The Spirit of The Warrior: The Axton Empire book 1

by Ryan Copeland

  “Aye,” Tiberius said with a nod, “I think we did.”

  “Good. Help me to your friends, please.”

  With great effort, Tiberius supported the hulking man as he clambered to where Shayla and Michael lie on the broken ground. Fresh snow was falling into the loose dirt. The cold air was beginning to return now that the fury of the battle was over. The fire from the forest and village started to smolder, rendering the field a dull smoggy pink and orange.

  The behemoth of a man fell to both knees and looked over Tiberius’s companions. “Father,” he whispered into the night, “Do not let these children leave our world yet.”

  He stood on his good leg, raised his chest and head up into the night. “Father! Hear me! Return these warriors to us! Beat back the dragon and demand he surrenders his daughter to this world! Father! Hear me!” And with a great cry into the night, the Berserker stumbled on his feet and fell to the ground.

  His rage was spent. The once fierce red in his remaining eye was gone, replaced by the pure and inviting blue. But in that eye, no life could be seen. He had fulfilled his promise to Tiberius. He had kept his home safe, and now, he went to join his Father in the world beyond theirs.

  Tiberius fell to his knees again, bewildered and overcome with grief. Too many lives lost tonight, all for a would-be ruler’s evil desires. Such wasteful loss of life, all in the pursuit of power and control.

  I’m going to kill him, Tiberius said to himself. I will rip his heart from his chest and watch the light leave his eyes.

  But his grief and desire for revenge were cut short by the sudden blasting of horns far in the distance. He turned his head wildly to and fro, hoping to see where it had come from until another louder blast rang out. He looked into the distance and could see horses and white-clad men in armor rushing through the smoldering woods.

  Of course. Reserves in case their attack failed. Stupid. I should have planned for this.

  He gathered his sword from the broken ground and shambled to his feet. He examined the weapon for a moment, taking the beauty of his ancestor’s sacred sword. Much blood had been spilt upon it this night. Much more yet to be shed, he reckoned. He bent low and retrieved Shayla’s spear from the ground in his other hand. He adjusted the weight of it in his hands, finding the balance. It was only right that these two weapons be joined in battle one last time.

  More horns blasted. The enemy was upon him. He bowed his head, closed his eyes as if in prayer, and whispered, “Warrior, be with me.”

  After his quick respite, he rushed headlong into the oncoming assault.

  Horns blared out clear and bright as more and more soldiers flew out of the burnt woods. Their faces were masked with hate at the sight of their dead comrades. They charged furiously into the open, hoping to exact revenge and fulfill their mad King’s desires. Yet, when they caught sight of Tiberius giving charge to them, a great cheer went up over the crowd.

  “Tiberius is here!” one of them exclaimed, “The ranger’s commander is here! Cut him down! In the name of your King, cut him down!”

  Five men on horseback drove hard to meet the Ranger barreling towards them. Their spears were held out, eager to find their mark. Eager to win their victory against the Ranger and earn the adoration of their King.

  But to their astonishment, he ducked their spears and, with a great swipe of Shayla’s weapon, cut the legs out of their horses. Five quick thrusts from the spear’s blade and one swipe for good measure, and all five of the cavalrymen now lay dead and crushed under the weight of their horses.

  Knights in brilliant white armor ran to meet him, their broadswords held high above their shoulders. He took careful aim, and with a great effort, sent the spear flying through the air. It landed hard against one of their chests and pierced his armor through. The knight was dead before he hit the ground.

  The other knights who had been near him stopped to see what had befallen their comrade. But as they turned again to face Tiberius, they too were met with the fierce strikes of his sword. He twirled and danced between their broad strokes as if moving through a crowded market. He swiped at one, slicing through the mail shirt under his armor, removing the man’s arm and leg in one swift motion. Another swung blindly and received the tip of Tiberius's sword through the slit in his armor.

  A third knight swung hard for Tiberius’s chest, aiming to cleave the Ranger in two. At the last second Tiberius twirled away, avoiding his blade in the nick of time. The knight had put all his strength into the killing blow and threw himself off balance.

