Damn, it was near all the way across the street.
“Get in front of that woodpile!” the High King’s voice roared, and Matoh’s feet slapped the stone street as fast as he could make them go.
Dozens of flaming bottles arced towards them through the air.
“Damn it!” Matoh yelled. They weren’t going to make it.
“Make a hole!”
Matoh stepped to the side as a shining white warhorse flashed beside him. The High King leaned forward, his war hammer, Hrardruden, was angled forward and he pushed his horse to top speed.
Bottles shattered onto oil-laden wood and fire burst up to form a deadly wall across the street.
Matoh kept running despite what he saw in front of him as the High King’s warhorse leapt into the flames and over the woodpile.
“No!” He heard himself say, but then felt the whoosh of wind as the fire looked to leap from the wood and into the spinning warhammer held aloft in the High King’s hand on the other side of the wood pile.
He gasped at the sheer power of it. The High King’s armour shone under the wave of fire which flowed into the hammer. The santsi inlaid within the intricate metal suit shone like dozens of small suns as Ronaston Mihane walked his horse towards the crowd.
“HALT IN THE NAME OF THE KING!” the High King’s voice thundered over the crowd, and the mob took a collective step back.
Matoh saw small snowflakes begin to form in the air around the High King as he siphoned everything into him. It was as if Halom himself had stepped out in front of the mob to pass judgement on them all.
Matoh heard a few gasps of, “it’s the High King!” from the mob, but then silence so tense it choked began to wrap itself around them.
“YOU WILL DISPERSE IMMEDIATELY!” the High King’s Hafaza-amplified voice commanded. The chanting of the Hafaza was a dim undertone to the booming voice.
“They killed her, sire!” Matoh saw a wide-shouldered man with a thin moustache and a mess of black hair step forward. The bone ring on his brow was clearly visible. “They are killing us all, and you do nothing to stop it!”
Matoh couldn’t believe it. For a commoner to address the High King like that, it didn’t bode well.
Angry cries rose up from the crowd once again.
“You are misinformed.” The High King’s amplified voice carried through the streets, though some of the shocking power had been taken off. “There–”
“He’s lying!” a voice yelled.
“The Xinnish are being butchered in their homes!” another voice yelled.
“How many must die?” a woman screamed.
“Justice!” another added.
“My Isobelle! She was not three years old!” a man screamed, emotion choking the man’s words.
“They killed my mother! The murderers still walk free while you do nothing!” a woman’s voice wailed from within the mob. “The Xinnish people matter!”
“They butchered my baby!”
“Stop protecting your Kenzian masters!” someone else shouted.
This is bad. Matoh thought. He couldn’t believe the rage and contempt he was seeing for the High King.
“We must have justice! Get out of the way!” a man near the front yelled.
Matoh saw something then. A glint of metal within the crowd. He stared out through the tiny gap beside him and saw the glint again: light off polished armour.
A man, two rows back, was wearing armour beneath his clothes. A loose, dirty cloak covered it, and he wore his hood up, but Matoh was sure. He saw the man’s hand reach for a sword, then saw the motion by others in the crowd.
There were soldiers within that mob. Professional soldiers.
“Soldiers,” Matoh said almost to himself.
“Damn it. You’re right,” Bastion said to his left.
“Soldiers!” Matoh yelled. “Captain Miller, sir! Soldiers in the mob!”
“ENOUGH!” the High King’s Hafaza-enhanced voice boomed around them, and it once again brought an uneasy silence to the crowd.
The High King thrust his war hammer into the air, and lines of crackling blue and white flashed around its engraved head. “Citizens of New Toeron, you are being used! Treason and treachery at work here! Damn it! I don’t have time for this! They have my daughter! WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?!” the High King’s voice thundered through the square, and hundreds of people cowered and stepped back as if the very sky was about to crash down onto them.
“You mean this daughter, Your Highness?!” someone answered from high above.
The mob and the knights all looked up.
