by P D Ceanneir
The Blacksword flicked the last of the blood off his blades, fused them together, and holstered it in its scabbard. He then formed a Fireball in each hand and threw them at the retreating soldiers. Running men screamed as the long stream of flame hit their backs and made their flesh bubble and their bones char. A strong gust of the Wind Element followed, sending men high into the air and dashing them against the city’s white walls or splashing into the waters of the moat.
On the battlements, archers raised the alarm and word of the Blacksword’s appearance spread around the garrison, drawing soldiers toward the gates. More yeomen of the Vinton Archers ran up the battlement stairs to join their comrades, and each was astounded at the burning devastation and death a hundred feet below them. There, standing alone among it was the mythical figure of the Blacksword.
‘Raise the drawbridge!’ ordered a captain of the archers in the tall towers that flanked the oak and iron gates. Men ran to the winches. There was a winch in each tower either one of which could turn the huge chain cog individually, although, two together raised the wooden bridge quicker.
The Blacksword stood his ground ten paces from the bridge as the black iron chains at each side tightened then lifted the ten-foot thick bridge. He watched as the row of archers notched arrows to bow strings and aimed. A senior ranked soldier at the right hand gate tower gave the order for them to loose arrows at the Blacksword.
A thick row of black shafts blocked the view of the white towers for a second as they streamed towards the being, but the Demigod nonchalantly waved his hand at the oncoming cloud of death and the Wind Element did the rest. The blast of the third element reached hurricane force for a split second and turned the arrows around so they sailed on the strong current of wind back towards their owners, striking some of the archers to send them hurtling backwards off the parapets and crenelations. Others had the good sense to duck as the wave of wind screamed over them.
The Blacksword summoned the Fire Element again to both hands; this time he linked a strong Pyromantic Surge to the flame, instantly making them glow white-hot. The men in the tall gate towers saw the land light up around him and they panicked. Those on the winches turned the steel handle quicker at the urging of their friends.
The Blacksword sent the balls of flame towards the towers with the force of his will. The air boomed as they went faster than the speed of sound. The missiles disintegrated the top half of the towers sending hot rubble down to the entrance courtyard below. Flame spread through the building’s inner stairwell incinerating anyone in its path, this included the winch men.
The bridge slammed back down with a thump.
As he walked the length of the wooden bridge arrows thumped into the wood around him. Those that came close to striking him burst into dust before impact.
Soldiers on the other side of the main gate formed ranks in four rows, shields held up and spears resting on the top rims. Only a few feet in front of them lay large chunks of debris from the two towers and dead archers, smouldering in a blackened ruin. The sounds of popping and crackling of flesh from the bodies of the still burning winch men sent a shiver down every soldier’s spine. As they stood in abject silence staring at the gates they could hear the sounds of booted footsteps as the Blacksword approached the high oak and latticed-worked iron gates.
Each man held their breath wishing that the sounds of footsteps would recede, they did not, but they did stop.
The noise of the city awakening behind them did not distract their attention from the gate. The occupying citizenry were shouting in panic and running in all directions spreading the news of the Blacksword’s attack.
One of the officers edged closer to the gate. He stepped over rubble and bodies until he was within ten feet of the wood and iron-barred doors. He stood staring for some time.
Then the gate buckled inward.
The officer flinched as he saw the thick iron strapping, which held the four-foot wide oak slats in place bend towards him. The five thick locking beams, each of them a foot wide, creaked under the strain. Small hairline cracks appeared in the centre of the gates and spread out in a circular pattern as it wound its way all over the surface of the wood and metal.
The officer walked backwards quickly, mesmerised by the buckling of the gate. Surely, this was not possible! Not even a Ri had the ability to do this!
Then the huge gate that had served to protect the locals of Caphun for a hundred years, and the invaders for a few months, exploded.
