The Chronicles of Caylen-Tor
by
Byron A. Roberts
Cover art by Martin Hanford
The Chronicles of Caylen-Tor copyright © Byron A. Roberts 2019 under exclusive license to DMR Books.
ISBN 978-0-9909900-6-2
All rights reserved
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Book I: The Siege of Gul-Azlaan
The war between the Imperium and the Vyrgothian Kingdoms had raged for decades without cessation. Years of bitter struggle and a myriad epic battles had resulted in the great armies of the Southern Expanse becoming locked in a gruelling, perpetual stalemate. However, shortly before the Second Cataclysm reshaped the face of the antediluvian world, the balance of power shifted significantly. The tide of war duly began to turn with series of decisive imperial victories, including the fall of the great Vyrgothian fortress-city Gul-Nomedes. The breaching of that ancient bastion’s mighty walls shook the Vyrgothian Alliance to its core. The remaining fortresses of Gul-Azlaan, Gul-Tryarch and Gul-Kothoth yet remained inviolate, but the war-weary Over-King swiftly issued a decree that they be reinforced for imminent attack, enlisting sell-swords and mercenary companies from far and wide to bolster the citadels against the resurgent imperial war-machine. And so it was that the vast armies of the Emperor Koord, emboldened by their momentous victory, pressed inexorably onward into the heartland of their ancestral foe to besiege the hoary, time-worn bulwarks of Gul-Azlaan…
Chapter I
The Imperium Ascendant
Beneath a glowering and pitiless sun, two men traversed the arid desert. The younger of the pair was clad in a chainmail hauberk, leather breeches and buckskin boots. Studded leather vambraces bound his forearms and a notched broadsword was scabbarded at his waist. He was hard-muscled and his blond hair was gathered into a ponytail, while a flaxen beard adorned his weathered face. The older man was garbed in leather lamellar armour and wore a white hooded cloak edged with gold braid. His black hair and pointed beard were streaked with grey and he carried an ornate scimitar with a hilt of polished ivory.
The blond man wiped sweat from his eyes and glanced skyward, noting a trio of circling vultures whose stark forms seemed to cut a black swath through the endless vista of azure. “Gods!” he rasped, “This is a blighted place. Fit for neither man nor beast!”
A smile creased the older man’s deeply lined, sun-bronzed face. “You northern folk are ill-suited to desert life, Caylen,” he said, his voice deep and thickly accented. “But for those born into the unforgiving embrace of the dunes, survival is an art swiftly learned.”
Caylen grimaced, running a dry tongue over his parched lips. “Give me the forests and mountains of my homeland any day, Viseth. Wolves and bears may prowl its shadows, but at least a man won’t die of thirst and have his bones bleached by the sun.”
Viseth nodded grimly. “There are things beneath these shifting sands far more deadly than your wolves and bears, northlander.”
Caylen’s brow furrowed but he said nothing more, merely casting a wary glance at the brooding dunes which surrounded them.
For another five hundred yards the warriors strode the desolate terrain in silence, the marl and sandstone hard beneath their booted feet. At length they crested a steep rise and dropped low to the ground, edging their way to the summit of a great escarpment which overlooked a vast, gravel-strewn arroyo far below.
“Behold,” growled Viseth, squinting into the shimmering heat-haze. “The Imperium!”
Caylen’s grey eyes widened as he gazed down upon the colossal army. Surrounded by a vast cloud of billowing dust, the Imperial Host advanced slowly and inexorably across the arid terrain to the dolorous beat of a myriad thunderous war-drums. Sunlight glinted on the countless spears, javelins, swords and axes borne by the assembled legions, and emblazoned upon every regiment’s banner was the martial sigil of the Imperium; a sable scorpion and two crossed tulwars against a field of vivid crimson.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” hissed Viseth.
In awed silence Caylen continued to stare at the Grand Expeditionary Army of the Emperor Koord. At the force’s vanguard, serried regiments of spear-men clad in scale-mail armour marched in rigid formation, followed by legions of iron-helmeted swordsmen encased in lamellar cuirasses and bearing tulwars and crescent shaped shields. Hundreds of cowled archers flanked the swordsmen, each carrying a slender black recurve bow. Some of the bowmen also carried broad pavises and scimitars, while others bore bronze-tipped javelins and serrated chakrams. The imperial cavalry and charioteers advanced with the infantry, the horsemen armed with long, iron-tipped lances, oval leather shields and clad in cured leather tunics reinforced with bronze scale-mail. Following closely behind the cavalry, cohorts of engineers escorted the army’s supply caravans which were drawn by truculent camels, and at their rear the empire’s great siege engines and ballistae ground the desert gravel beneath their broad wooden wheels, laboriously hauled by scores of heavily muscled beasts of burden and toil-hardened slaves.
“There!” snapped Viseth, pointing suddenly towards the centre of the great imperial host. “Can you see him? It’s the emperor himself!”
