by Rex Hazelton
Furiously conjuring up as much of the evil magic that Koyer had invested in his speech as he could, Clyntor crouched, looking like he was about to leap at the king. “Besides, there are rumors that say Barden has a coconspirator, one King Grogan and King Nestor have asked us to be on the lookout for. If you, your son, or any of your people go to Shomeron at such a delicate time as this, the kings would have to conclude that you were the person they've been warned about. As a result, they would be forced to declare war on you.”
Pausing strategically… allowing the dark power in his speech to do its work, he added, “Furthermore, even if you were able to find another king who would agree to join you in rushing to Barden's aid, who's to say whether or not that king was the one who had entered into a secret alliance with Barden. If it ends up he is the accomplice… then you would be leading your men into a cleverly devised trap that would bring you to the very end Barden has planned for both King Grogan and Nestor.”
The magic filling Clyntor's words clawed their way deeper into the Eagle King's mind, clouding his thinking, silencing every thought but those G'Lude's agent planted in his brain. Sensing it was time to seal the deal, Clyntor added, “Sire, I've talked with your son Hartshyll about all of this. He told me that he was convinced you'd make the right decision, the decision that would ensure his safety and the safety of all your people.”
Hearing the veiled threat in Clyntor's words, the infuriated prince roared, “I can't believe this! They're threatening your son's life right to your face and still you do nothing. FATHER! WAKE UP!”
Wheeling about to face his adversaries, the prince pressed his point. “Coconspirators you say! Oh, I see. You dare to threaten the king as if he were a helpless orphan, the very thing you did to the woman Muriel.”
Pushing his chest against Grog's, he said, “That's your way, isn't it? What are you going to say next, my grandmother was one of the Forest People?” Smiling a dangerous smile that didn't touch his eyes, the prince added, “Maybe you'll accuse me of being Barden's agent, claiming that I'm set on overthrowing my own father's throne.”
Shoving the point of his finger into the commander's chest, Phelp let his own accusations fly. “Well, I accuse you of being a member of the White Guard, and Koyer's dog who'll run to him at his beckon call. I accuse you of plotting, not only the overthrow of Grogan, Nestor and Barden's kingdoms, but my father's as well. I would accuse you of treason, but knowing Koyer is your master, your crime isn't treason, it's subterfuge set on sabotaging Nyeg Warl's ability to defend itself.”
****
While Nyeg Warl's rulers were busy arguing over who to blame for the war in the east, Koyer's deadly avalanche was about to break upon Shomeron's ramparts. The Lord of Regret, to Nyeg Warl's utter bewilderment, had moved an army of massive proportions out of G'Lude and onto the High Plains more rapidly than anyone imagined was possible. Even now, Koyer, riding on a mount as black in color as he was, led a force of over thirty thousand strong up to the thick, stone walls guarding Shomeron's castle- a fortress that rose above the High Plains looking like a ship sailing on a sea of green grass.
Cassian and From conscripts marched begrudgingly among the Archan and Malamor warriors. Brakor, though he was a giant born in the Cragmar Mountains, led a dozen Clay Giants he had recruited out of the Clay Swamp that lay in the Clay River's delta. This uniquely evil and dangerous giant had used magic that came with the potion of the Power of Speech Koyer had allotted him to gather these huge, normally unruly mounds of clay out of the fen that emptied into the Staits of Regret. A score of hunchmen, accompanying the unwieldy giants, snapped and snarled near the behemoth's elbows whenever the giants swatted at them for getting too close.
The Malamor's mix of blond and reddish hair was tossed about by the winds of war as their thousands lay like a golden shield upon the heart of an undulating sea of black and red. Clad in burnished bronze breastplates, with the form of a sun beaten into them, the Malamor wore bronze helmets with noise guards dropping down far enough to protect their chins with a flanged piece of metal. They carried broad swords made of steel and pikes twice as long as a man is tall. Body length shields, also made of burnished bronze, held the ominous image of a large red sun, a symbol that heralded Ar Warl's arrival, an emblem not seen in Nyeg Warl since the days of the Battle of the Breach.