Chapter Twenty One
The Rescue of Caphun
E
ven in his weakened state, the Red Duke felt the use of the Rawn Arts from his place of confinement inside the Manor House cellar. He realised it would take a powerful Ri to produce the energy required to disturb the elemental atmosphere that all Rawns could sense, and this was a very powerful disturbance indeed. His head snapped up as he recognised the Pyromantic Surge. He was confused, anxious and overjoyed all at the same time.
Lord Milam also sensed it and Lord Rett saw his flushed sweaty face go pale in a matter of seconds. The count quickly picked up his sword belt and strapped it around his waist.
‘Diego, watch him,’ he said to the muscle bound henchman before he swept out of the room calling for his guards. Diego turned away from the count’s hurried exit with a frown. Then he gave the duke a leer that showed off his two remaining teeth and black gums.
‘Close your mouth, dung breath,’ growled the duke, ‘if I have to smell your stench again I think I’ll puke.’
The bald headed thug did not stop smiling. He pulled out one of three short bladed knives from a belt strapped over his shoulder and chest. He then started to use the point to pick the dirt out from under his long nails and walked slowly towards the duke with a look of hate in his eyes coupled with the smile of the soon-to-be-amused on his lips.
Flesh, bone and good strong armour are no defence against thousands of wooden splinters and iron shards travelling at high velocity. The debris of the exploding gate resulted in carnage amidst a scattering bloodbath of devastation. The young officer, who had conquered his fear and approached the gate, was now unrecognisable, mainly because he was now in several pieces scattered amongst the dead. The rest of his men were pincushions full of strong oak splinters of various sizes, which did not seem to discriminate against flesh and armour as they passed through at least three rows of men, eviscerating them on their high-speed journey.
Not all of the soldiers were dead, most writhed on the ground in agony as they clutched gaping wounds and groaned even louder when they saw the Blacksword walking among the bloodshed. He found one young soldier, leaking life-giving fluid from deep neck wound, his eyes stared unfocused upward and he coughed blood as he breathed. The Blacksword flexed his pale white fingers, placed it on the soldier’s helmetless head and performed a Thought Link. The dying man flinched under the cold touch and the invasion of his mind.
The Blacksword found the information he required, that the Red Duke was held captive inside the cellar of the Old Manor House, which was at the entrance to the castle’s main walls. He left the soldier to die and walked up the street. Daylight was coming to breathe light and warmth into the darker corners of the side streets where people cowered in terror as he passed. Soldiers and citizens ran in all directions, mostly away from him. The path he walked along forked, one branch curved around the castle crag and formed the town’s north running street called Obelisk Way, while the other rose up through a row of older houses and woodland eventually reaching the castle crag summit.
At that moment, more soldiers were running down from their garrison at the top of the road to join their colleagues at the gate. Due to the narrowness of the road, the tightly packed formation made an easy target; the Blacksword shook his head at their stupidity. He formed a large Fireball in his hand, linking a powerful Pyromantic Surge to it and let it fly straight towards the mass of soldiers. Some of the men saw sense in jumping clear. Yet, the main body of Vallkytes instantly
incinerated as the Fireball passed through them, and its trajectory continued up the street smashing into something far ahead which caused the sky to light up a stark white for a brief second followed by tall columns of flame.
Arrows still rained down towards the Blacksword from the battlements, bursting into dust whenever they got near, but he ignored them, jumped onto the nearest roof, and sprinted out of range.
The feeling of safety the, now greatly diminished, fleeing Brethac Siege Army had as they ran further away from the scything death of the Blacksword’s blades soon reversed into sheer dread as they met headlong oblivion in the shape of Sir Linth and his handful of archers. With no time to don complete armour, the army soon reduced in size to a few hundred due to the hail of arrows coming out of the dull winter morning.
