by J. W. Webb
The Huntsman brandished His spear high so that the sun glanced triumphant off its tip. He laughed loud at His daughters’ games—so transparent. They meant little to Him, those petulant offspring. They had their uses sometimes. But only when their mother stayed out of it.
He was the Lord of Ravens. For millennia the Huntsman had watched and waited for this final confrontation. He was on nobody’s side and no one was on His side. True, He hated His brother who owed Him an eye. But Oroonin had little love for the others either. Telcanna the Sky-God in particular vexed Him. As for His father. Gone. Wherever the Weaver weaved it wasn’t around here. This universe was neglected. Someone had to tidy up the current mess.
Yours truly.
So whilst His kin grew soft and indolent amidst the surety of their starry halls, He, Oroonin, had plotted and prepared. Let His siblings be content in their eternal bliss, the fools.
Only Elanion challenged his purpose, but then His wife had always been difficult. It was part of the reason why they no longer shared planets. He missed her sometimes though. Theirs had been a long relationship: sister/brother, husband and wife. Giantess and hermit. Warlock and witch. The games they had played! But Elanion was too tied to this world whereas He was free to hunt again.
So let it begin!
Chapter 12
The Warlord
Joachim Starkhold watched the early morning mist creep up the valley. Within minutes its wispy tendrils reached the lower walls of the city, obscuring sight and sound. Starkhold hated fog but at least the day ahead promised to be a dry one. Over the last few days the granite bastions of Car Carranis had been assaulted by icy winds wielding great lumps of hail. Here in the northeast corner of Kelthaine, winter had arrived.
Starkhold’s gaze was relentless. His face hard and uncompromising as the city walls—finely chiselled, noble and hawk-lean. His hair was close-cropped and skin-dark, weathered from years of Raleenian sun. Those hard brown eyes revealed little.
He stood motionless, a figure carved in stone watching the mustering fog below the walls. Starkhold thought he could discern dark shapes moving within the swirling mass, but couldn’t be sure.
There were muffled voices. These were accompanied by the grinding of wheels as the barbarians led their wicker chariots out of the dark forest lining the ridge in the east. That ridge sloped down steep from the northern foothills behind Car Carranis, until both forest and hill stopped abruptly at the edge of a wide level plain.
The Gap of Leeth was only partly visible today. Smooth and featureless it ranged south for twenty miles, culminating at the foothills of the misty heights known as The High Wall. Hidden amidst those distant peaks lay Car Carranis’s sister fortress. Point Keep. Starkhold had received no word from that quarter in months.
At dawn’s departure the mist had cleared north of the Gap just enough to reveal row upon row of tall pines spearing the fog roof like the pikes of countless silent sentinels. They were only visible for minutes before the fret returned.
Though he could see little, Starkhold heard muffled sounds rising and fading through forest and Gap. Among them: the grind of wheel on stone, dark voices shouting, the thud and crunch of steel-shod boots, the drumming of hoofs and the baying of hounds.
An army on the move.
For three days shaggy warriors had led their stunted ponies into the Gap of Leeth, filling the grassy plain with their encampments. More were coming. The creak and scrape of the roughhewn wains set Starkhold’s teeth on edge. The chariots of Leeth announcing the Northmen had come.
Two years ago no barbarian leader would dare enter the Gap of Leeth, no matter how large his force. But things had changed—and not for the better.
The whole area was now alive with noise and activity. Last night the enemy’s campfires had pierced the murk like a thousand winking eyes. Occasionally warriors would approach the walls, stare defiantly up at the fortress, while behind their kin sang brutal songs in their guttural tongues.
But this morning the fog was denser, hiding them and distorting the sounds. Yesterday when the fog lifted Starkhold had tried gauging their numbers. It was impossible as there was no end to them. He guessed a host comprising more than one hundred thousand barbarians filled the Gap. And still more were marching out from beneath the trees.