  With his back exposed, Tiberius thrust hard through the base of his heavy white helm, dropping the man to the ground. The remaining men tried in vain to find their killing stroke against the Ranger, but neither could hope to match his speed and ferocity. And in a few short moments, all five of the armored knights were dead at his feet.

  He turned to see more troops plowing in. He took in a deep breath and found it hard to breathe for some reason. A pain he had not felt in many long years began to ache from his body. His hands started to tremble under the weight of the sword at his side. A pain shot from his ribs up to his heart.

  He reached his hand to his side and felt the unfamiliar warmth and wetness of fresh blood oozing out his side.

  I guess I wasn’t fast enough for once, he thought to himself with a chuckle. He fell to one knee and started sucking in gulps of frozen air. I guess it is fair that I fall here amongst my friends.

  The blood ran steadily from his side, and the frigid air began to sting his lungs. Dozens of them were rushing towards him, eager to swallow him up. His breathing grew shallow and quick. He raised his sword with great effort and readied his spirit for the impending doom that was soon to greet him.

  They were a hundred yards away and barreling towards him, determined to avenge their fallen comrades. His eyes narrowed, blackness swarming his peripheral vision.

  They were fifty yards away now. He could smell their sweat and hear the whining of the horses.

  Forty yards now. He could see their young and angry faces, eager to claim the glory of his demise. He could hear their rage-filled battle cries.

  His arms tensed from the struggle of holding the sword, but he would be damned to drop his sword against his foe. Blackness was clouding his vision, and he cursed his human weakness. Their cries grew louder and louder now, the end was at hand.

  But all at once, they were replaced with screams of surprise and terror.

  He heard louder galloping now from the flanks of the field. He turned his head to see what was happening, but The Warrior’s blessing failed him.

  He heard new but familiar voices cry out over the battlefield. “To your commander, men! To Tiberius!”

  “We are here, sir! We are here!” a beautiful voice called out. The voice, even full of wrath and hate, reminded him of a soft breeze in the trees on a summer morning. His mind flashed to a cottage in a grove surrounded by a vast garden. Of two men sitting amongst the flowers and trees enwrapped in stories of their youth.

  He smiled, broad and joyful. Trevin was here.

  He dropped his sword and hung his head. My men. My love. They have come at last.

  “Black banners! Black banners!” one of the White soldiers called out now. “The emperor is here! The emperor is here!”

  The man’s words cut through Tiberius’s haze. He forced his eyes open and turned again to see a mass of horses flood the field. His heart soared as he beheld dozens of great black and grey banners flapping proudly atop massive war horses.

  Hundreds of soldiers on horseback and the elite sentinels on foot flew through the woods, overtaking the vanguard of rangers. Of course, Trevin would have been in the van. He would have demanded it.

  At the head of the formation, atop a midnight black steed, was his father clad in his black leather and fur armor. Above his head, he carried Tiberius’ own sword. A fierce battle cry was on his aged lips as his father swung his son's sword to and fro against the enemy.

  Age
had slowed him, to be sure, but as he continued cutting through them, he appeared to still possess the skill of a veteran ranger himself. Being in the field again seemed to renew his father's vigor, and seeing his dying son spurred him on even more.

  In a matter of minutes, it was over. The yelling died out, and in the distance, Tiberius could hear inaudible orders being issued. He felt heavy footsteps reverberate through the ground and felt powerful and familiar arms grab him and hold him close. He looked up through pinpoint eyes and saw the face of his father staring down at him.

  He felt like a child again being carried by his father after scraping his knees. He felt weightless and secure in the embrace of the first person who ever loved him. The one person in the entire world who would always be there for him. The one person who would move mountains and slay untold numbers of men to keep him safe.

  He heard the beautiful voice call out a few feet away now. “Ti! Ti!”

  And then he felt another set of arms envelop him and squeeze him tight. The touch sent fire through his veins, and he felt his heart glow. He breathed in deep the familiar smell and heard the sweet voice of Trevin.

  “My son,” his father said, cradling his head. “Are you still with us?”