Caylen peered into the dust-choked distance and descried a figure mounted atop a chaffroned grey steed, resplendent in elaborate armour of cerulean steel. The rider’s helmet boasted two shining silver wings and a great crest of blackened mammoth hair, and he wore a voluminous cloak of panther skin edged with gleaming argent braid.
“Koord!” breathed Caylen. “The old goat himself has come to see this battle. We are honoured, it would seem.”
Viseth smiled mirthlessly. “Aye, and he’s surrounded by his thrice-cursed Iron Phalanx. Fanatics, every damned one of them! Who else can you spy down there?”
Caylen shielded his eyes from the sun and gazed once more upon the great army. At the emperor’s side rode a warrior clad in golden plate armour and a billowing cloak of sable. The man’s pauldrons were fashioned in the form of twin tigers’ heads and his gleaming, open-faced helm was crowned with a plume of
snow-pale horsehair.
“That must be Baalthus Vane,” growled Caylen.
“None other,” Viseth replied. “The Imperium’s greatest general. Never have the emperor’s forces met defeat under his command. And as always, the Legion of the Ebon Tiger marches with him.”
Caylen scowled as he beheld a legion of black-garbed warriors emerge from the swirling dust. They were clad in sable robes and hauberks of golden scale-mail, their faces hidden behind full-face bronze helms. Each legionary bore a curved tulwar, a short-hafted spear and a hardened leather shield with a bronze rim. The lead warrior carried a standard which bore the legion’s far-famed sigil, a black tiger’s head snarling against a coruscant field of gold.
“Even amongst my clansmen, tales of the Ebon Tiger are told,” muttered Caylen.
Viseth nodded. “They are the renowned Emperor’s Lance. Elite of the Imperium. They have wrought red ruin from the satrapies of the east to the beast-haunted jungles of the far south. They are unmatched.”
Caylen grinned wolfishly. “They are just men, Viseth. And they’ll die like any other men when they get a yard of cold steel in their guts.”
“Confidence can be a boon, northlander,” Viseth sighed. “Be mindful it does not turn to arrogance, for that serves no man well.”
Caylen shook his head. “How has the Over-King endured for so long against such a foe?”
“Heed me, my friend,” Viseth replied. “Unity has been the salvation of the Vyrgothians. Only when the Great Houses united in common cause against the Imperium did they ensure their survival. The alliance of kingdoms is powerful. In unity, there is strength.”
“But against these damnable hordes?” Caylen muttered. “The renegade kings Kalides and Actaeon refuse to even commit to the alliance. It’s only a matter of time before the Imperium prevails.”
“Perhaps,” said Viseth wearily. “But the whims of the war-gods are ever changing, and the walls of the Vyrgothian fortresses are high.” With that, he unfastened a goatskin gourd from his belt and took a swig of tepid water. Then he handed the gourd to Caylen, who drank deeply.
“Let us return to Gul-Azlaan!” enounced Viseth. “We have scouted the foe as General Kleitos instructed. Now we must inform him that the hounds of the Imperium shall be baying at his gate come the dawn!”
And the two men scrambled back down the rocky slope into the calescent embrace of the desert.
Chapter II
Ruminations Before the Storm
In the shadow cast by the walls of the great fortress, Caylen and Viseth patiently awaited the opening of the western gate’s reinforced wicket door.
“No matter how many times I see this place, it still awes me,” Caylen whispered, gazing up at the towering limestone and granite edifice.
Viseth nodded. “Aye, she’s an impressive old thing, to be sure. But if you think Gul-Azlaan is a marvel, you should see Gul-Kothoth.”
“I’ve heard the tales. It’s even bigger, or so I’m told.”
“The largest of the Vyrgothian fortress-cities,” Viseth replied. “Walls so high they’re wreathed in clouds. Some say it wasn’t built by men, but by giants or titans.”
“Indeed,” smirked Caylen. “And I suppose dryads and dendans guard its gates?”
“We mere mortals can but wonder,” said Viseth with a grin.
Caylen surveyed the colossal fortress, noting the distant crenelated battlements atop the structure’s mighty walls. Machicolated parapets studded the weathered stone and countless cruciform arrow loops had been hewn into its surface. The walls of Gul-Azlaan were eighty-five feet high and twenty feet thick, and no army could hope to tunnel beneath them due to the rocky substratum which underpinned the fortification; to the east and west of the citadel stretched an expanse of rugged foothills which eventually rose to become the craggy peaks of a distant mountain range. The fortress had been built with a stout granite keep at its centre, and the labyrinth of civilian structures which once sat within the walls of the hoary stronghold had long since been demolished or converted into an array of storehouses, stables, armouries and barracks. And atop the four lofty watchtowers which flanked Gul-Azlaan’s cyclopean ramparts flew the banner of the Vyrgothian Alliance, a white griffin emblazoned upon a field of azure.
Finally, the sturdy wooden door yawned noisily open and the two men were swiftly ushered inside by the bastion’s gatekeepers. A sallow-faced guard clad in battered leather armour strode from the shadows to meet them.
“General Kleitos awaits you in the keep,” the man barked.
Viseth scowled. “May we not wash the dust from our bodies and wet our parched throats first?”