Peering down upon scores of golden banners embossed with the dreaded image, the memory and lore surrounding this ancient battle stirred within the minds of the Shomeronians standing behind the parapets, high atop the city's thick walls. They thought it darkly funny that the Malamor had been positioned in the center of the Archan warriors, feeling this central location revealed Ab'Don's role in the ensuing travesty. With the appearance of the Malamor, all now knew for certain that this war's heart and brain was found in Ar Warl, seated in the ominous Hall of Voyd.
Koyer's immense blackness was emphasized by the stark whiteness of his personal guard. One thousand pure white steeds, carrying one thousand milky-white riders, advanced toward the fortress. In the midst of this human snow storm, a thousand red breastplates flickered about like flecks of blood cast on a butcher shop's floor. The vast blackness of the Archan horde, spreading out behind them, made Koyer's guards look like the whitecap of a surging black tidal wave of destruction, one destined to crash upon Shomeron.
King Barden, looking down from one of the castle's parapets, studied the seething throng moving toward him. His dark brown eyes, framed by curly black hair and a matching beard, squinted into the boiling cauldron of death, trying to find the spoon that stirred the pot. In time, he located Koyer riding in the center of his white entourage, looking like a black fly had fallen into the scum floating on top of the pot's seething contents.
Looking about himself, the king made sure his men were ready for battle. Peering to the north and then to the south, he gazed upon Shomeron. The abandoned city spread out from the fortress walls, running along a high bluff overlooking the river. Equal parts sat on either side of the king's castle. Dourly, Barden wished the empty homes were feathers on a pair of giant wings that, in this desperate moment, could carry his castle and people to safety. Then turning to the west, he searched the vast plains for signs of the kings' armies. He was confused that none had come, and wondered why the couriers he had sent out to ask for help hadn't returned. Little did he know, each and every one of his messengers had been killed by the Soldiers of Truth. The couriers who had been sent to Wombur the Bull King had been slain long before they caught sight of Wyneskynd's fortress. Grog had seen to this himself.
King Barden's attention was drawn from the expansive plains, down to the Cragmar River. Unaware of the battle the evil lizard had recently fought with Jeaf Oakenfel, Barden watched Laviathon slide his bulbous form onto the riverbank. With a wave of doom about to break upon his ramparts, the king would have gained small comfort in knowing that the Hammer of Prophecy had already beaten the pompous dragon, once.
Barden cursed the giant reptile, spitting at his own feet in rage over the trap that was closing in on him and his people. Turning to find Koyer once again, the king saw the Lord of Regret spread out his huge wings to signal the start of the battle. Instantly, bugles sounded and short thickly muscled Archan charged forward, pushing and pulling a score of towering structures along with them: some were bridges that would be used to cross the castle's moat; others, would be set up against the fortress walls once they crossed over the moats. These hid ladders within their towering shells that the Archan would use to scale the battlements.
The siege machines heavy timbers groaned like giants with toothaches as they tottered along the plains towards Shomeron. Nearing the moat that flowed out of the Cragmar River on either side of the fortress, flaming arrows gave the Archan and their cargo another reason to groan.Though protected by those who lifted door-sized shields above them, as had happened in the battles fought in the Blood Canyons, many of the stout warriors fell beneath the rain of wood, steel and fire that dropped upon them.
As quickly as they could, the Archan dug in within a bow shot of the fortress and began returning fire. As wave after wave of flying death was exchanged, From and Cassian warriors were forced to cross the mobile bridges that had been set up over the moat. Their job was to heap up wood against the massive timbers used to build the fortress' metal-studded portcullis and drawbridge. Soon, this immense pile of kindling was set ablaze and the flames began licking at Shomeron's great doors. Few of the From and Cassian warriors survived this ordeal. Like the rest of the fodder, their flesh burned along with the wood.
In quick order, the Shomeronians were hurling water on the fires that burned against the fortress' drawbridge. At the same time, they ignited the oil that had been poured over the wooden towers the Archan had planned to use to scale Barden's defenses. But, no sooner had they succeeded in destroying one of the towers, another would be wheeled forward to take its place.