A man dressed in black stood on the third storey balcony of Keef’s Tavern overlooking the square. Twin metal claw-blades protruded from the man’s gloves and caught the dull light beneath the clouds. He held Princess Echinni, bound and gagged, against the railing of the balcony.
“If you harm her, I swear to Halom-!” the High King started, pointing his war hammer at the man on the roof.
“Not to worry, Your Highness! There are big plans for your lovely little girl!” the killer on the roof shouted. “You, however …” The man raised his clawed hand to gesture to his left.
It was then Matoh turned to see what the man in black was looking at.
A canvas sheet was torn away from what had looked like a stack of shipping barrels. Yet instead, an enormous gilded bronze tube with a bulbous end stood between the barrels. Its circular open end was aimed straight at the High King.
“What is-!” the High King’s disgusted and angry voice began. He never had the chance to finish.
HISS-BOOM!
The sound hammered the breath from Matoh’s lungs, and he fell to his knees. Fire billowed forth from the tube as if from the mouth of a dragon. The wooden dais and the High King exploded in a storm of splinters, bone, and blood.
The high kings’s war hammer, Hrardruden, slammed into a shield down the line, and Matoh stared in horror as he saw what was left of High King’s hand and forearm still gripping the handle.
Ronaston Mihane, the Iron Boar, the High King, the man who had crushed the Navutians and unified the Nine Nations of Salucia, was gone. Snuffed out in a cloud of fire and gore.
36 – To be a Knight
High King Ronaston Mihane was a man of singular siphoning ability, which has been confirmed by multiple eye-witness accounts. His charge into the Navutian lines at Sudgard upon his war horse, Steelheart, was said to be the turning point in Asgur’s rebellion against their Navutian overlords. Many witnesses recount watching the High King slam his war hammer, Hrardruden, into the massive Navutian shields and shattering both the shield and the man behind it in a move he called, “Orcanus’s hammer”. No one other than the High King has ever been able to demonstrate the move effectively.
Another more sinister tale was said to have been at the end of the battle of Vestgard when a Colonel Stonebridge had routed the Navutians out of the city and back to their ship. The High King ordered his troops to secure the city as he boarded the ship alone. Screams were heard all along the beach. Ronaston emerged alone after all had gone silent. As he left, he siphoned enough energy to bathe the head of his war hammer in fire. He set the ship alight and pushed it out to sea in the hopes the other Navutian warlords would find it.
There are many other tales of the High King’s heroics, and Ronaston Mihane will surely go down in legend as one of the most powerful people to ever have walked the earth.
- Chronicler Simon Rathelson in A Common History: 1851– 2850 ATC, 45th Edition, 2850
Matoh
Square outside Keef’s Tavern, New Toeron, Bauffin
“Lady take me,” Matoh gasped.
A gagged shriek ripped forth from atop Keef’s Tavern with such force the glass in every window throughout the square shattered.
Matoh covered his ears for fear of them bursting, but everything had already been ringing. Princess Echinni shrieked again, and somewhere in the back of Matoh’s mind he realised she must have a Hafaza’s Presence
, but then the man in black backhanded her across the head, and the princess dropped to the roof beside him.
Any semblance of order vanished.
The once-strong shield wall had gaps the size of wagons in it.
Matoh barely got to his feet before someone slammed into him.
He didn’t have time to think, his gauntleted fist slammed into his attacker's face, and the man dropped. Matoh brought his shield up just in time to feel the weight of a rock slam into it.
“Avenge the king!” Sir Vyktor roared. “Get to the princess! Attack that weapon!” His savage blade was out, and blood erupted in front of him as someone stepped forward to stop the enraged Syklan.
The street erupted into screams, both angry and terrified as the mob surged forward.
“Halom save us,” Matoh prayed. The High King was dead. He was dazed, every movement felt too slow.
Shnick! Something skipped off his helmet and knocked him a step to the side. Matoh caught a glimpse of a crossbow bolt skipping off the stones.
