The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection

by Harrison Davies

  His red cloak of office whipped around his head momentarily as a gust of wind blew in from the west like a bad omen. Sensing the cloak would only get in his way, he tore it from his person and threw it to the ground. From the wall, he picked up his conical steel barbute with nose guard and ostrich feather adornment, whereupon he secured it tight on his head and fastened the leather strap under his chin.

  With the palms of his hands, he tested the sturdiness of his steel cuirass and then pulled on his gauntlets. Lastly, he checked that the scabbard and sword remained attached to his hip securely and looked out over the battlements towards the gathering forces.

  His heart sank. One hundred men against an army of thousands. He contemplated ordering a retreat, but something primal deep inside won over, and his own lust for war prevailed.

  At last, the archers arrived, filing from a small tower doorway to his right. Well practised, they lined up along the gatehouse wall and stood ready. Three young boys, no more than seven in age, cowered under the battlements. They would fetch and carry for the archers and replenish the arrows as needed.

  In the courtyard below, seventy-three brave castle guards stood in neat rows opposite the inner gatehouse, shields at the ready, and spears proudly held vertical. They were scared but ready for anything that came through the gates. As a unit, they would willingly die for their captain, though not the king. He was the object of hatred beyond measure.

  He had systematically brought the city to its knees, killed, maimed and terrorised its residents, including the families of those who now guarded him.

  It was the guards loyalty to the captain that stopped them turning on the king and ousting him.

  On the other side of the castle wall, after successfully navigating the recently rebuilt bridge leading up to the fortress, several of Lordich’s army lay dead from a volley of arrows. Others had barely touched the four giants, hitting their flesh like an annoying gnat. The great, grey-skinned giants wore leather coverings hand stitched with animal sinew, and trophies of war wrapped around their heavily scarred arms, consisting of the select bones, skulls or teeth of victims who had fatally crossed their paths.

  Two carried between them a thick, recently felled tree trunk sharpened at one end to a point, and the others held gigantic wooden mallets.

  Lordich remained out of range of the castle’s archers and ordered his own forward, protected by shield bearing orcs. Crouched behind the shield bearers, the archers readied their bows and flinched as arrows from the defenders struck the shields protecting them. One holder was hit through the neck and collapsed, writhing in pain. The sight of so much blood and the sound of the orc’s gurgled cries sent fear through the ranks, but they closed the gap and pressed on, the humans quaking and terrified of a much worse fate, though not from the enemy, but from Lordich.

  Within the range of the castle, the shield wall stopped, and the archers behind rose to their feet, aimed, and fired a volley high into the air. The arrows arched high and sailed over the wall. The sounds and cries of pain hinted at a successful hit. The archers ducked behind their defence and prepared for another launch.

  During the exchange, the giants took the opportunity to lumber up to the main gatehouse. There they positioned to ram the gates.

  From above, the captain ordered huge rocks to be dropped on the heads of the enemy, and only after seeing it was like throwing pebbles did he change tactics. ‘Ready the tar,’ he yelled, and steadied himself as the gatehouse shook. ‘Hurry, before they breach the gate.’

  Several guards rolled tar barrels before floor openings set into a parapet above the main gates. With great effort, the first barrel of thick tar was tipped through a machicolation opening and landed on the back of the nearest giant with a splatter. The giant roared with anger, and sensing danger he grunted to his fellow attackers. ‘Retreat.’

  Before that order was followed, another barrel was poured through the floor opening and blocked the exit with a pool of sticky black liquid that exploded into a fireball ignited by a flaming arrow, cutting off escape.

  The guard captain cheered and clapped his hands together. ‘Wonderful shot, archer.’

  The flames migrated to the unfortunate giant who was by now wearing a barrel of tar. His eyes grew wide with terror, and then the pain came as he was engulfed in hot searing flames that melted his flesh. He screamed in agony and burst through the wall of flame flailing and stumbling until, finally, it was too much, and he fell with a ground-shaking crash. The flames would quickly consume his body.

  His companions roared in anger and tried to break through the gate with mallets.

  Lordich scowled and clenched both his jaw and fists. ‘Take down those archers on the castle wall,’ he ordered.