As the day wore on, Koyer looked on impatiently at the stalemate before him. Cognizant of the fact that he needed to take Shomeron as quickly as possible, a siege was out of the question. Since winter was still weeks away, every day he sat outside the castle walls gave Nyeg Warl's kings time to come to their senses and mount a counterattack against his armies. This must not happen! It was imperative that Shomeron be taken if he were to gain the foothold needed to successfully wage war on the rest of the land, in the coming spring. So, the Lord of Regret called for Djit, one of the two cretchym accompanying him, and gave him orders to summon Laviathon.
A buzzing, clattering noise- passing overhead- filled Shomeron's citizens with terror. Banking downward toward the surface of the Cragmar River, Djit caught sight of the great reptile and his crocodon brood who were looking for any military incursions that would approach from the west, as well as watching out for any Shomeronian who might try to escape their doom from the east.
“Lord Laviathon!” The cretchym's eerie clicking, guttural voice sounded over the water's surface. “My master needs you to swim into the moat and scour the battlements with your fire!”
“Oh, does he now, My Scary Little Bug?” Laviathon's nostrils released faint traces of smoke as he spoke.
“Please, Lord! Don't delay in coming, lest I am blamed for not doing my job.”
“Relax, insect! I'd love to come with you.” The great reptile smiled a toothy grin. “I haven't had time for my morning swim yet and this little exercise would be just the thing the physician ordered. Go on…tell your master I'm on my way.”
“Thank you, My Lord!” the nervous cretchym replied before striking out on its return flight.
Laviathon's crocodon children gathered around, their tails thrashing about as they listened to their father speaking to the cretchym. The plethora of short bursts of roaring that Laviathon's children let loose made them sound like a pack of hounds eagerly barking in anticipation of a hunt.
“No, My Children… it's not your turn yet. I must go by myself. For I'm the only one who has been graced with the kiss of fire… and fire is what is needed.” Laviathon spoke to his horrific brood as if they were no more than school children.
“See how quickly these land creatures call for my help. They need the Master of the River and Sea to come to their aid. So be proud of your race!” Laviathon lifted his long neck high above the river's surface before he added, “Now wait here. Your dinner will soon come scrambling over the Shomeron's walls and into the Cragmar's waters.”
Having finished his exhortation, the giant lizard slithered away; a mountain of water, rising out of the river, marked his passage into the castle's moat.
The Shomeronians, guarding the castle's western approach, watched the foreboding exchange taking place between the cretchym and crocodon. Sending runners along the road that ran atop the fortress wall, they tried to warn their comrades of Laviathon's approach. But they were too late! The mountain of water the messengers raced against was much faster than they. Soon, the temporary bridges fording the moat rattled and shook when the monster's back brushed against them. Archan and Shomeronians, alike, turned towards the sound of surging water and the clattering that accompanied it. But before they could figure out what was happening, Laviathon's scaly head, sitting atop its long neck, emerged from a mountain of liquid and spat fire at those who stood on the battlements. Instantly, scores of Shomeronians burst into flame.
After unleashing his initial assault, the great reptile shot smoke out of his nostrils, hiding his massive body from the Shomeronians who were trying to put out the inferno burning on the the parapets. Acting like a debilitating fog, the great lizard's smoke clung to the castle's battlements. Magic that filled Laviathon's evil vapor seeped into the warriors' pores, exacerbating the fear and confusion Koyer's evil presence had produced. After allowing the Shomeronian soldiers to marinate in his dark spell, the great reptile spoke. “Brave warriors… why should you die?” The sounds of swords and spears dropping to the ground wafted over the walls as the evil lizard's mesmerizing voice wound about those who guarded the fortress.
“That's right! Cast your weapons aside and open the gates, so that we may join hands in friendship.” Laviathon's horrible head, rhythmically bobbing and weaving in the mist, looked like a snake moving to a charmer's hypnotic melody as he cast his spell. His serpentine movements increased in intensity as he spun his web of lies. “Why should you pay for your king's transgressions?” Smiling over his display of wit, he added. “Oh! Has he neglected to tell you that he sent soldiers to slaughter innocent From men and women? Ask him what he did to Tymberkynd and Nestlnor! If you don't believe me, look! From warriors have come with us, seeking recompense for the atrocities your king committed against them. Fear not, dear friends! Our quarrel is not with you.”
