Fall of a Kingdom

by Michael Greenfield

  An undulating cry shattered the still of the night air and figures charged into the camp. Olson was on his feet in an instant, his hand already reaching for the sword that he had kept next to him even after he had settled.

  Two of the sentries were down with arrows protruding from them. The third and fourth were frantically trying to defend themselves against a foe that had appeared as if they had risen from the very earth itself. No conscious thought passed through the veteran sergeant’s mind as he charged for the Princess’s tent, screaming at the top of his lungs for the men to regroup around him. His only intent was to protect Her Highness.

  He was already too late. Three of the attacking figures emerged from the tent as he approached. Two looked to be Shalers; the third was the biggest thing he had ever seen. Easily standing over seven feet tall, the third could only be a thing of legend.

  As it turned its head toward the sergeant, Olson discovered that not all legends were flights of fancy. The Mythraan cast its lifeless eyes over the human that was charging towards it. The Princess was being carried by the two Shalers, rendered unconscious by a simple spell, but it felt no need to use magic for this instance.

  Its sword was set in a scabbard across its huge shoulders. Olson could clearly hear the hiss of the sword being drawn. His focus was total, but inadequate. He knew that he probably would not be able to effectively parry a blade handled by someone so large, so he tried to use his momentum to swing his own sword as hard as he could against the midriff of the Mythraan.

  An expression of confusion spread across his face as he stared at the neatly severed blade he held in his hands. There was no pain, only a growing numbness as he realised that he no longer controlled his legs. Slowly he fell forward as his life’s blood flowed from the gaping wound neatly cut across his torso.

  Dorrin sprinted through the dark, heading straight for the distant glow of the campfire. He could clearly hear the sound of fighting carrying through the air, and the fact that it seemed to be dying was unnerving. His hope was that Olson had fought off whoever the band was. He knew that the sergeant was easily capable of organising a defence of the camp, but he would need time. It all depended on whether the band moving around out here was actually targeting them, or whether they were just as surprised to find another group this far north.

  Then he heard the screams, punctuated by that strange undulating call that he had first heard a few minutes ago. It was no longer a fight; he could plainly hear calls for mercy, cut short. Clearly his own troops would not commit such atrocities. The only conclusion was that they had lost, that he had failed in his duty to protect the Princess.

  Far to the east the sun had long since set. The gorge that led from the plains up toward the wooded mountains was veiled in mist that prevented anyone unfortunate enough to be out this night from seeing more than a couple of dozen yards in front of themselves. The nightlife in the area was busily chirping or hooting their way as they kept up the eternal search for food, shelter or a mate. None of them paid any attention to the two figures that stood before a large elm at the entrance to the gorge.

  Both were tall. They would have stood a head clear of the nearest humans that lived in the area. In fact, they would have stood taller even that the inhabitants of the gorge itself. Their hooded cloaks covered their features from the casual observer. Even their hands were protected by black gloves that appeared to be made from some form of smooth animal skin.

  Slowly the first figure moved toward the elm and sank down to the ground beside it. His hand appeared to caress the surface of the tree as he sat.

  “It has begun?” this from the one still standing.

  “Yes.”

  “Do they know?”

  “Not possible at this stage. The Bearer does not even know who they are.”

  “Won’t that cause problems?”

  The reclining figure turned his head to face his companion. “We will have to trust to the fates that they know what they are doing.”

  “What of the Lore Breaker?”

  The question was answered with a short laugh. “After forty-five hundred years I would have thought that you would have learnt some patience by now.” There was a silence for a few moments whilst the two figures contemplated what was just starting. “They will need strength.”

  “The Bearer?”

  “No, the Lore Breaker. Theirs will not be the easiest path to follow.”

  “Will they come here?”

  This question caused another silence as the answer was considered. “I can see no option other than for them to travel to the Elves. What help they expect when they get here I know not.”

  “Do the People of the Light know of our presence?”

  “Probably. I would be very surprised if they didn’t know that we were at least in the area.”

  “Then all we can do is wait.”

  “For the moment.”

  Fallon’s Glen

  Calmagyr Ironsson stared distantly at the passing clouds. The Spring Festival had been held three days ago and he was finally a man. Not that it appeared to have made much of a difference so far, but he was now counted as old enough to start his own life having reached seventeen summers of age. And that brought up another fact that he had not figured out yet, what to do now that he was a man.

  He was the son of the village blacksmith, the youngest son, although his height gave the impression that he was the same age, if not a little older, than his only sibling. His brother, Eldur, had already been apprenticed to his father for the previous two years and the village of Fallon’s Glen had no room for any more blacksmiths.

  There was always work up in the mountains for any that wanted it, the Dwarven mines never turned away any who were willing to work hard, but Cal could not see himself becoming a mountain man working in the gloom all day. He liked the outdoor life too much. Years spent chasing around the nearby woods when he was younger, then hunting in those same woods once he was old enough to draw a bow. He had taken to the woodsman ways with a natural ability that had impressed many of those that were his senior by a good many years. But even that was not something that he could see himself doing for the rest of his days either.