  At once his own aimed and fired a fresh discharge at the castle.

  ‘Bring forth the cannons.’ Lordich turned to his commander, a tall, muscular, grey-green orc, naked except for rough leather leg coverings.

  He whistled piercingly and signalled to a waiting crew of orc males and females. Without hesitation, the group of ten strong Madorine wheeled five giant cannons through a gap in the horde who were gathered and waiting for battle.

  Behind them, the lower city appeared to be burning, and Lordich cursed. Just one more problem to deal with.

  The gathered army cheered and banged swords against shields almost as a countdown as the brass cannons were lined up facing the castle wall and primed with shot.

  The orc captain raised his hand and dropped it almost immediately. Within two seconds the touch paper had been lit and the cannons boomed, sending a shockwave and shot hurtling towards the battlements. Several unfortunate archers were caught in an explosion of stone and thrown clear of the walkway and to their deaths.

  Lordich’s voice boomed magically over the rabble of noise, which silenced almost immediately. ‘What do I have to do, Hantestum, to get you to surrender?’

  ‘N … NOTHING!’ the king roared.

  Lordich smiled. ‘I sense your fear and, no doubt, my orcs can smell it from here.’

  The orcs laughed and crashed swords against shields.

  ‘I give you one chance, surrender now, and I’ll not kill you, I’ll keep you as my pet.’

  ‘NEVER!’

  ‘Very well, I gave you a chance.’ Lordich turned to his men. ‘I’ve had a change of heart. Round up two dozen city folk, the rich, not the poor, and bring them before me.’

  Hantestum paced uneasily and waited nervously for the next onslaught, his initial assessment that the castle was impregnable waning.

  Ten minutes later, two dozen finely dressed, men women and children were led before Lordich in chains between a column of soldiers. They were shoved and pushed in place and ordered to kneel, at which point the soldiers peeled away.

  ‘You see, Hantestum, I hold a card you do not. Kill enough of your people, and either you will capitulate, or your soldiers will demand your head. After all, what happens here today is your doing.’ Lordich’s voice reverberated around the castle.

  Terrified screams came from the city-folk as soldiers stepped behind each of them, gripping their hair and pulling their heads back.

  ‘On my order kill the first twelve,’ Lordich said.

  The unmistakable sound of swords being withdrawn from scabbards sent up a fresh wave of cries that excited the bloodthirsty warriors.

  Without remorse or emotion, Lordich raised a hand and then dropped it.

  Twelve of his mercenaries instantly complied and, without word, slit the throats of the prisoners before them. The terror of the remaining prisoners grew after witnessing the horrific scene before them. Blood flowed in dark circles around the dying who choked on their own fluids, unable to prevent the slow death.

  Lordich took a step forward and took a long look at the dead and shook his head. ‘This is on your head, Hantestum. So, what will it be? Open the gates, or more will die.’

  King Hantestum, his bravado gone, made for an escape towards the tower exit much to t
he dismay of the captain of the guard.

  ‘Where are you going, my Lord? The fight is before us, not back there.’

  Hantestum appeared flustered, and his jowls wobbled. ‘Indeed it is, Captain Wilby. I have every faith in you to send the enemy on their way with tails between their legs. I must see to the protection of your queen and the princess.’

  ‘Perhaps, it would be better if I sent some men to ensure their safety, and you remain here. I think the men will be spurred on by your presence.’

  Hantestum looked decidedly queasy. His face turned grey, and he began to sweat from the brow. He dabbed at his face with the edge of his cloak. ‘I think not. You shall remain at your post, and I shall tend to the womenfolk.’

  The captain stepped forward and faced the king. ‘Coward!’

  Hantestum reeled and attempted to strike the insubordinate captain. ‘You dare?’

  The captain stepped back deftly, despite his age. ‘Yes, I dare. You care nothing for my men. They willingly lay their lives on the line, but I cannot ask them to do such a thing to protect a coward and a king unworthy of the title. You think of only your life and no others.’

