Aethir

by DeWayne Kunkel

  “I’ve seen enough, Tellius.” Ahead in the distance he could make out the collection of campfires in the night. Looking up at the cloud obscured moon he thanked the gods of his ancestors for the darkness. He turned his mount and rode down to the column of his men who waited patiently in the frigid night air.

  Their number had grown during the last week. Joined by veterans and novices alike. Men both young and old outraged by the grievous crimes being perpetrated by Goliad’s followers, they had flocked to Burcott’s banner. As word of his trek spread more men searched them out. They now numbered more than seven hundred and thirty, a sizable force to be reckoned with.

  Everyman’s eyes burned with anger and their jaws were clenched in anticipation.

  Burcott looked at their faces and knew he was seeing his own visage mirrored there. The rage that burned within him had not lessoned, three villages they had found burnt to the ground along the trail they followed. The bodies of those who once lived there were nailed to trees or lay dismembered among the ruins of their homes. Four days they had followed the trail left by these fiends and now they were within Burcott’s reach. Less than a mile away they were encamped. Unaware of the stealth at which death was stalking them.

  Burcott smiled grimly and held his lance aloft. “We go slowly and quietly,” He said in a low but firm voice. “Charge only when I give word, and offer no mercy. This night we are the vengeful hand of justice, we ride with death herself.”

  The men shook their lances and spears in silence. With hardly a sound the lines were formed, two ranks riding abreast. Burcott took his place at its middle and led them over the hill at a walk. Holding their lances upright they advanced. The thick grass of the vale muffling the hoof beats. Thin slivers of muted moonlight reflected from the razor sharp edges of their weapons.

  A cloudy mist billowed out from Burcott’s helm with each breath he took. Though the air was cold he was hot within his armor. The excitement of going into battle warmed his blood and it seemed as if the years had melted away from him. He felt young once more, full of strength and life.

  In the darkness ahead the fires grew nearer, Burcott could now make out the vague forms of men seated about them. Enjoying the last moments of this life he hoped.

  Burcott lowered his lance and spurred his horse forward. The two ranks charged down towards the encampment, the distance between the lines of running horses opened to twenty feet. Lances and spears were lowered becoming a bristling wall of death, an unstoppable wave about to crash onto an unsuspecting enemy.

  The soft grass could no longer absorb the sounds of their passage. The men about the fires heard what at first they believed to be the rumble of a distant storm.

  Some rose to their feet looking off into the darkness when the sound ceased to fade. Fear tore at their hearts when the light of the fires reflected from the burnished armor racing towards them.

  Tellius raised a bronze horn to his lips and blew three sharp blasts into the air. The clarion call echoed in the dark and a mighty cheer erupted from the mounted warriors.

  Screams filled the air as Burcott’s men overran the camp. Horses leaped over the fires and trampled on the bodies of fallen men. Spears tore through flesh and lances shattered bone. The first rank ripped through the men decimating them. The second rank followed after crashing into those fortunate enough to have survived the first onslaught.

  Burcott’s lance shattered and he tossed it aside, drawing his sword he spun his horse around. He hacked his way into the thickest of the fight. Cutting men down who strove to pull him from his saddle. He was a frightful apparition to behold. His raven winged helm covered with gore. He appeared to be a demon freshly released from the netherworld.

  The attack was over in minutes; the few survivors that remained threw down their arms and fled into the darkness with Burcott’s warriors in pursuit.

  Burcott remained in the camp his anger sated. He rode among the bodies of the dead and dying, the cries of the wounded weighing heavy on his heart. These were his countrymen after all, but their crimes had earned them this death and he would lend aid to none.

  Amid the strewn bodies he found the man he was looking for. Lord Padwen, the younger brother of lord Vernal lay on his side. He was curled into a ball with his arms wrapped tightly about his abdomen. With his eyes clenched in fear and pain he did not see Burcott dismount and approach.