  Basically, he did not have the faintest idea what he wanted to do with himself. Fortunately he did not have to make the decision immediately, as he knew that his father would not throw him out straight away just because he had reached manhood, although he would find himself expected to do a much larger share of the chores than he used to.

  He raised his head from the grass and absently brushed aside a few strands of dark hair that dangled into his face. His hazel eyes turned toward the village in the valley below and he smiled. Sleepy was definitely one of the words that you would associate with Fallon’s Glen. Tranquil, sleepy, quiet. Nothing ever happened here, which was one of the village’s many benefits, of that he was sure. But it was also one of the things that fired his mind to leave his home.

  He had dreamt of leaving this small hamlet ever since he heard his first tale. A story of the Lords of Ages and their long, heroic battle against the dark powers. No matter how often he heard the tale, he never tired of it. He could see himself cutting the dashing figure of a hero, saving the good people of the world, rescuing some fair maiden and generally living happily ever after with the eternal gratitude of the populace. A fine tale he thought.

  Through his daydream he saw the figure of Old Man Fallon, a direct descendant of the village’s original settlers, bringing his herd down from the upper meadow. It was only then that his eyes darted to the position of the sun in the sky.

  Damn, he had not meant to stay out so long, he was supposed to be preparing the evening meal for his father and his brother. He had not even begun to hunt for the rabbit that was abundant over by the wood.

  He slid lithely to his feet, snatching up his bow and quiver in the same movement, and began to run toward the wood. It was only half a mile from where he had rested and his long, loping stride quickly ate up the distance.
His dark hair flowed in the wind he created for himself and his eyes darted around the ground, looking for sign of anything that had recently passed this way. If he could find a deer, he could easily put down his lateness to the tracking of the prey, but only if he could find one.

  As he reached the edge of the wood, he slowed, starting to move with the terrain instead of across it. His leather jerkin and trousers had been dyed a greyish brown that seemed to blend with almost any kind of terrain short of snow. Although he already stood a good few inches over six feet, his low crouch was easily held and his breath slowed abnormally as his pursuit began.

  Carefully removing an arrow from the quiver, his eyes picked up the faintest sign on the ground. The Gods must truly be joyous today, he thought. Straight in front of him was the slightest track of a Rohan deer. An adult male normally stood at least ten hands, father would definitely not complain if he could bring that home.

  He had never bragged about his skills as a woodsman, not once. But even so there was not a man in the village that would deny that he was one of the best for many years. With a stealth that bordered on the supernatural he moved down the trail, following the shallow marks in the dirt. He knew that the trail led about a hundred paces into the trees before it encountered a small pool, the likely resting place of the deer.

  About him the sounds of the forest continued uninterrupted. There was nothing to announce his presence. The price of such stealth was time. It took nearly ten minutes to reach a position from which he could see the pool and when he did he let out a low groan.

  The deer was stood, head bent by the waterside, drinking slowly. It had no idea that he was there, but neither did the youngster by her side. Even though he knew that he needed the deer if he was to escape some form of punishment for his daydreaming, he also knew that without the doe, the calf would never survive. Killing for the table was one thing, killing needlessly was quite another.

  Slowly, so as not to disturb the two animals, Cal left the pool and headed back toward the fields. He would be late, but at least he would have a few rabbits for the pot.

  Allwyn Ironsson made his way back to the small house behind the smithy. He was weary from a hard days toil, two carts had needed the wheels re-rimming, along with one of the Lords patrols requiring a dozen spare shoes for their horses. And now he knew that he was going to have to have words with Cal again. Even without entering his home he could see that there was no smoke issuing from the chimney, so no dinner had been started yet.

  Eldur was finishing off clearing up the forge before he would also be looking forward to his evening meal, so Allwyn was alone for the moment. Just coming into view at the bottom of the muddy stretch that formed the main street in the village he could see the form of Cal hurrying to try and make it back before him, but he was too late. Grunting, he headed through the door and settled himself in one of the chairs set around the kitchen table. Actually, it was the only table in the house of any size. There was a small writing table in Allwyn’s own room, but aside from that, there was not much in the way of furnishings.

  There was a tap at the door, and in strode Magron Farsighter, the village’s chief woodsman. Allwyn was surprised to see the man as he had expected Cal to be the next person through the door, but for all that his face remained commendably impassive.

  “Evening Master Farsighter.”

  “Master Ironsson. May I?” He motioned toward one of the other chairs around the table. Farsighter was tall and muscular despite his age. His dark hair was greying around the edge of his temple, but his piercing blue eyes were still full of fire. Several scars could be seen on his arms and face, the sign of one who had known a rugged life.

  “Of course, what brings you here?”

  “I wanted a word with you about Cal, but it can wait until you have had your own words with him in a moment.” He smiled, Allwyn joining him as he realised that the woodsman had to know that, with his wife ten years dead, Cal was the one of the family that was supposed to provide the meals, and as the pots were not on the stove, he was obviously in for a stern talking to.

