confidence and action, and the soldiers of Valhirst were merciless.
Black masks and armored men cut into the forces of King Mikhail in the chaos, arrows rained, panthers ripped and shredded man from horse. Many of his men fled the gates on false orders from imposter kings. The creature with the banner screamed and hissed as Lord Alexi T’Vellon plunged his sword through it, over and over, then kicked it off the catwalk. His Knights of Southwind kept moving above, trying to silence the shapeshifting imposters.
Clank,Clank, Clank
Slam, Slam,Slam
Then the portcullis gates on three sides slammed shut. Already outnumbered three to one, the odds just worsened as nearly half the soldiers were now outside the walls, unable to assist unless they went round the south side of the city. At that south end, the panthers circled, half a legion of Valhirst waited, and the archers gathered on the catwalks. Mikhail was now trapped inside with his fearless captains of Chazzrynn. He looked across to the southern wreakage of the blasted and burned gate, and saw Johnas Valhera. No black eyes, no false orders, and his grin was genuine as he gave his men and beasts and creatures the order to form up around him. Mikhail knew it was truly Johnas this time.
“Men under Mikhail Salganat, stand down now, and you may be given quarter and mercy!”
Johnas yelled out over the courtyard. He had his doppelgangers, his agents, the panthers, and well over two thousand men in all. He estimated Mikhail had less than a legion left, scattered inside his castle walls, trapped like animals in a cage. The blades still echoed, the battle raged on all around him, yet he knew victory when he saw it.
Mikhail finally saw his enemy, his own nephew, and for one moment he thought of retreat. He thought of his numbers, his position, and his men. In that moment, he thought of Bryant and his future kingdom. The king blinked and raised his broadsword to the dark sky, then lowered it and pointed it at Johnas across the castle.
“Men of Chazzrynn, charge!”
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Aelaine did not listen to the voices yelling retreats nor charging commands. She rolled over and stood as the black panther tore the throat out of her horse and hissed. Two more of her personal guard fell as black cats descended from broken walls and rubble. When the rolling was done, the panthers roared with faces covered in blood. Her wand drew out in a flash, her staff broken back with her horse, and she summoned an intense fire of white heat at the tip.
“Succora sancul vishra vuuhn!”
The flame became a large ball of swirling heat, then it elongated, and soon her wand whipped a cone of pure fire around her in a dancing circle. Aelaine backed up slowly, panthers leaping at her and turning to shrieking ash as they passed her defenses. Her hand raised into a fist, then lowered quick. The flames hit the ground and an incendiary wall ten feet high surrounded her and the four men still near their ruling lady.
Aelaine’s senses were focused, she saw through her
wall of fire, and began unleashing furious bolts of electricity into the approaching prowling cats. There were so many, and her men were now so few.
“Canciur dorres nicshuul!” Her finger erupted in purple lightning that smoked a hole through a black cat, then arced at her command to the head of another, then a third through the mouth, and a fourth died trying to leap her flaming wall.
Her men lay in disarray, covered in arrows, ripped by claws and fangs. Aelaine summoned light over the field and the south gates, conjured a barrier of arcane force to prevent further flights from hitting true, and then levitated up out of reach of the black beasts. Her flames dwindled and they were finding ways around and over. Just as she went to unleash another barrage, she did a second glance. There on the field was Kendrynn Shilde, her four men, and three others. The rest of her forces were dead. Her black robes fluttered above the ground, she stifled a cry, never had she seen such brutal war and carnage.
Tink, tink, chink, thewwwmm, thewmm, click, click, tink…
The lady of Vallakazz felt not the arrows shattering against her magical field of energy held upon her skin. In anger and perhaps sorrowful rage, she pointed her fingers toward the massing soldiers and panthers that followed Lord Dimitri through the bloody field. She could do so little with the men mixed in with the enemy so close. One after another, she targeted her bolts of flame, her wisps of acidic mist, and her crackles of lightning into the killers of Valhirst, yet they kept coming. Aelaine heard orders again, archers this time, so she unleashed a ball of flame toward the south wall.
A tear fell to her cheek, she saw the flights almost at her, hundreds now hand been loosed as she was in view. Her hands went up, the barrier strengthened, but not before three arrows pierced her robes. One in her right shoulder, one in her left thigh, and one through her raised left palm. The rest shattered into pieces as her arcane wall focused, yet Aelaine Lazlette fell to the ground, surrounded by her fading fires. The south wall resounded with her late arriving blast of flame, she heard the screams, then she was on her back.