  Burcott removed his helm and grimaced, the smell of urine and feces fouled the air about the fallen lord. With his boot he rolled Padwen over onto his back. The man squealed in pain and franticly fought to keep the loops of intestine inside his belly. From the rancid smell of bile Burcott knew these too had been laid open.

  He kicked Padwen’s sword away, Burcott knew a wounded man is often more dangerous than a warrior of sound body.

  Padwen watched the blade slide clear of his reach. With eyes full of fear he looked up at Burcott’s grim visage. What he found reflected in those eyes brought a whimper to his throat. He had hoped for compassion or mercy but those dark eyes burned with loathing and contempt. “Don’t kill me,” He pleaded.

  Burcott squatted bringing his face close to Padwen’s. “You’re dead already.” He said with grim satisfaction. “Your treachery has brought you a slow and painful end. A fitting punishment for the crimes I have seen committed by your hand.”

  “They were traitors to the crown!” Padwen exclaimed in his own defense. “I have done my duty as you should have.” Padwen spat at Burcott’s feet. “The house of Fullvie has long been bereft of honorable men.”

  “Duty?” Burcott hissed his face scarlet with rage. “Honor? I am surprised that those words do not set your tongue afire with their utterance.

  “You killed women and children Padwen, and now you question my honor?” Burcott stood his hand wrapping about the hilt of his sword. “You are a coward sir, and the brother of a traitor.” Burcott slid his sword halfway out of its sheath.

  “Do it then,” Padwen said with contempt.

  Burcott slammed the sword back down. “For the first time in my life I am actually taking some small measure of joy in watching death do her grim work.” Burcott paused swallowing his wrath. “Know this Padwen,” He said in a voice that stilled Padwen’s groaning. “Vernal will die soon enough and your house will fall. The banner of your forefathers will never again hang within Galloglass hall.”

  Burcott reached down and pulled the signet ring from Padwen’s finger. Placing the ring into his belt pouch he felt a momentary pang of sympathy for the dying man. “You have a dagger tucked in your belt,” He said gruffly. “I suggest you take your own life now while you yet have the strength to do so.”

  He led his horse away from the carnage. Ignoring Padwen’s curses he seated himself near one of the untended campfires. He drew his long blade and with a scrap of cloth he began to wipe the dried gore from its polished length.

  Tellius appeared out of the gloom, behind him followed two guardsmen leading a wounded man wearing the tattered tabard of the king’s guard. With a wave of his hand Tellius halted the approaching men and proceeded forward alone.

  Burcott lowered his sword and invited Tellius to join him at the fire. “Do you have a count?” Burcott asked knowing that the young captain would not have come if he did not.

  “Twenty one wounded, four of them gravely,” Tellius reported. “And seven dead.” He finished after a slight pause. “We’ve been fortunate, it could have been worse.”

  “Fortunate indeed,” Burcott muttered. “Do we know the number of the enemy?”

  “Two hundred and seven.” Tellius replied. “Although there are no Morne among them. We’ve both seen their arrows among the dead, but not a one lies with these traitors.”

  Burcott rose to his feet, “that bothers me as well.” He said. “Ready the men, we cannot tarry here overlong. Lest the dark bastards catch us unawares as we did their comrades.” Burcott looked to the wounded prisoner. “Is he well enough to act as a messenger?”

  Telli
us nodded, “ A deep cut to his shoulder is all. I personally sewed him up, despite his howls of protest. He’ll live if we let him.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Burcott said with a laugh. He walked over to the wounded man.

  The King’s guard stood with his back arrow straight and met Burcott’s gaze without flinching.

  “You will come to no further harm.” Burcott reassured the man impressed with his courage. “Return to Galloglass Hall and tell Vernal all that you have seen here. Do it in Goliad’s presence. Let the traitors know that King Gaelan will offer no pardon to men who commit such atrocities against the innocent.”

  “Gaelan is a murderer!” The guard proclaimed. “He killed his own father.”