  Tiberius smiled. “Aye. Your boy is still here.”

  “Ti?” Trevin said. “Ti, can you hear us?”

  “Of course, I can hear you, my love,” Tiberius replied.

  “Son?” his father called out, panic and fear in his voice. “Son!”

  Tiberius tried to call out again but realized he had made no sound at all. His voice had abandoned him and try as he might to let them know he was still with them he had no strength left within him.

  It was harder to breathe now. His once strong and taught body went limp in his father's arms. Out of the needle-sized holes in his eyes, he could see the two men he loved most in the world stare down on him until the darkness finally consumed him.

  The two men sat cradling Tiberius in the broken field. The knights and rangers of the empire began to circle around them, eager to provide any small measure of comfort that they could to the grieving men. No one spoke for many heavy minutes, each unsure what to say to their emperor or the Ranger's First Sergeant. The two men’s sobs cut through the silence and filled the hard men of the empire with deep sorrow.

  Chapter 25

  The Vigil

  He awoke to the noise of hushed, urgent voices speaking to one another in the dark. Through heavy eyes, he could almost make out the shape of two men clad in brown and grey leather and fur standing at the foot of whatever it was he was laying on. He tried to speak, but no words were able to escape his mouth. He swallowed hard and tried again to muster some semblance of a tone, but each time, his voice failed him. He decided to lay there instead and listen to what was going on around him the best he could.

  “How long have they sat by his side now?” one voice asked from the corner of the room he was in.

  “Nigh on two days now,” another voice, higher in pitch, answered.

  “Two days of unbothered vigilance,” the first voice said sadly. “If it were my son or my love, I would do the same.”

  “Aye,” a new voice said, pretty and strong with a strange yet familiar accent to it. “We all would if it were us. I pray both our masters awake soon, rangers. For the sorrow upon us is too heavy to bear.”

  “Rangers!?” Michael croaked his excitement and eagerness pushing through.

  “He’s awake! Gods bless us, he’s awake!” the young voice cried out.

  Michael felt the man sit on his bed, hoist him up, and hug him with such force that his back and neck popped in several places. Something about this man seemed familiar to the Mage. As if he and this man had known and travelled together many moons ago but now had forgotten one another.

  “I am so happy to see you again, my friend!” the voice said, coming more into focus to Michael.

  In his mind’s eye, he could see the shape of a young man with a devilish grin. His bow at one side fitted with a new arrow, and his best friend to his other side, ready to laugh and fight together. Michael struggled to pull this memory out and give it shape until all at once it dawned on him.

  “Timothy?” Michael muttered.

  “Aye, lad,” the archer replied. “I’m here with you. And look, here’s Zachary as well.”

  “Well met, Mage,” Zachary called out. “Gave us quite a fright there, but I am glad to see you have managed to elude death once again.”

  Michael forced his heavy eyes open, and for the first time, could see he was now lying upon a fur-lined cot within a huge leather walled tent. The air was still cold and biting, but now he could see sunlight pouring in through small circular cutouts in the side of the tent wall. All around him were signs and symbols of the rangers and the empire. The emperor's black banners hung to the left and right of a raised wooden chair, weapons wrapped in black and grey leather strips, cloaks of various sizes, and all the color of the woods. He looked between each of the men before pulling them both into a tight hug.

  “I am so happy to see you both again,” he said as he embraced the two men.

  “Aye, lad,” Timothy replied. “We are happy to have met again.”

  Their embrace lasted a few short minutes before being interrupted by a small cough from the corner of the room. The three of them glanced back and, to Michael’s surprise, there stood the figure of a tall and beautiful woman clad in a familiar dragon armor. He knew at once it was not his friend and companion, the brave and fearless Dragon Knight Shayla. His companion’s armor had been green and grey, in homage to both the dragon lord and the empire. This newest dragoon’s armor was bright red as if fire were captured within it. He tried to study it for a moment before his mind raced back to the battle.

  “Where are they?” he blurted out. “Shayla and Tiberius, where are they?” he asked, looking between the three warriors who returned worried looks. “Tell me!” Michael demanded, growing impatient with them.

