by Brian Murray
***
The Chosen and General Gordonia left Kal-Pharina for another tour of the Empire. The Chosen visited the towns surrounding the white city, and in each one, he received a hero’s welcome. His aim was to convince the town elders that a force which would march to Kal-Pharina, threatened their towns and villages in the near future. He convinced most of the town elders and told them that when the time came he would welcome the people into Kal-Pharina or arrange for safe passage to coastal ports.
General Gordonia visited the major clans residing on the Steppes close to the white city. When the call came, he wanted to ensure warriors would flock to the Chosen’s banner. The general did not have to worry. The Chosen’s reputation as the emperor who could not be killed had spread throughout the lands like a bushfire. The Dar-Phadrin clan chieftains he met all agreed that if the Chosen raised his banner, their warriors would ride to his call. General Gordonia made agreements with many of the larger clans, who immediately sent their warriors with him to the white city, as a sign of respect and commitment to the Chosen.
***
After several days, the Chosen rode back into Kal-Pharina on his white stallion, surrounded by his personal guards, originally from the Landbow clan. He crossed the western bridge and looked up at the works being undertaken on the mound. The mound around the western gates had been sheared off and if he squinted against the sun, he could see the structures had been reinforced with timber. The Chosen smiled—things were finally coming together. Once in the city, he rode around the mound until he found the labourers from the Cross-swords clan. The Dar-Phadrin clansmen worked around the clock to complete the construction on time.
The Chosen dismounted and accompanied by several personal guards, he walked amongst the workers. Finally, he found Dalf, the son of the clan’s chieftain, talking with Platos, the master armourer. They were busy, looking at plans spread across a flimsy wooden table.
“Greetings,” called the Chosen, approaching them. The two men bowed and greeted their emperor. “Is all well?” he asked.
Platos answered. “Yes, your Highness. The work on the mound is ahead of schedule, thanks to Dalf here and his fine clansmen.”
The Chosen looked at Dalf and smiled broadly. “I would have expected nothing less from the Cross-swords clan.”
“Thank you, your Highness,” replied Dalf, bowing again at the compliment.
“We were just discussing defences for the palace and within the city.”
The Chosen frowned. “Do not waste your time on defences for the palace. If the invaders breach the wall, then all is lost. My city would be under their control and I will have nothing. Concentrate your energies on protecting the city. The mound defences are the key to our success. Also, defences should be concentrated around the gates, as that is where breaches will come. These invaders are formidable and unlike any we have ever fought. Security around the mound and gates will be vital. They must not enter the city.”
Platos thought for a while, then smiled his wicked smile. “I have some more ideas that will help us, your Highness.”
The Chosen rolled his eyes, but smiled at his master armourer. He now knew that smile meant something devious was afoot. “I look forward to seeing your plans, my friend.”
“If you have time, I would like to show you something I’ve been working on at my forge.”
By this time, the Chosen was ready to return to the palace and see his daughter. But the blacksmith had worked many hours and Rowet would not refuse him this small request. He nodded. “Right, I could do with the walk and stretch my legs.”
Platos smiled. Rowet remembered that the big man did not like riding horses and so instead of embarrassing the master armourer, the Chosen decided to walk with him.
“Dalf, I will leave you and your men to your fine work. Can you thank your clansmen on my behalf?” said the Chosen.
“It would be my pleasure, your Highness.”
When the Chosen and his master armourer walked away from the mound, a huge cheer went up from the Cross-swords clansmen.
“I think Dalf has passed on your message,” commented Platos.
The Chosen smiled. “Aye, I think so. Are we on schedule?”
“I did not lie. The Cross-swords clan are a tribe of hard workers and they have been working in four shifts, all day and all night. The work is ahead of schedule.”
“And the weapons?”
“I have commissioned several woodworkers and forges to build the parts required. None of them have the complete plan of the weapons—only the dimensions of the individual pieces they are to make.”