  Burcott suppressed the urge to strike the man. “He did no such thing you fool. It was Vernal and Goliad who murdered our Lord, in their quest to seize the throne.”

  The guardsman smiled, mocking Burcott as he spoke. “Neither wears the crown, it is Weyass who sits upon the throne.”

  “And Goliad pulls the strings,” Burcott countered. “The princess has not been the same since that cur skulked into the court. King Gellan eventually saw in him the evil he keeps hidden, but for the love of his daughter he stayed his hand hoping that in time her eyes would be opened as well.” Burcott held up his hand silencing the captive. “He waited too long and Goliad took his daughters heart.”

  Burcott motioned for his men to release the captive’s arms. “I am not going to stand here and argue with you. When you return to Thorunder ask yourself this. Why is it that Goliad clings to the shadows? Would an honorable man alley himself with the Morne?”

  Burcott waited for the man to respond but the guard merely stood in silence glowering at him. “Take a horse and go.” He said dismissing the man.” If I were you I would leave Trondhiem,” Burcott called after the retreating guard. “For if I ever lay eyes upon you again I will remove your head.”

  Burcott smiled as he watched the man quicken his pace in fear. The burly lord had a well-earned reputation for keeping his word and this man knew it.

  Tellius stood watching the entire exchange in silence. He waited until the men were out of earshot before speaking. “Is this wise?” He asked. “Once word of Padwen’s death reaches Vernal he’ll send every man in his command after us.”

  Burcott smiled and donned his helm. “I hope so, for every man traipsing about the countryside will be one less he could send against Gaelan.”

  Tellius shook his head in amusement. “Now I see why the older warriors often call you the fox.”

  “Tell me Tellius, do all the men name the lords after animals.” Burcott asked before mounting his horse.

  “Only those we love or hate,” Tellius answered with a straight face.

  “Perhaps it would be better if I do not know as to which group I fall into.”

  “You have only to look at the quality of men who follow your banner to know the answer.” Tellius said with a bow.

  “Gather our fallen,” Burcott shouted to his men who were milling about. “We will bury them on ground not soiled by the blood of cowards.”

  Tellius looked on the dead enemy, “What of the others?”

  “Let the crows have them.” Burcott answered.

  None of the men questioned his orders. After all, these men had slaughtered entire villages leaving the dead for the carrion eaters.

  In short order the column was moving southward. Before dawn they cut across tilled fields bordered by low walls of piled stone.

  Burcott pressed the weary men onward. He knew a large force of Morne was close by and he did not want to meet them in the open. He hoped to eventually face them, but it would be on ground of his choosing.

  As the sun crested the horizon they passed from the farms into lands that had never known the bite of the plow.

  The grassy plain of Theranduil was bordered on the east by the dreary peaks of the Shardwall. Dark and foreboding the snowcapped mountains rose abruptly from the fertile plains. Burcott led his men up into the lower foothills. Where they made camp within the mountains shadow.

  The dead were buried and the men fell fast asleep upon the grass. Burcott walked among his sleeping men. He had pushed them hard throughout the night and they deserved the rest.

  Every four hours a group of horsemen would leave the dale and another would arrive. The relieved sentries would see to their mounts and grab what rest they could. The ritual was repeated throughout the day and into the following night as well.

  At two hours past midnight Tellius awakened Burcott. In the pale light of a new moon stood one of the sentries.

  Burcott was awake in an instant, he knew something was amiss or Tellius would not intrude upon his slumber. “What is it?” He asked in a whisper.

  “You should hear this from the sentry who saw it.” Tellius waved the man over.

  The guard approached his face barely lit by the dim light. “Sir,” He said with a short bow.

  Burcott nodded in encouragement.

  “I was standing watch two miles north of here, near the old merchants trail.”

  “I know of it,” Burcott remembered the muddy track. They had passed it the day before.