The lord keeper of Car Carranis rubbed his stubble-grey chin. He was tired, bone weary. He’d slept fitfully, if at all, over the last week. Joachim Starkhold wondered how long his city could hold against such vast numbers. He had scarcely a thousand men, though his strength had been recently bolstered by the arrival of the three sons of Duke Tomais. The boys had fled the ruin of Morwella, bringing with them two hundred spear-horsemen. But their arrival had brought problems too. With the cavalry had come nearly three times that number of women and children, all fleeing from the recent destruction of Vangaris and the ongoing invasion of Morwella.
More mouths to feed, thought Starkhold. Worse than that, water would become scarce during the certainty of the long siege ahead. They could dam the streams in the foothills but the enemy would be watching up there too.
Car Carranis was a fortress city not a sprawling town like Kelthara. They hadn’t the infrastructure within these walls to cater for all these folk who didn’t belong here. They would sap the supplies, there would be bickering and fights. Starkhold kept a tight rein on his own people—but this lot? Joachim Starkhold couldn’t begin to guess how many more stragglers would arrive from the wild lands behind the mountains. The current situation was untenable. And things would only get worse.
One large party of Morwellan refugees had brought news of Lord Halfdan’s end. Starkhold had assumed it already; he’d glimpsed the telltale wisp of smoke columning out of the mountains across the Gap, and guessed its meaning. There would be no help from Point Keep. That had been almost two weeks gone and still the barbarians came.
The last messenger from Kella City had promised aid, but Starkhold trusted not the smiling words of Caswallon the Usurper. He knew that Car Carranis stood alone.
Joachim Starkhold turned sharply as steel-shod shoes scraped the smooth stone flags behind him. He waited for Ralian his Captain of Guard to approach, grunted to acknowledge the tall man’s salute before returning his gaze to the misty assault below. “They keep coming,” Starkhold said. “One can only surmise King Haal has united all the warring tribes of Leeth so they can parade themselves like so much offal below our gate.”
“Let them come, lord.” Ralian’s dark eyes were defiant. “Their numbers mean nothing!” The hawk-faced captain’s golden earring gleamed against his dark beard. Ralian hated this waiting game; he was spoiling for the fight.
“Their numbers mean everything.” Starkhold returned his gaze to the fog.
Unswayed, the captain leant forward and spat over the parapet. “Car Carranis has never fallen,” Ralian said. “It is the mightiest stronghold in the Four Kingdoms, my lord.”
Ralian rubbed his gloved hands together to banish the morning chill. “We’ve enough supplies to endure the hardest of winters—even with these cursed refugees. Let Haal’s filth throw themselves against our walls and break! Car Carranis will hold!”
“I hope you are right, captain. I for one am not convinced.” The former warlord’s hard face bore the signs of many conflicts; Starkhold had always relied on his own strength and judgment. He liked Ralian—the boy was a fighter—but lacked his optimistic view of their chances. Against such vast numbers no city (however strong) could hold out indefinitely.
Peering below, Starkhold noticed that the mist was thinning to smoky wisps, its long shadowy fingers retreating from his walls. Above a pale sun was emerging, shedding light on the legion of pines flanking the north east. Starkhold’s head hurt. He felt weary—drained. The waiting game ever turns the mind inward.
I hope they attack soon…
“Now that Point Keep has fallen we stand alone,” Starkhold said. “Caswallon’s Kelthaine is rotting from within; the other lands will fo
llow now that the Crown of Kings is no more. The carnage has only just begun,” Starkhold sighed and turned to face his second.
“We are on an island fortress, Ralian, surrounded by a sea of foes. We have weeks, perhaps months, before our supplies run out and disease and famine and fear take hold in the city.
“And they seem in no hurry. King Haal might be a savage but he’s a cunning one. Haal knows this tense waiting game will sow seeds of fear inside our walls. Sap our resolve. There will be no glorious victory here, captain.”
“Then we shall die fighting, my lord!” Ralian’s eagle-sharp eyes stared almost longingly at the shaggy figures emerging from the mist below. The young captain’s hand gripped the long sword at his side. “The men are ready for anything.”
“They will need to be.” Joachim Starkhold pointed across the Gap. “Look, the mist is nearly gone!”