Those who ran to the south east met Powyss of the Hoath and what remained of late Thane Garret’s infantrymen. Bor-Teavan, flame wreathed and glowing brightly in the crisp night air, hacked down enemy soldiers and spat streams of flame at shield men that tried to form a wall and hem him in. Little Kith and Hexor took just six men straight through the unformed enemy and made a dash to the moat bridge where they met more Vallkytes trying to defend the shattered gate. The defenders, disorientated and few in number, fled into the town when they saw the Paladin’s Raider armour. Even those on the battlements retreated.
Fortunately, for Powyss and his small squad, the enemy host were scattered due to their belief that all areas of the camp were coming under attack from a much larger army. Certainly, Whyteman along with Furran, both shooting arrows and Spit Gun bolts respectively with staggering precision from the copse of trees near the burning ruins of the command tents, drew soldiers away from the town gates. He and Furran did not stay long, and they moved away to join up with Linth and his handful of bowmen who were rapidly running out of arrows. Sir Foxe joined Tia down at the south end of the camp. They had no backup with them, but a female Rawn Master was a formidable opponent at the best of times due to them being stronger in the Arts than the men were. They both attacked from behind as Linth’s group backed away. Tia leapt over their heads and landed in the middle of the group of lightly armoured Vallkytes and shoved them back with a wide burst of the third element, which scattered them enough for her to have room to swing her sword. Foxe joined her, back-to-back, with his shield up to ward off the enemy spears. They only had to defend for a few seconds before Powyss and his group waded in.
The inclusion of two Rawn Masters in the fight, and the obvious fear of the Blacksword, may have made a difference to the outcome of the battle. Powyss also realised that the enemy had no idea of their numbers and probably thought his own force was of equal size. Who in their right mind would attack a host of about two thousand with a small group of men? Madness!
Whatever the answer, Powyss shook his head as he watched the enemy soldiers back away off into the gloom of the early morning. Only a lunatic could have thought up this attack and get away with it. The fast approaching daylight would bring answers to the Vallkytes, but for now, Powyss and his small band had a reprieve.
He met Kith and Hexor with their men at the bridge. He ordered Linth to stay with a small detachment and guard against any retaliation from the enemy.
Powyss reckoned that once the Vallkyte officers reformed their numbers they might come to aid their comrades inside the town to retake it.
‘Linth, send a runner south to signal Captain Danyil,’ he said, ‘the sooner the Cybeleion gets here the better I will feel.’
“Energy does not come from the body, but from the soul.” Those words had echoed inside Lord Rett’s head for the past few days. They were the words of Pythanos Ri of the Ri Order, a long dead Tutor of the Acolytes when the Red Duke was a young apprentice, and it was only now that he realised what he meant.
In desperate circumstances, energy flowed through force of will. He was weak, he knew that, he had lost a lot of blood, but his soul was vibrant and unwilling to let go of life. Besides, seeing an inane inbred lurching towards him with sharp implement and a look on his grinning face that said “Guess where this is going?” tended to give one an incentive to live. He forced the Earth Element into his manacles and only had enough energy to make the right one brittle. As Diego got within two feet of him, the duke pulled with all his strength and the shackle shattered. He had a notion that there would be little use in his nub arm, but was amazed at how much adrenaline was rushing through his bloodstream.
Diego was stunned as the Red Duke grabbed his hand and with a mighty heave, pushed the knife he was carrying into his throat.
The Old Manor House sat at the top of the Castle Mile and looked down Castle Lane. It was the second largest building in the town, the first being the castle itself. It had a large balcony over a row of a dozen decorative pillars. A crenelated upper storey under a pointed red-tiled roof gave the building a handsome look. The Manor was once the headquarters of the town Mayor, now it served as the garrison building of the Brethac Siege Army.
The glowing oil lanterns that hung from tall posts along East Crag Lane cast a soft yellow glow over the frosted cobbles of the street. Even in the approaching daylight, the lanterns did little to lighten the gloom above them, so a dark figure could jump unnoticed from rooftop to rooftop quite freely.