“Later!” the guard snapped. “Be swift, for the war-council has convened!”
Caylen and Viseth were duly escorted to the fortified keep wherein the defenders of the fortress had gathered to contrive a strategy for the impending siege. As he entered the sparsely furnished circular chamber, Caylen regarded those who had assembled therein. At the room’s centre, behind a broad oaken rostrum strewn with scrolls and parchments, stood General Kleitos, the veteran Vyrgothian officer charged with the defence of Gul-Azlaan. He was clad in battle-worn plate armour and a cerulean cloak, and his ashen, rugose face wore a deeply harrowed expression. The general was flanked by a retinue of staff officers who gazed impassively at the two men as they joined the solemn gathering. To the right of the Vyrgothians stood a black-haired, olive-skinned warrior encased in a red leather hauberk. Caylen knew this man to be Captain Aegidius, master of the Company of the Crimson Falcon, the largest mercenary band stationed at the fortress. Many regarded the Crimson Falcon as little more than brigands and pirates, but their renown as deadly warriors was well deserved. In the shadows behind Aegidius lurked the hooded, black-clad warrior known as Mazares, Lord of the Shadow Hand. The inscrutable Mazares and his small company of searingly efficient hired killers had swiftly risen to martial prominence during the War of the Satrapies some years ago. It was said that to face the Shadow Hand in battle was to face certain death. Across the room, leaning against a trestle table with a flagon of ale in his grasp, was the towering, chainmail-armoured northman Haakon the Grey. Caylen was well acquainted with this reaver, having spent many an evening drinking and dicing with him in the barracks. Haakon grinned as Caylen entered the room, his plaited grey beard flecked with beer-froth. Beside him was his long-hafted and double-headed axe, the notched blades shaped like the beaks of twin birds of prey. Seated upon a rough-hewn chair to Haakon’s right was a diminutive, raven-haired woman clad in a leather lamellar cuirass. Her dark, almond shaped eyes regarded Caylen intently, and the lacquered black scabbards of her two slender short-swords gleamed in the light from the chamber’s many torches and braziers. Caylen knew this woman only as Chiyome, but she had borne many other names during her adventures in the distant lands of the eastern feudal lords.
General Kleitos glared disdainfully at the two men and motioned for them to hold position by the doorway. “Scouts. What of the foe?”
Viseth met the general’s gaze evenly. “Come the dawn, the emperor himself shall be at your gate. And he has not come to parlay. He brings his full might to bear against you, including the Ebon Tiger.”
Kleitos sighed wearily. “So be it, the die is cast. The Over-King has ordered that we hold this fortress, and we shall obey.”
Captain Aegidius frowned and folded his arms. “When will the reinforcements arrive?”
“They will not,” Kleitos rumbled. “I have today received a dispatch informing me that the defence of Gul-Azlaan falls to us alone.”
Haakon drained his flagon and slammed it noisily down upon the trestle table. “Ha! As I suspected. If they could spare any more troops, they wouldn’t be hiring private armies to man their walls!”
“The Over-King has full confidence in our ability to withstand the imperial assault,” snapped Kleitos.
“I’m sure he does,” Aegidius muttered. “But this does not bode well for the outcome.”
A young Vyrgothian officer to the right of General Kleitos stepped forward. “I expected as much from your kind, sell-sword rabble! You’ll abandon us the first chance you get, I’ll wager!”
Aegidius smiled coldly. “Not before I’m paid, you soft-bellied pup.”
The young officer’s face turned ashen and his hand brushed the hilt of his sabre.
“As you were, Captain Tymon,” Kleitos rumbled.
Heedless of his general’s command, Tymon’s thin mouth curled in a sneer. “Curse the royal mandate that enlisted mercenary scum into this army! We don’t need you perfidious dogs to hold these walls. You are bereft of honour!”
Chiyome laughed suddenly, the sound like ice. “Honour? There is no honour in war. Only blood and death.”
“Begone then, woman!” Tymon seethed. “All the more glory for us. When the sagas are told of this battle, only the deeds of the brave shall be enshrined in legendry!”
“There will be no tales sung of you, stripling,” hissed Chiyome. “The bards do not recall the names of the men who fall in the fray, only the names of the tyrants who order them to their doom.”
“Enough!” boomed General Kleitos. “Tymon, one more word and you’ll be in irons, regardless of whether or not your father holds a position in the war ministry!”
Tymon grudgingly fell silent, but his amber eyes continued to shine brightly with anger.
Kleitos then turned to address a burly, black-bearded officer to his left. “Quartermaster Demetrius, what is your appraisal?”
“This fortress is well provisioned,” Demetrius declared. “We have supplies and fresh water in abundance. We can endure for weeks, if need be.”
“The siege will not last long,” whispered Chiyome.
“She is right,” Aegidius snapped. “The gates of Gul-Nomedes were breached too easily. That debacle was a display of hubris I thought you Vyrgothians would not repeat. Mayhap I was wrong.”
The Chronicles of Caylen-Tor Page 1