“Good,” commented the Chosen. Rowet became quiet, deep in thought. He knew that very soon he would have to explain to the civilians the reason for the construction going on around the city. But that problem would wait for another day.
The two casually chatted while they walked through the city towards Platos’s forge. In front of the two men marched six imperial guards, another four on each flank, and six more at the rear. People cheered their emperor when he walked past. He waved to some and stopped to talk to others.
Finally, the two arrived at Platos’s forge and the Imperial Guards took up defensive positions outside. Two of the Landbow warriors raced ahead and entered the forge to search the building, ensuring their emperor’s safety. Satisfied, the two warriors took up guard by the rear door.
The Chosen arrived at the forge and sat down on a stool with a heavy sigh. “Platos, do you have a drink?”
“Yes, yes,” said the huge smithy, who rushed through the forge to his home, returning shortly with a jug and two pewter goblets. He poured and handed the Chosen a drink. The Chosen sipped and looked up at Platos questioningly.
“It’s my own recipe: apple juice with a few spices, and a tipple of Daardin, just a tipple.”
“Just a tipple of Daardin,” commented the Chosen, downing the sweet drink and holding his goblet out for more. “It is very good.”
“I like it,” said Platos, his smile broadening. He put down the jug and sipped from his own goblet. “Now to my little secret.”
The Chosen followed the blacksmith around the furnace to another bench that was covered with a canvas sheet.
Platos turned to face his emperor. “I have been working on this personally since we first met in your temple and you gave me my new position. It’s a special gift for you.” The master armourer theatrically removed the canvas sheet, revealing his handiwork.
Rowet looked at the blacksmith’s work in awe. “For me?” he finally said softly.
“Yes,” said Platos, smiling. “Go ahead, they won’t bite you.”
Rowet reached forward and lifted one of the two swords. They were both identical to the one given to him on their first meeting, but the hilts were highly decorated, and the blades etched with the Eye of the Chosen. He ran his hand down one blade and smiled. The blade was perfectly balanced in his hand and reflected light in a rainbow of colours. Rowet replaced the blade and touched the body armour. The armour was smooth to the touch and moulded to resemble a man’s muscular upper torso. Etched on the left breast was a replica of the Chosen’s tattoo. Platos lifted the armour up and said, “Try it on.”
Rowet removed his white silk shirt and Platos fitted the armour in place. The inside of the armour was covered in soft wool for padding and comfort. Rowet rubbed the smooth metal of the torso and high neck. He ran his hand down the arms. The sleeves of the armour were made from fine chain mail. The ringlets of the chain mail were perfect in every detail and welded into the metal cloth, interwoven with strands of gold. Flowing from the base of the torso were scales of metal linked together, forming a kilt, protecting the upper legs. The weight of the armour surprised Rowet—incredibly light. Finally, Platos produced a pair of knee-high boots that were also protected with smaller scales of metal running down to the ankles.
Rowet was speechless. Never had he received a gift so fine. He looked at Platos through misting eyes. The master armourer beamed with p
ride as he walked around the Chosen, checking his work. He had spoken in secret to Rowet’s tailor and cobbler to get the emperor’s sizes. And now in front of him, his emperor wore the fruits of his labour. Much love and care had gone into the creation of the armour and swords.
“Now you’re ready to face our invaders,” said Platos proudly, with his hands on hips.
“I do not know what to say, my friend, but thank you.” Rowet paused. “These are the finest of gifts and I will treasure them always.”
Platos said nothing, but smiled broadly.
Rowet lifted his swords, crossed them before his chest, and bowed to his master armourer. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “You are indeed a master of your craft.”
***
Zane rushed around Teldor, attending meetings with General Brooks, Admiral Rendel, Zorain Captain of the City Watch, and Emyra. All was currently going to plan, but time was running out. Zane sent out his axe-wielders, to ensure that everyone within the city knew what to do when called. He sent out more scouts. Some returned, confirming Marley’s report, but many disappeared.
