by Brian Murray
“It’s them again,” stated Calac with fear evident in his voice, reducing his words to a mere whisper.
“Yes,” Waid said.
“There are thousands of them.”
Waid did not confirm what was all too obvious.
“I thought we saw the back of those creatures in Dashnar Forest,” muttered Calac.
“Well, they’re back.”
Calac moved forward on the rampart, staring wide-eyed at the mass before the outpost. “I’ve enjoyed my time here and thought . . . ” His voice trailed off.
“Thought what?” asked Waid softly, studying his friend.
“I thought I would be happy and grow old here with, maybe, some children.”
“There’s still time.”
Calac turned to face Waid and his expression changed to one of anger. “Look at them, Waid,” he hissed, gesturing a hand towards the beasts. “We had Zane, Dax, and the others, and out of twenty-five Lancers, only you, Batte, and I survived. And we never heard from the other men, either. What can we do against them now?”
Waid put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “We can only do our best, Calac.”
“Aye, do our best to die. I thought She would look down kindly on us, but it’s not meant to be.” Calac paused and turned away from Waid. Anger evaporated from his tone. “You’ve been a good friend and I hope I have served you well. When the time comes, I’ll be at your side. We will kill these beasts again.”
“You have been the best of men, Calac. I will be honoured to fight at your side.”
Calac smiled at Waid. He took one last look at the army of beasts beyond the wall, then wandered back down into the outpost. Waid stood on the wall staring at the beasts, deep in thought. He wished Zane and the others were here with him. No, he thought, better they’re not; then they’ll be able to avenge me.
Waid stepped down from the wall and crossed the courtyard to his office. Inside his office, he wrote a brief report on the dire situation at Ubert. For half an hour, Waid worked on the report and when it was completed, he called for one of his trackers.
Scott, the scout, knocked on the door and heard a muffled command. He entered the commander’s office and saluted.
“Sir, you called for me.”
Waid glanced up from his report and gazed at Scott. Scott had been one of the soldiers who fought alongside Dax when the Kharnacks nearly breached the Southern Wall. “I need you to get this report to Teldor as a matter of the utmost urgency.”
“Yes sir.”
“You will need to sneak out tonight and get past the force surrounding our outpost.”
“Yes sir.”
Waid handed the scout the valuable report, then dismissed him.
***
Waid sat in his office for a while deep in thought, then returned to the wall where his men waited. Shielding his eyes against the sunlight, he again looked out over the black sea of creatures. Squinting against the glare, he saw massive horses and riders appear at the rear of the beasts. The creatures parted so the horsemen could ride through them. They rode slowly forward, then around the outpost, looking up at the walls and the defenders. Waid could not help himself, he gasped when one of the horsemen passed his position.
The horseman paused in front of the commander. The rider removed his spiked black helm, revealing a bald scarred head. Slowly, the rider turned his head and glared up at Waid. Waid felt his soul chill. The warrior pointed at him and smiled a smile of raw maliciousness. The huge warrior nodded his head then replacing his helm, returned to his companions.
The horsemen circled the outpost, then each and every Caynian drew its weapon and raised it high. The warriors’ roar that followed was deafening. One hundred Talon Hunters moved between the horses, ready to attack the walls. After a brief pause, they charged.
Waid screamed out his orders. Volley after volley of arrows were released, thudding home, but the charge continued unabated. Waid then knew the fighting would be at close quarters. His men rallied to his call and drew their swords and axes. After an hour of fierce fighting, the Talon Hunters withdrew, bloodied, but the hatred remained in their glowing orange eyes. Ubert had won the first fight, but thousands upon thousands of creatures just watched. They waited.
***
Dax and the others travelled south, their spirits high after visiting the Silverswords camp. They moved carefully through the mountains on icy, snow-covered trails. Dax judged they would arrive at the outpost the next day if the weather remained clear. That day the sun floated high above them, on a backdrop of pale blue.
***
Throughout the day the creatures waited, with the horsemen standing at the front, their huge mounts pawing at the muddy ground. During the afternoon, thick grey clouds rolled in from the south. Slowly, the day drew on. The clouds thickened, becoming more menacing, darkening in tone; the sure sign of a coming storm.
Towards dusk the warriors dismounted from their horses, walked them to the rear of the army, then returned to the front. Waid ordered lanterns to be lit along the rampart where the defenders waited, their grim faces fixed. Twenty-two men died in the first fight. None had been wounded—the men were either alive or dead.
Waid looked at his men and wondered how many of them would survive the next attack. His thoughts were broken when he watched the sea of black part to make way for four warriors and a blackened carriage. Three of the warriors were dressed in gleaming silver armour and rode huge stallions. Behind the three came a huge warrior dressed in jet black armour, riding a massive horse of the same tone. Slowly, the four made their way forward to the frontline. They stopped at the base of the wall, just out of bow range. One of the silver-clad warriors urged his horse forward a few steps. He spoke.