  “Mistress Shayla and Master Tiberius are in the tent over, young man,” the Dragon Knight replied with a gentle tone that disarmed Michael’s growing anger and impatience. “They have hovered between our world and the next for two days now. I fear if they do not wake, the ranger will be amongst his kin and my mistress in the halls of our King.”

  “King? What King?” Zachary asked his fellow Ranger.

  “Kazduhl,” Michael answered, astonishing the men and bringing a sweet smile from the Dragoon. “The Dragon King Kazduhl in his halls of fire and glory.”

  “I see the Mistress has spoken of our King to outsiders,” the woman said, though her smile betrayed the sting of her words.

  “We aren’t outsiders, Dragon Knight,” Michael replied, defiant and firm.

  The Dragoon continued to smile at Michael. “Beg your pardon, Mage. I meant not to offend. We are still strangers in our new home and have yet to learn our new countrymen's customs. For too long we had no one but ourselves to rely on.”

  “You Mistress learned quickly then,” Michael retorted. “The three of us became comrades in our journeys. No. Not just comrades. Our struggles made us into friends and the closest of companions.”

  “Speaking of which,” Timothy said, standing. “We would like to hear in full the tale of what’s transpired since you and our master left the Imperial City. Would you mind resting for a minute while I fetch some people who would show greater interest in your tale?”

  “After I see Tiberius and Shayla,” Michael said, and judging by the look on his face, the three warriors knew there was no talking him out of it.

  Timothy nodded and waved a hand to where Michael’s clothes and robes lie. “We’ll give you a minute to get dressed then. Meet us outside when you are ready.”

  The three of them made small bows and left the tent. “Dragon Knight,” Michael said after a quick rub of his eyes. “Seeing as you know my name, and I am a friend of your mistress, may I ask who you are?”

  The Dragoon stood p
roud, her fire-red and grey scaled armor glistening in the morning sun. Like Shayla, her hair was raven black, and her face the same oval shape. Her eyes were the same dark brown and set against the same olive skin. Yet her smile drew Michael’s attention, and all of a sudden, he felt a pang in his heart he had not expected to feel after all he had endured.

  “I am Mychala, Dragon Knight of the Axton Empire,” she said with a small bow.

  Michael bowed in return. “Well met, Mychala. I am Michael Deerborn, Brother of the Magi.”

  “Well met, Michael Deerborn, Brother of the Magi,” she replied with a smile before turning to follow the two rangers out the tent. Timothy held the flap open for the others to leave and shot a knowing glance and wink to Michael as he left the Mage to get dressed.

  Michael felt himself blush, the image of the Dragoon lingering in his mind. But his thoughts betrayed him, and he grew ashamed. How could he think about such a beautiful woman now when his friends hovered on the precipice of death? He forced the thoughts out of his mind, and after steadying himself, slowly stood from the fur cot and began to dress as quickly as his sore and aching body would allow him. After a quick glance in the mirror to adjust his robes over his regular leather clothes, he turned to shuffle out of the tent.

  The sun stung his tender eyes as he opened the tent flap. Yet, after a few blinks, he could see he was inside of a vast encampment in the same field they had fought so fiercely only a few days ago. Everywhere he looked, large black banners flying proudly in the soft cold breeze met his eye. Tents of all shapes and sizes were lined up and stretching beyond measure in every direction.

  A few knights in their black and grey armor were huddled around a nearby fire talking low, undoubtedly wondering about what had happened here to break the ground beneath them. Beyond them, he could see hundreds of soldiers busy with their daily chores of inspecting and sharpening their swords. The smell of horses caught his nose, and in the distance, he could make out the faint thundering of hooves on snow.

  To his right, he could see what appeared to be all the rangers and sentinels in the empire standing guard next to a small brown and green tent. Michael reckoned that’s where his friends and those who kept watch over them would be found. From the front of the gaggle of warriors, he could see Timothy beckoning him to come forward. He shambled towards them, a slight limp in his right leg and his eyes still burning after two days’ worth of sleep.