  “Sir,” The young man continued his voice cracking with stress. “A large force of riders, perhaps two hundred rode past me upon it. I was well hidden and they failed to see me. They were Morne sir, dressed in robes of black upon lithe steeds dark as midnight. At their head ran great beasts their snouts close to the road.” He paused gathering his thoughts. “It was dark, but these things were as large as a horse, with broad chests and wedge shaped heads. They moved silently, a dark shadow in the night.” He finished and lowered his eyes afraid to look at Burcott. “I speak the truth my lord.”

  “I believe you,” Burcott said easing the young mans fears. “Those of us who have fought in the border campaign know the beasts you have described. Fell Hounds they are named, fierce beasts that roam the northern wilds. The Morne use them as we would use hunting hounds.

  “I’ve lost my share of friends to their powerful jaws. Gaping maws with fangs as long as your arm that pierce armor as easily as flesh. You were fortunate not to have been discovered.” Burcott looked to Tellius, “Recall the sentries and wake the men.”

  “Are we breaking camp then?” Tellius asked.

  “The Fell hounds will find our spoor soon enough.” Burcott answered him with a smile. “The Morne will come, and when they do we will have a surprise waiting for them.”

  Tellius grinned; Burcott’s enthusiasm was contagious. Since his childhood he has wanted to be a guardsman, protecting Trondhiem from the inhuman westerners that have always threatened her borders. Now it appeared he would get the chance to prove himself against the black riders.

  The dawn was yet two hours away when the first of the Fell hounds crested the low rise at the northern end of the dale. The great hound flowed down the hillside, a liquid shadow stalking its prey. Two more of the beasts followed in its wake their snouts pressed to the frigid earth.

  A small fire burned in the camp, little more than a heap of glowing embers. Its feeble light barely illuminating the bundled forms stretched out around it. The horses stood tethered nearby and tossed their heads in agitation. The animals could sense something was amiss but they had not yet caught the scent of the Fell hounds.

  A line of horseman crested the hill behind the trackers. Dark figures swathed in robes that floated in the gentle wind. They looked down upon the quiet camp and drew their long curved sabers, the moonlight reflecting brightly from the steel blades.

  The leader of the Morne voiced a wordless cry and led the charge down the gentle slope towards the bundled forms about the fire.

  The Fell Hounds tore into the cloaks and blankets rending the material. While the horses screamed in terror and tore at their fetters, seeking to flee the dreaded beasts.

  The Morne hacked at the bundles their blades flashing in the night. Grass and tattered cloth flew into the air. Suddenl
y they knew their plight, spinning their mounts about they sought to flee the trap Burcott had lain for them. There were no men about the fire, only blankets stuffed with grass and twigs. Before their mounts could take one step out of the dale a dense swarm of arrows rained down upon them.

  Iron points pierced the thick hides of the Morne, shattering bone and impaling hearts. The Morne ranks disintegrated, their harsh voices crying out in alarm and anguish.

  Horses fell by the dozens taking their inhuman riders down with them. Almost instantly another volley of the deadly shafts cut into them. Two of the Fell Hounds fell dead their shaggy fur offering little defense against the score of arrows aimed against them.

  The third Fell Hound was sorely wounded, and in its madness it turned against its masters. The terrible maw of the beasts ripped the throats out of both horse and unseated riders.

  With half their number either dead or dying the Morne rallied and charged their mounts up the hillside towards the line of archers standing upon the hills crown.

  The bowmen stepped aside and a horn sounded in the darkness. Burcott led the charge his eyes burning from within his raven winged helm. They passed through the open ranks of bowmen and tore across the damp grass. Their eyes burned with hatred outshining the tips of their lances, two hundred men raced towards their stunned foe.

  Had these been any other warriors, a quick surrender or a full route would have occurred. But these were Morne, warriors bred to serve the Storm God. They rallied and stood their ground as the wave of Burcott’s men broke against them.

  The Reptilian warriors pressed forward seeking to break through the line of men. Spears shattered and swords rang against each other. The horses spun lashing out with iron-shod hooves.