The two fighting men watched captivated as the last smoky strands of fog curled back and faded from the morning. Far above the battlements the wintry sun cast restless shadows across grey stone.
Beyond and below the mighty gates of Car Carranis stood an army so vast it was as though they were on a castle of sand, soon to be washed to oblivion by the swiftly returning tide.
Warlord and captain watched and all along the walls soldiers watched with them. Hard-faced men: Raleenians, Morwellans and loyal Kels—all resolute. Resigned in readiness for the long fight. Word soon spread that the fog had cleared. Soon the soldiers were joined by their loved ones and children. Then came the stragglers from Vangaris. Within an hour almost every citizen stood gazing down with dread from the present safety of the city walls. It seemed that everyone wanted to witness what had come.
As the city watched on, a leader rode forth from the ungainly mass of warriors below. This rider was huge in muscle and girth and clad in black iron and bulky fur. He wore a king’s crown, a gold band of spiralling spikes set high upon a helm of black steel, the hair showing beneath was tangled and long, and the beard dishevelled and greying.
King Haal of Leeth had come to announce his presence to the city. At the king’s waist hung axe and sword. He sat astride a pale horse; both his iron-gloved fists gripping the ashen shaft of a long pole.
Starkhold’s keen gaze narrowed. He had encountered King Haal many years ago, even before the murderous prince stole his uncle’s throne. That had been during Joachim’s wayward youth and before he owned title and deeds to the Starkhold estate. As a freebooter he had entered Grimhold Castle (Haal’s stronghold) with twenty fighters and a train of stolen gold. Back then the Raleenian freebooters had traded with Leeth and Valkador braving the long coastal voyage north. Starkhold and his men had served as escort to a wealthy merchant from Atarios who had long sly dealings with Leeth, and who often travelled in the Northlands.
Starkhold’s memory of Grimhold was bleak. A dark granite fortress covered in ice set in the heart of a bitter cold forest. He’d seen Prince Haal ride out on a hunt—a big man, cruel and hard. Even back then. He hadn’t changed overmuch, save perhaps he looked crueller and harder, his hair greyer and his face paler and lined.
Haal’s tattooed cheeks were stained blue beneath the gold crown, and his bare sinewy arms glittered with stolen gold. The king’s war beast stamped and blew as its master mocked the defendants watching him from above.
King Haal raised the pole he held high over his head with both arms parallel. From it trailed a dark banner. A gonfalon flapping and dancing in the chilly breeze that had recently risen to dispel the last of the mist.
Starkhold’s heart sank as he recognised the snarling wolf emblem of Point Keep. Halfdan’s banner. The king held it aloft for several minutes, as behind his chieftains jeered and roared shaking their spears in unison, and striking their multi-coloured round shields with great axes and clubs.
Their king was laughing now so they laughed too. Then Haal slammed the pole down on his knee, snapping it in two. The horde roared their approval as their king cast down the broken banner, trampling it into the dust with his horse’s iron-shod hooves. Starkhold’s mouth tightened. So much for Lord Halfdan and the Wolf regiment. Point Keep had fallen to the barbarians and the High King’s brother was surely dead. No great surprise.
Then Haal turned, raised a gloved hand, the leading finger pointing up at the occupants of the fortress above. His hand fell in a swift chopping motion and again his army roared with approval. Over a hundred thousand voices yelling and shouting filling the Gap of Leeth like a sudden storm.
Starkhold said nothing. He watched as three horsemen cantered forward to flank their king. These were huge men (even bigger than Haal), their bodies covered in armour and their faces hidden beneath iron helmets. But these three needed no introduction. Their reputation announced them as no herald could.
Here upon proud steeds were seated the three hated sons of King Haal:
Vale, known as the Snake Prince due to his reputation for catching venomous snakes by hand and whip-snapping their necks; Corvalian Cutthroat, and worst of all, Daan Redhand himself. They too raised armoured fists; they too brought them down in swift chopping motions. The message was clear; Point Keep was destroyed and Car Carranis would follow.