  At almost exactly that moment the door burst open again, and Cal ran in. He took in the sight of Farsighter and his father sat together at the table and inwardly groaned. Not only would he have to listen to the lecture before he could start on the meal, but it would also be a public lecture.

  “Father, Master Farsighter.” He nodded briefly to the guest who returned the gesture with the faintest trace of a grin. He knows exactly what he’s going to see, thought Cal, damn. There were not many people in the village that Cal would admit to truly respecting, but the woodsman was one of them.

  “Perhaps you would care to explain just why I am still waiting for some food.” No pretence to take into account the presence of another, the old blacksmith launched straight into it.

  Cal considered the advantages to be had in telling some tale to try and cover his tracks, but a sideways glance at Farsighter seemed to change his mind almost instantly. Instead, he told his tale exactly as it had happened, including the decision to leave the doe and her calf, even though he knew that he would probably have avoided this conversation if he had taken the shot. As he concluded the tale he noted that Farsighter was silently nodding to himself, as if pleased. His father, however, did not appear to be as satisfied with the answer.

  “You expect me to believe that you tracked this mythical deer to the pool and then let it go. I’ll agree with one thing, you’ve improved your storytelling greatly, mixing just enough to accept some of the responsibility without accepting all of it.

  I could almost believe you if not for the fact that you have returned with four rabbits, which speaks of a lot longer spent in the field than you have allowed for with your tale.” A cough interrupted the smith. “My apologies Master Farsighter, you should not have to listen to family discipline whilst a guest under my roof.”

  “No apology is necessary Master Ironsson, but I would like to add something to the lad’s defence.”

  “Oh?” Cal looked as mystified as his father.

  “I observed your son by the pool. I saw him draw his bead on the doe before he realised that the calf was there, whereupon he immediately lowered the bow. Uncommon good sense in one so young.

  I also followed him back to the field.” Cal looked shocked. He had seen or heard no one, and Farsighter had made it back to his house before him. “His eye and hand are one when it comes to using the bow. He downed the four rabbits before they had a chance to retreat to their burrows. Not many have I seen with that level of skill.” He turned and smiled at Cal. “Reminds me of my own youth, except that I was no dreamer. Bit of a one for the ladies, but what’s wrong with that.”

  Cal’s father barked a laugh at that. “What indeed? Perhaps you would like to get to the point of your kind defence of my youngest.” He looked warily at the woodsman.

  “Your business doesn’t just profit from your skills with the hands does it Master blacksmith. That’s a quick mind that you have there as well.” He received a nod for his compliment. “Has Cal considered a career with the Royal Rangers?”

  Cal’s jaw dropped. The Rangers were near legendary. They had been directly responsible for saving the Kingdom on more than a few occasions, and to join their ranks you needed a personal recommendation from one of their own. There was no other way of joining.

  “The Rangers?” He got no further with his question as his father continued to speak as if he was not even in the room.

  “You would be willing to make the journey?”

  “Aye. Lamiir is easily good enough to watch things whilst I am gone.”

  “You would be gone for several months.”

  The woodsman grunted. “I can think of several in the village who would not be troubled by that small detail.”

  Both men looked at Cal. His father’s expression was thoughtful, whilst the older of the two just stared as if trying to appraise the youngster stood in front of him. After nearly a full minute of silence F
arsighter spoke.

  “What do you say lad, do you think you could be a Ranger?”

  The tales of all the heroes from the past flooded through his head as he heard the question. A chance to see the world, and fight mighty battles against awesome foes. His childhood fantasies held reign as he gushed forth his answer.

  “Oh yes. I would love to be a Ranger.”

  Farsighter chuckled at the response. “Enthusiasm is good, but you might want to think on what you agree to before you make a final choice. As I’m sure you must have guessed by now, I was once a Ranger myself, and I can tell you that it is a hard life.” The fact should have been obvious, but Cal had to admit to himself that he had missed it. “For every ten Rangers that join, only two will see retirement, and that’s during a good year.

  There have been battles recorded where not a single Ranger survived. Not through lack of skill you understand, but because they all willingly laid down their lives so that the main force of the army could escape from a ruinous position. Even under the best Lords direction, the situation can arise where your force could be trapped.

  Most of the main army detests the Rangers. They are the outcasts. You will not receive a warm welcome when you march, and many will seek to use you for their own ends. And these are the problems you will face from outside the ‘Pack’.”

  “The ‘Pack’?”

  “Each Ranger takes the name of a beast or its part, and that is the name that he will use at times when he speaks to other Rangers. Their training is harder than anything that you can imagine. There is a good reason why they are the best, and it would take someone who already possesses above average skills just to be allowed to enter training.

  I’ll leave you to think on it young Cal. I’ll call again in the morning. Good evening to you Master Ironsson.”

  “And to you Master Farsighter.” Cal’s father stood to escort the woodsman to the door. Once the guest had gone, he spun back to his son.