The figure halted as it landed on the parapet of the Manor House. It lay flat to the wall upside-down and watched the people that congregated at the open doorway. Lord Milam was issuing orders from the entrance steps, his form silhouetted by the light from the oil lamps that ran along the Old Manor’s hall. The many soldiers that stood at the foot of the steps acknowledged those orders and they soon ran off in various directions until there were only six men left.
Those six waited for the count to send them elsewhere when the black clad figure above them extruded himself from the shadows and fluttered silently into their midst. There was a brief flurry of activity, the clash of sword, the cutting of flesh and the desperate sounds of frightened, dying men, but within a few seconds, the six were dead at the Blacksword’s feet.
Lord Milam stood aghast, his jaw hung loose in astonishment.
‘By the gods, it can’t be!’ he whispered to himself.
The Blacksword stomped forward and Milam pulled out his sword and attacked, but the Blacksword parried with SinDex and then used a back and forward movement of his wrist, twisting his blade around the count’s weapon and knocking it from his grasp. The count could only stare in fear as his sword clattered to a stop on the cobbles ten feet from him.
Lord Milam staggered backwards to the entrance of the Manor as he formed a Fireball between both hands and threw it directly at the Blacksword. The Blacksword plucked it from the air with his left hand, squeezed, and it extinguished into grey smoke.
The sound of a pitiful sob escaped from Lord Milam’s lips.
The Blacksword made a pushing movement with the palm of his left hand and a hardened wall of air slammed into Milan’s chest, sending him hurtling over to the far side of the hall. He went through part of the banister that formed the spiral staircase, which rose up to the next level and down to the soldier quarters and the cellar.
Milam stood up unsteadily, he felt large bruises down his back and a rib was broken. He gasped in surprise to see that the Blacksword was only inches from him. How could he move so fast?
He took a swing at the darkness of the hood and the tall creature grasped his forearm in a very strong grip and then wrenched violently so the arm popped out of its shoulder socket. Milam screamed at the flaring pain and then his yell ended abruptly as he received a hammer blow to the stomach that ruptured organs with it’s violence. He saw stars bloom in his vision as the punch to his face dislocated his jaw and shattered his cheekbone. The strength of this creature was astonishing.
Even through his blurred vision, the hall spun around him as the Blacksword lifted him up and hurled him over the balcony. He plunged head first down through the gap in the spiral staircase to the cellar entrance be
low.
Diego took a long time to die. He still had strength in his legs to stand, although blood flowed freely over his hands as he tried in vain to staunch the flow from the wound in his neck. He was still trying to strangle Lord Rett and doing a poor job of it because his hands were too slimy with his own blood for purchase. Lord Rett gritted his teeth and sawed the knife back and forth to cut arteries and tendons in the big man’s throat. Eventually Diego’s strength waned as his life ebbed from his fat body and he slumped to the ground landing with a splash in a pool of his own blood.
Just then, the cellar door burst open, shattering into thousands of tiny pieces as the body of the Count of Tressel flew through it with incredible force. The battered and broken count was still alive and in some despair. With his one good arm, he crawled away from the door, eyes staring wildly at the darkness beyond the doorway. His legs were obviously smashed due to the strange angle of the feet and blood flowed from a very deep scalp wound.
In order to save confusion and to confront the duke with a familiar face, the Blacksword had reluctantly changed back into Prince Havoc. Therefore, the tall figure of the prince, wearing a dark green cape over battered green armour walked through the doorway. He looked with concern at his one-time master hanging from one chain, semi-naked and covered in blood and wounds.
The duke lifted his head and did not smile as the prince walked towards him.
‘You took your bloody time!’ he growled.
Like a giant behemoth gliding through the clouds of myth, the Cybeleion floated silently over the conical towers of the White Castle of Caphun and descended onto the town like a vengeful spirit. Only moments before her lookout had spotted the fire arrow sent upwards by Sir Linth’s runner as the Sky Ship hovered around the area of the Haplann Hills. The small signal was pointless, as the crew had been watching the glow in the sky from the burning camp for the best part of an hour.