Lady take him. That had hit him!
The shock brought Matoh back.
“Tighten up!” Captain Miller’s voice ordered. “Scouts get into the houses! Up the walls! Get some high ground! Take those bowmen down! Return fire!”
Matoh locked his shield in with those beside him and put his shoulder into position as his view of the crowd disappeared.
“Brace!” the captain called out, his voice was close, somewhere to his left.
Matoh heard feet thundering on the ground in front of him and then-
Slam!
The back of Matoh’s shield smashed into his visor. It was all he could do to dig the front of his steel covered boots into the cobblestones, but still, Matoh felt himself sliding backwards.
If he fell, he would die. The mob would have him.
“Hold! Tuck under!” Captain Miller’s voice thundered.
Hands found Matoh’s back, and a shoulder thumped into his back to brace him. Matoh stopped sliding just as the sound of crossbow bolts punching into metal sounded again. Rocks began to hammer down upon them. The noise was unrelenting.
Someone pushed through the gap in the shields on Matoh’s right. A pitchfork shot through and skidded off his metal shin guard, but stabbed into the girl’s leg beside him.
Matoh grabbed the pitchfork and hauled it backwards. The pitchfork wielder’s face appeared in the gap, so Matoh smashed it with his gauntleted fist.
He felt the man’s nose break, heard the scream and shoved the face back to the other side of his shield as the gap in the metal wall closed. The pitchfork clattered to the ground. Someone kicked it behind the line, and Matoh reset himself to push and hold his ground against the tide of human flesh.
“Are they citizens?” Matoh shouted beside him. “Or soldiers! Who are we fighting?”
“Both!” Captain Miller shouted.
Three sharp blasts of a clarion behind them cut through the mayhem.
Three times – advancing line, Matoh remembered. Santsi globes popped into life along the line as those who were Syklan began to siphon, giant fireflies behind the shifting metal wall.
Matoh squeezed his left hand, feeling for the copper conduit point against his palm. He wanted the best contact possible and then began to feel the energy around him.
Thunder boomed above him, as if in answer, but Matoh barely heard it. He let his training take over as he listened to the beat of the war drums behind him.
The beat began, and Matoh let the energy flow into him. His skin tingled, and he heard armoured feet dig into the street.
One, two, PUSH! Matoh counted with the drums.
He slammed his siphoned energy through the copper conduit point on his left hand and felt the snap of the electrical discharge as it rippled through the people on the other side.
The effect was staggering. Electrical energy burst forth all along with the joined shields of the front lines and, as one, the wall of metal slammed into the stunned mob.
Gasps and screams shook through the narrow street. People were thrown back, some simply shocked, others nursed broken ribs as shield bosses punched into them.
They had gained three paces on the crowd.
HISS-BOOM!
A gap three-people wide was blown through their line as the bronze tube on the balcony above spewed forth its fiery death once more. It left a line of blood and broken screaming people in its wake.
“SOMEONE GET UP THERE!” Stonebridge’s voice screamed. “They’re reloading!”
“ENGAGE! ENGAGE!” Captain Miller’s voice barked at the heavies in the front line. “Close the gap!” The three sharp notes of the clarion rang out again. Hit them again! It said.
Too late.
Soldiers in strange uniforms poked through the line in front of them and pointed what looked like crossbows with more tubes mounted on the grips.
White smoke hissed, and dozens of smaller bouts of fire spewed forth across from them.
Metal screamed as it dug into armour.
Matoh felt the shield in his hand jerk to the side. A small dent bulged inwards from the top left of his shield.
Gods! What are those weapons! Even the small ones were dropping people as if by magic.
“Close, close! Before they hit us again!” Stonebridge urged from behind.
Matoh ran forward, blind, leading with his shield, siphoning as he did.
The drums beat one, two, PUSH!
Again the line of shields crackled. Matoh slammed his shield forward and felt a body stumble backwards.
But this time, the crowd recovered faster.