The army of creatures was less than two days away.
Arriving back at his private chambers well after midnight, after another hectic day, the young king was tired beyond belief. With a long sigh, he sat at this desk to start reading more reports. Instead, he rested his head on his folded arms and instantly fell asleep.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Come,” said Zane, still drowsy. He had no idea how long he had been sleeping, but it had been night when he arrived at his room, and it was still dark.
General Brooks entered, in full battle dress. He formally bowed to his king. “It is time, my king.”
Zane looked at his general for a long while, as if digesting information, then nodded. General Brooks bowed again, then left the room. Zane rose wearily and walked to his own room where his armour had been ready for days. The King of Rhaurien undressed, washed in cold water to refresh himself, and dressed in his armour. He strapped his sword harness on, then fixed his cloak into place, letting the flowing fabric run between his sword hilts. He looked at himself in the mirror, and smiled his crooked smile.
“What are you doing?” he muttered softly.
You’re doing your best, whispered the voice of his father in the young king’s mind.
“I hope so, Father.” Zane knelt down on one knee and said a silent prayer to the Divine One. He finished his prayer and opened his door to leave his room.
In the hallway, two Royal Lancers in full battle dress bowed, then stood to one side, allowing Zane to pass. They followed their king through the palace and out into the courtyard. Zane paused, looked to his left, his right, then smiled. Waiting for him were his elite horsemen. He walked down the steps without saying a word, and mounted his huge, armoured, chestnut stallion. The Royal Lancers formed a column behind their king, and they rode slowly through the city. No-one came out to see the king. An eerie silence had settled over the usually bustling city and a light wind blew noiselessly through the buildings.
It was close to dawn when Zane reached the outer gates of Teldor, and he cantered majestically out of the city. When the last Royal Lancer passed through, the gates were closed. Zane took his place next to General Brooks amongst the Rhaurn horsemen, his expression grim.
Silently, they waited for the enemy.
CHAPTER 14
Threatening grey storm clouds bunched overhead, swiftly invading from the sea, blocking out the blue sky and covering the land in gloom. The Dark One’s excitement grew as the Dread neared Rhamagabora. Vengeance filled the evil being like a thirst that could not be quenched. He ordered Malice to recall all of the scouts, wanting to make an impression on the city by showing his entire force at once. The rose-coloured sun peeked over the horizon, then climbed up into the sky, tinting the heavy rain clouds deep shades of red. The Dark One, with Malice, Fury, and Chaos at his side, crested the final hill overlooking Rhamagabora. They stared down onto the wide plain before the massive wall. The Dark One smiled inside his helm at the changed scene before him. The last time he stood here, he had faced a small port. It was now a massive fortress city, surrounded by a grey wall. Before the great wall, spread out in a line, waited the Rhaurien army.
“Nice of them to turn out for us,” muttered the Dark One with some amusement.
“They are no match for us, master,” commented Malice, sensing the Dark One’s emotions.
“Even so, it shows spirit.” The Dark One scanned the army he faced and his smile broadened. “One is amongst them. The one on the chestnut horse,” said the Dark One, pointing.
“Is he a Child of the Light?” asked Fury.
“Yes. No one touches him but me,” commanded the Dark One. “I want him to know pain . . . True pain.”
***
Zane watched stoically as four horsemen crested the hill overlooking Teldor. Fear rose from his soul when the warrior in black armour pointed directly at him. It must be him, concluded the young king. He must be the Dark One.
Zane looked at the Rhaurns gathered around him. He had the heavy cavalry and Royal Lancers waiting; all faces grim and focused. Next to the king, General Brooks waited, staring at the horsemen on the hill.
One of the horsemen in silver armour raised his sword.
More storm clouds quickly rolled in from the sea, shrouding the land, dulling the vivid green hills.
***
Malice continued to scan the force in front of him. “The majority of the army are probably hiding on the walls or waiting in the city. This token force seems to be here to slow our charge.”