Many of the Shomeronians, those who were weaker of mind, began to step back from their posts, struggling to make sense of Laviathon's strangely compelling speech. Soon, the walls were not adequately manned and several of the portable stairwells were set in place without being doused in oil. And as quickly as a mouse runs along a kitchen floor, a stream of Archan scooted up the ladders and poured into Shomeron. The noise of ax heads striking against swords reverberated through the blinding fog. And sounds of dying followed. The stouter of heart and mind, realizing what Laviathon was doing, began firing arrows into the fog in the direction his voice was coming from.
Though most of the projectiles bounced harmlessly off his thick scales, one of the arrows struck the great reptile in one of his few vulnerable spots, sending the monster into a rage. Rising up on his muscular hind quarters, Laviathon sent an incendiary torrent spraying across the parapets, consuming Shomeronian and Archan alike. A moment later, the evil lizard dove back into the moat while human balls of fire fell from the wall, looking like brilliantly-colored flowers were being thrown to honor passing royalty.
Eventually, Laviathon's smoke began dissipating and his magic went with it. But the damage had been done, Shomeron's walls had been compromised, and the cracks in their defenses were quickly growing. The muscular Archan, who had reached the top of the wall, fought fiercely enough to create space for other ladders to be put into place. Block-by-block they struggled, until they had secured a large portion of the battlement. Once this was accomplished, they began rappelling into the streets, and the fight spread into the city like a cup of spilled wine.
Realizing the fortifications had been breached, Barden gathered his Elite Guard. Riding off to the fortress' drawbridge, astride powerful war horses, the royal knights hoped to take the battle to Koyer. Not knowing what else to do, the king planned to lead a savage cavalry charge as a final act of spite against his conquerors, an act that might give his subjects time to escape. Sitting atop a great armored stallion, in front of two-hundred of Shomeron's finest warriors, he shouted instructions for them to drive straight for Koyer.
Stout men, clad with armor from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes, nodded, each aware their actions would lead to a hero's welcome once they entered the Great
Banquet Hall of Death.
“Look for a man as black as night, riding on a horse as black as the heart beating in his chest. You'll find him standing in the middle of a sea of white. He alone is your goal. Neither turn to the left or right to fight another. I swear, if we must lose this day, that fire-blasted Koyer won't live to enjoy his victory!”
While the fortress drawbridge was being lowered, the Shomeronians and their king shouted out a war cry that startled even the White Guard with its passion. Once the charred drawbridge had finally dropped, nd the portcullis lifted, Barden spurred his great steed forward and out into the teeth of the enemy, attacking without hesitation. Helmets were secured, lances lowered, and the deafening thunder of horse hooves filled the air. With muscles taut and eyes flashing, a desire for revenge fueled their hatred, a hatred that wanted to drag their enemies into the grave with them, to make them pay! If it weren't possible to gain victory in this life, then they would have trophies to bring with them to the next one, trophies that would dull the pangs of regret their defeat brought with it, a sense of regret even death could not dissolve.
Snorting, eyes inflamed with both fear and fury, the king's mount strained with all its might, trying to carry the fight onto the plains stretching out before it. But before the company of undaunted knights could cross the bridge, a Hag stepped forward. Using a Word of Power, she lit a black candle that levitated up and out of her hands. Round-and-round it twirled as if it were the lone spoke of an ever-increasing wheel. Sparks leapt outward, accompanying an expanding shield of incandescent magic that rushed toward the king and his brave men.
A sound, like a giant bell had been struck with a tree's trunk, echoed over the battlefield. Layer-upon-layer of reverberating noise rang out until the incandescent magic took on the shape of a human hand, a hand as tall as the Shomeronian's battlements, one that pushed the king backwards, trapping him on the bridge as though he were a rabbit thrust back into a cage it was trying to escape.