“Men of Ubert, my name is Malice, and I serve the Dark One. Surrounding you is the Dark One’s army—the Dread. You mortals cannot defeat our army and I suggest you open the gates and face your fate like men. If you do not open the gates, each and every man who fights will die. Then your women and children will suffer our wrath and be tortured, before dying painful deaths. This is not a threat but a promise. Now open the gates!” bellowed the warrior.
“My name is Commander Waid,” replied Wade with as much courage as he could muster. “I thank you for your offer, but unfortunately I must decline. This is a Rhaurien outpost, part of the Kingdom, and you will have to face the wrath of our king if you attack. So leave your weapons, remove yourself from our fields, and I will let you live.”
“Well said, Commander Waid, but hear this: your king will be the next to fall to his knees at the Dark One’s feet.”
“Our king on his knees, I think not. Who is this Dark One you speak of?”
“He stands at the Prince of Darkness’s right hand and again walks this realm. He will conquer all who stand against him.”
“Dark One, what is this I hear? What nonsense!”
Malice nodded at Waid and paused when the warrior in jet black armour urged his horse forward. Halting his huge black stallion alongside Malice’s mount, the Dark One removed the Blade of Yallas from its sheath and pointed it at Waid.
The commander gazed at the broadsword and noticed the light around the black blade seemed to grow dimmer than its surroundings.
With his voice booming like distant, angry thunder, the Dark One spoke. “I am the Dark One, mortal. I am the Prince of Darkness’s servant and again I walk in your realm. I hold the Blade of Yallas, or as you mortals once called it, the Sword of Doom. I am he of whom you tell your children, to scare them of the dark. I am darkness, I am evil personified, and you will be the first to behold my power.”
Waid felt his very soul chill when the warrior spoke. He looked to his left, then right, and saw his men’s faces were ashen, gripped with fear.
“I am the Dark One!” roared the warrior.
Lightning tore across the sky.
“You will be the first to feel my wrath.”
Distant thunder growled angrily.
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Waid looked up and saw the beckoning night sky was filled with storm clouds. Within minutes, sheets of rain pounded the defenders and the Dread. Waid looked down at the warrior calling himself the Dark One and shivered.
“Dread, save that one for me. Now feast!”
The Dread howled with delight. Talon Hunters and Shadows surged forward towards the wall. Appearing like a massive dark flood, the Dread charged and crunched against the walls like waves breaking against rocks.
Lightning flashed.
The Dark One and the other three warriors remained motionless, waiting as the beasts launched a frenzied attack.
Thunder grumbled louder; the centre of the storm was close.
Waid turned to look into the outpost. On the north wall, he could just see the figure of Scott being lowered down, his black clothing blending with the night sky. Waid prayed the report would reach Teldor and alert Zane of the force his outpost faced.
***
Dax and his friends continued to travel south to the outpost of Ubert. Towards dusk, clouds started to billow above them and Tanas could smell the tell-tale scent of rain in the air. Luckily, the men found a cave just before the heavens opened. A torrent of rain poured down, with huge drops forming small craters in the soil. A campfire was lit where Gan-Goran made a hot stew from the provisions given to them by Maldino. After their meal, the men chatted idly over the rain that splattered noisily on the ground outside. Dax volunteered for first watch while the others slept around the fire, bathed in its warmth.
***
Two boys played happily outside their home, sparring with wooden swords. They were brave warriors defeating an invisible dragon that breathed fire, to save a beautiful princess. One of the boys had inherited his mother’s fair hair and bright blue eyes, the other resembled their father, with dark hair and brown eyes. Their mother had died giving birth to the twins and a nanny had bought them up while their father busily built his shipping empire. During their early years, the boys played, fought, and competed ferociously to gain their father’s favour. They competed in running, throwing, and swordplay, both taught by the best teachers available. In all contests, no matter what they were, the blond-haired boy would win. In those days, the blond-haired boy also won the attentions of his father.
As the boys grew older, their competing intensified. The blond boy was taller than his twin, with wide shoulders that tapered to thin hips. His brother was smaller and stouter, but not overweight. They raced over the hills in the local competitions and the blond-haired boy would always leave his brother behind. They entered wrestling and swordplay competitions, where again the blond-haired boy would always win.
During their early teens, the boys went away to an abbey of the Divine One, to be taught to read, write, and do numbers, the arts of magic, and Her teachings of good and peace. The two young men studied and worked hard at their lessons. Here the dark-haired boy excelled while his twin started to struggle in his studies.
They continued their physical training and here the blond-haired boy continued to win. In wrestling, the blond youth became overly brutal towards his twin, often leaving welts and bruises on him. But in academic studies, the dark-haired boy led the way, especially in the arts of magic. The stouter boy picked up the arts much more quickly and was able to cast spells with ease, while his brother continued to struggle. He appeared to have lost favour with his father, who often sided with the son who excelled academically, as he looked for an heir to take over his growing trading empire. Their father did love both of them equally, though the blond boy did not see this and only felt jealousy towards his twin, an envy that festered.