Starkhold remained in post throughout that morning, taking neither breakfast nor respite. The enemy milled about below like disturbed termites, the nearest just beyond the range of his bowmen. The furthermost flanking the distant trees.
Car Carranis’s archers lined the outer wall four hundred strong, each armed with fifty shafts.
Not nearly enough, Starkhold allowed. Yesterday the garrison sergeant had ordered great vats to be filled with boiling tar and oil, ready to be poured through the murder holes above the barbican when the first attack commenced. He had three mangonels oiled and ready, once loaded the machines would hurl rocks down onto the teeming foe below. His artillery men stood primed and waiting, ready to rain death down on any overzealous attackers.
But no attack came that day. Instead the steady grind of saws and the even thud of hammers echoed like thunder across the Gap of Leeth. Until dusk and beyond, deep into nightime, they thudded and grinded, and the cityfolk covered their ears. Great drums rolled adding to the cacophony, heralding the countdown to doom.
Starkhold resumed his post at first light after only three hours rest. He scowled, witnessing the wooden siege towers slowly taking form across the Gap.
Much nearer and creaking in front of the castle gates was a huge scaffold, its erection completed in the early hours. From the high gantries hung the naked bodies of thirty men, their sightless faces gazing up in warning at the city walls. Dried blood smeared their legs, making it apparent to all watching that their genitals had been removed.
Captain Ralian snarled like a trapped beast. He rapped his sword pommel on the battlements in fury, despite their tortured bodies the young captain clearly recognised the blind faces of the scouts he had sent out only last week.
Starkhold said nothing. He had expected this. The Raleenian warlord watched their enemy’s progress with accustomed calm as that day faded into another. On and on the great drums rolled and still no attack came. Crows hovered above, some settled on the gantry to feed.
Beyond the gates the mutilated corpses of the scouts were starting to stink, this despite the winter chill. Time passed. Starkhold’s mind drifted. He thought of his home, far away in sun-bathed Raleen. It was a shame he would never see it again. Starkhold shrugged, it didn’t really matter, but it would have been nice to return just once before the end. Then the next day dawned to reveal row upon row of wooden chariots lined up in front of the walls.
And so at last the assault on Car Carranis began.
Part Two | Permio
Chapter 13
Beyond The Liaho
Twenty leagues from Starkhold’s former estate a cluster of riders sat their horses beneath a sizzling sun. The hour was early but already hot.
Corin an Fol sat astride his stallion Thunderhoof on the broad marble base of the
merchant’s grand terrace. He was restlessly waiting as Silon’s various guests gathered to say their necessary farewells. It seemed to be taking forever. Not that Corin was in any hurry to leave. But if you’ve got a shit job to do it’s best to get on with it.
Corin’s fists gripped the saddle pommel, he flexed his thigh muscles and tensed his buttocks. It had been some while since he’d last ridden.
Corin was once again dressed in his travel-worn leather with steel shirt, although he had removed his heavy cloak, rolling and tying it to Thunderhoof’s flank in a neat bundle. He knew it would come in handy as it got cold in the desert at night.
Clouter was slung across his back and Biter hung at his side with the hunting knife. He’d purchased two new throwing knives from the merchant who kept a ready supply of such things. The yew bow he’d lent Tamersane was thrust into Thunder’s saddle holster, together with a quiver of twenty arrows. An impressive sight, Corin looked alert and sharp, but beneath that mask of confidence, confusion still clouded his head.
He caught Shallan’s eye briefly and she rewarded him with a bright smile. They had not spoken since last night, (or rather early this morning, when he’d slipped out of her rooms with a fond farewell). Shallan now accompanied her father again, together with an escort of a dozen soldiers that had ridden across from Port Sarfe at first light. These soldiers would accompany Queen Ariane and her party through the city before turning east on the road to Atarios and beyond. Once they reached Atarios they would be bolstered by a further two hundred horsemen. This last arrangement was down to Silon’s prompt response to the queen’s needs, and for her part Ariane was more than grateful.