Crack! Crack! Crack! The enemy’s hellish weapons fired again, and people screamed.
The clarion’s three blasts rang out again.
Matoh gritted his teeth and siphoned. His body was the channel, his shield the conduit.
Siphon in. Release. Push.
Siphon in. Release. PUSH!
“GET DOWN!” Stonebridge yelled.
HISS-BOOM!
The ground erupted, and Matoh’s world became fire.
36 - The Path to be Taken
Only when the capacity for change has been unquestionably etched into the very code of our existence will we be worthy of living unfettered.
Only then will the keys unlock the door to Kali and all humanity will be free of their penance and will walk on the path of redemption.
- Journal of Robert Mannford - Day 266 Year 030
Wayran
Square outside Keef’s Tavern, New Toeron, Bauffin
Wayran lay gasping against a wall inside a makeshift medical bay as his mind reeled at what had just happened.
“I’ve been stabbed,” he said out loud as he looked down at the blood pouring out of the inside of his thigh. He was in shock.
He had been in the shield wall, pushing and shoving in complete chaos. Some sort of spear had pushed through beneath his shield and stabbed deep into his leg. He had fallen.
I think I killed someone. Before the spear tore into his leg, he remembered thrusting his sword through a gap between the shields and had felt the terrible resistance as it met something which had screamed. He had pulled his sword back bloody.
Everything had happened so fast. His future sight had tried to kick in, but there had been way too much to see. His nose was still bleeding, and his head throbbed from all the ghost-images of possible future actions. The vertigo of all those possibilities was only now passing.
It had been Jerome who had saved him, killed the person who had speared him and rushed in to finish Wayran off.
“You’re out of this fight!” Jerome had shouted at Wayran as he waved to the back line. “Medic!” A group of four people had rushed forward and hoisted Wayran up to carry into the abandoned shop turned medical bay.
The three field medics in white tabards were still with him now, the fourth person had been Kevin, who now stood over him looking worried.
It had all happened so fast. Part of his mind laughed at the conv
ersation he had had with his father only a few months ago. Longest era of peace, my ass! He thought. Probably won’t ever have to fight and protecting people isn’t so bad, is it? All were parts of the conversation which had convinced him to join the military.
Wayran laughed at how messed up everything had become.
“Glad to see you still got that odd sense of humour, mate.” Kevin smiled as he covered the entrance to shop with his bow.
“Oh, gods damn it,” Wayran cursed as one of the medics pulled a leather buckle tight around his upper thigh, wrapped the wound tightly and then secured the bottom of the wrap with another leather buckle.
“You won’t bleed out, it didn’t hit the major artery. Now, don’t let anyone touch the bandages or buckles until you get back to the Academy. Do you understand? Quick, off the table, we have someone else coming in,” the medic told him as he helped Wayran down and shooed him away.
One of their heavily armoured skirmishers bleeding from a gash in her neck was hauled through the door, and the group of medics nearly knocked Wayran over as they got the big woman onto the blood-soaked table.
“If you are still breathing get out of the way!” The head medic yelled at them.
“Come on, I’ll get you to the back line. I think there is a wagon waiting to take the wounded back up to the Academy,” Kevin pulled Wayran along with him.
It was all madness. The High King had been killed. The good people of New Toeron had gone mad, and his brother was still out there.
Kevin stood and fired three arrows in quick succession at the windows on the far side of Keef’s Square before pulling the back out into the street.
From the back lines, Wayran watched the churning line of metal and humanity in horror. Armour flashed in the lights of fires now burning around the square. A sea of sharpened pikes pushed towards their line. Santsi globes flashed brilliant blue, green, and almost white as they spewed out energy attacks through conduit weapons, as more than a few pairs of Syklans had squared off against each other. There were Syklans on the Xinnish side as well, hiding within the crowd.
HISS-BOOM!
Wayran flinched as the terrible bronze weapon on the balcony of Keef’s balcony fired again.
Awakenings Page 43