“They cannot, will not, slow our charge,” hissed Chaos.
“We will see,” answered Malice, raising his sword.
Behind the four warriors, the Dread silently crested the hill.
***
Zane watched in awe as the Dark One’s army crested the hill. All around the four waiting warriors, huge horsemen on massive mounts rode up and took their positions. Either side of the horsemen as far as the eye could see, massive Talon Hunters and Shadows ambled into position, forming a massive black smudge on the green hill. Zane’s stallion became skittish, so he leaned forward and whispered soothing words, stroking the chestnut neck with one hand. The horse calmed down. All stayed still.
A cool sea breeze blew over the plain, fluttering the King’s standard. The Rhaurns waited for the Dread, and in turn the Dread waited for the Rhaurns. Zane needed the Dark One’s army to make the first move. The Rhaurns’ charge would falter if they had to gallop uphill. Zane wanted the Dark One to play his hand first and charge onto the plain where the ground was flat. He also needed to time his charge carefully or when the two forces clashed, the Rhaurns would not have enough momentum to crash through the Dread’s ranks. The young king’s stomach was tied in knots, but on the outside, he appeared calm and relaxed. This calmness flowed over his men as they waited, their faces not showing any fear, devoid of any emotion.
Suddenly, the air was filled with howling, hissing, and roars. The Dread charged down the hill.
At that moment, crackling lightning sliced through the clouds, bathing everything in cold white light. There was a brief delay before thunder boomed, just audible over the beasts’ baying. It was an ominous sign. In one heartbeat, all was clear; in the next, sheets of rain poured down from the heavens, blurring everyone’s vision.
***
Malice, with the Dark One at his side, watched the Rhaurien army impassively. He swiftly realised that the Rhaurns would not move first. He concluded they would wait until the Dread was on the flat of the plain. With superior numbers, Malice did not see this as a problem. His army would have the additional momentum of running or galloping downhill. He glanced across at the Dark One, who simply nodded knowingly.
The Dark One removed the Blade of Yallas from its sheath and raised the evil sword aloft. The Dread howled, hissed, and roared in delight. He pointed the sword d
irectly at Zane. That was the signal. One moment the beasts were motionless, the next, like a black shadow flowing menacingly down the hill, the Dread charged, with the Dark One and Malice leading the Caynians.
“Remember . . . he’s mine!” roared the Dark One, spurring his black stallion to charge down the slope. “Mine!”
***
Zane cursed when the rain started to pour down. This meant the ground would become heavy and his charge would be sluggish. However, this also meant that the creatures would be slowed down, while wading through the mud. The King of Rhaurien pulled one of his swords from its sheath and raised it aloft.
“Rhaurns!” he screamed.
His men shouted back, “RHAURNS!”
Zane urged his horse forward and the Rhaurns started their charge.
***
The Dark One and the Dread continued their charge down the slope towards the Rhaurns, gaining speed and momentum.
***
Zane and the Rhaurns charged towards the creatures of the Dark One’s army. Zane could see the Dark One with his sword held aloft, the light around the blade appearing to dim. When the Dread passed a set marker, a white painted stake stabbed in the ground, Zane raised one of his swords and waved it left, then right. The Rhaurien army charged in different formations. The Royal Lancers broke off smoothly, like a river dividing and changing course, to form several charging wedges, aiming for the Talon Hunters and the Shadows at the Dread’s flanks. At the centre, in unison, the heavy cavalry changed formation, also into a charging wedge, with Zane at point, aiming at the centre of the beasts, directly for the Dark One and his Caynians.
***
Malice smiled at the change of formation executed by the Rhaurns. The lighter armoured lancers were aiming for the edges of the Dread. They would probably punch through then loop behind them, determined Malice. This did not bother him as much as the charging wedge that careered towards him. This worried the strategist. He urged his horse faster, pulling along some of the Caynians riding their massive mounts, to form a protective square around the Dark One. Malice felt more at ease.