One night, unable to complete a magic spell, the blond-haired boy went to a local tavern to drown his frustration and hatred with alcohol. In a gloomy smoke-filled tavern, the teenager nursed his ale, silently cursing his brother. He drank more and more, making his mood melancholier, his thoughts dark. A hooded man entered the tavern and sat at a table opposite him. The putrid stench of death oozed from the old man, tainting the smoky air with corruption.
“If I wanted company I would pay for a whore,” barked the young man, without looking at his uninvited companion.
“Pay-maidens are quite expensive, young man. I, on the other hand, just would like some company.”
“Go away!” snapped the young man vehemently, spittle flying from his mouth. “You repulse me, you wretched vermin.”
“Not until you talk to me, young Naats.”
The blond-haired teenager peered up from his drink to stare at the old hooded man. “Do you know me?” he asked, narrowing his blue eye suspiciously.
“What do you want?”
“Who are you?”
“What do you want?” repeated the hooded man softly.
“I want power,” hissed Naats.
“What do you want it for?”
“To defeat my brother.”
“What will you do to achieve that?”
“Anything,” he answered.
“Anything?” countered the hooded man.
“Yes, anything.”
“Take this, and you will start on the road of achieving great power.” The hooded figure held out his skeletal ashen hand and on his grubby palm rested a small black crystal.
Naats took the crystal. He looked at it indifferently, then slowly popped it into his mouth. He stared into the man’s hood but was unable to see his eyes. He sucked on the black crystal, releasing the intoxicating properties of the balamine plant.
Naats looked around the tavern, seeing it in a different light. A dancing kaleidoscope of colours swam before his eyes. The other patrons had different coloured hues surrounding their bodies: reds, blues, a few tinged with gold, and one black. Naats had now achieved the desired effect of the spell that had caused him problems earlier in the abbey—he could see people’s auras. After several minutes, he looked at the old man. Instead of an old hooded figure sitting before him, now he saw the shimmering image of warrior with a bald, scarred head and piercing, glowing red eyes.
The image smiled at him. “If you want more, I will be outside tomorrow night. If you desire it, I will teach you magic and give you power, power you could only dream of,” said the man, his voice now deep and resonant. As the man left, the drug intensified and Naats tingled all over, feeling strangely euphoric, yet he was left wanting something—something just beyond his reach and understanding.
The next day, his only thoughts were of the old hooded man and the sensational pleasures he had acquired from the black crystal. When studies finished, he raced back to the tavern and waited outside. He looked down the street and saw the hooded man shuffle towards him.
“So you want to learn?” hissed the old man with a mocking smile.
“Yes, I want power.”
“I will give you power. All I ask in exchange is your loyalty.”
“You give me power and I will follow you to the end of all,” answered Naats, and for the first time he saw the older man’s sunken, dull lifeless eyes deep inside his hood. Fortunately, he could not see the man’s dead skin that peeled off in chunks, nor the maggots that writhed inside him, feasting on his rotting corpse.
“Come with me.”
Naats followed his new teacher to a dank building where they entered at the rear. Only later did he realise it was a Temple of the Path.
Over the next couple of months, Naats spent his days studying at the abbey and in the evenings he raced to the hooded man, his black crystals, and education in dark arts. Day by day the young man’s power grew, flowing through his body.
Months passed and Naats’s need for the black crystals increased; his new addiction required constant feeding. The effects of the long days and nights began to take their toll. Black smudges surrounded his hollowing eyes and he started to lose weight. His twin became concerned with his brother’s health and one day he confronted him.
“Are you well, brother?”
“Leave me alone!” hissed Naats fiercely.
&n
bsp; “I’m only concerned about you, brother, as I feel your stress.”
“Leave me alone!” repeated Naats, with pure hatred dancing in his eyes.
That night, the dark-haired teenager followed Naats to the temple and was shocked to find him enter the place of darkness. He waited outside the temple for his brother and it started to rain, the droplets slapping noisily on the paved throughway. In the early hours of the morning, his brother appeared from the temple, staggering slightly, as though drunk. Pushing his hood back, Naats’s brother followed him down a dank, fetid, alley.
“Brother, what are you doing in that place of evil?” he called.
“Evil?” hissed Naats, bewildered. “That’s a place of pleasure and power.”
“Power? You’re wrong, that’s a place of necromancy. Only black magic is taught there. You remember what the abbot told us about the place? It’s evil.”
Lightning ripped across the sky, briefly illuminating the town.
Naats’s normally blue eyes appeared to glow red. “The abbot knows nothing about this place and nothing of the Path. And you . . . you’re no longer my brother, be gone.”
Thunder clapped noisily, grumbling to a hush.
“You cannot say that,” pleaded the stout brother.
Naats pointed his hand at his brother. The air fizzed with mystical energy. Dark lightning-type bolts leapt from his fingers towards his brother. The bolts struck the shorter man square on the chest, lifting him from his feet and sending him sprawling into a slimy puddle. Slowly rising, dripping with stagnant water, the dark-haired young man looked at his brother in total disbelief. Naats Flureic, with hatred in his eyes, waited, smiling maliciously at his twin, his expression appearing more like a twisted snarl.