  Hantestum roared with anger and launched forward. He made to strangulate the captain. The swifter officer sidestepped and brought his gauntlet to the side of the king’s head, eliciting a cry of pain and a splatter of blood from a deep wound to his opponent’s ear.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ Hantestum cried, and launched himself forwards again. He barged into the captain who struck the parapet with his back. Momentarily winded, he found himself unable to prevent Hantestum from wrapping his bare hands around his neck and squeezing with all his might.

  With the king’s weight sprawling over him and with the breath left in his lungs running out fast, he did the only thing he could. He brought his knee firmly and decidedly up and into the king’s groin, smashing into the soft flesh with enough force that Hantestum yelled in agony and instinctively grabbed his crotch as if holding the area would relieve the pain. He vomited on the cold, stone floor and coughed, unable to speak.

  The captain of the guard decided the king’s fate in the time it took to hold his neck and suck air back into his lungs. He reached for the king around the back of the neck and gripped tight of his cuirass and, with his free hand, he looped under Hantestum’s waist belt. With as much might as he could muster and a roar of defiance, he tipped the king over the battlements.

  There was a moment of silence before a sickening thud was heard. Wilby glanced over the parapet and saw to his satisfaction that the king’s neck was oddly angled and blood pooled under him. ‘Serves you right, coward,’ he spat.

  The captain stood upright and looked left then right. ‘If you want to live, remove yourselves from this place,’ he ordered his men.

  The remaining soldiers atop the castle wall looked bewildered for a moment before seeing sense and rushing to the exits.

  Captain Wilby frantically looked over the battlements and saw that the orcs were preparing to fire a second volley. He wasted no time and leapt over the courtyard wall just as the stonework exploded behind him, where just moments ago he had been stood. Wilby landed several feet below the main wall upon a secondary walkway and yelped as his ankle seared with pain. His lieutenant, a short man of human and dwarven heritage, raced to his aid, climbed a wooden ladder and assisted the senior officer to his feet. ‘Are you hurt, Sir?’

  ‘Just my ankle. Fiel, help me to the courtyard, then I want you and them men to take the castle occupants to the safety of the secret tunnel. Get them far away. They are innocents.’ Wilby winced.

  ‘What about you, Sir?’ Fiel looked genuinely concerned for his superior.

  ‘I’m going to prevent them killing anyone else if I can.’

  Fiel offered a weak smile. ‘It has been an honour, Sir.’

  ‘The honour was all mine. Bring me a spear, will you? And then leave quickly.’

  Wilby stood with his weight on one leg waiting for Fiel to return with a spear that the captain would use as support. Around him, the once pristine courtyard was littered with debris, dust and dead bodies, and he sighed. So much death for so little. Should he survive the next few minutes, he would retire to his ancestral home in the North.

  Fiel returned with the requested spear and handed it to his captain.

  ‘Thank you, Fiel. Now go, time is of the essence. Get the survivors out of here.’

  Fiel nodded and turned glumly away. Wilby watched as the young man hurried towards the castle keep, calling all those who had survived the first of the arrow volleys by keeping to the walls.

  Another explosion of stone above covered the captain in dust. He coughed and spluttered and dodged another volley of arrows that slammed into the ground around him. He winced as he struggled forward, his ankle throbbing in pain. Nevertheless, he pushed himself towards the main gates.

  Lordich grew angry. ‘This is taking too long, Captain. Where are the giants going?’

  The orc captain raced over to the dark wizard and dipped his head. ‘My Lord, they leave, take dead with them.’

  The gigantic hairy backs of three giants began to disappear from sight, the fourth unceremoniously being dragged behind by charred legs.

  Lordich raged. ‘Breach that castle, Captain, or I’ll have your head.’

  The orc sneered and then nodded. Try it, little human, he thought.

  As the orc turned away, something in the distance caught his eye. An access door in the main gates to the castle opened wide, and an ageing soldier holding a spear limped from the exit. He was calling and waving animatedly.

  The captain of the orcs raced forward, his long strides making good ground, and in no time he was close enough to hear the castle guard yelling.

  ‘Parlay! I invoke the right of parlay! Per the code of kings and commanders, you must take me to your captain.’

  Grel, the orc captain, towered over Wilby, though his equal refused to be dominated and stood proudly erect.

  ‘What is this word, parlay? Speak quickly, human, or die,’ Grel growled, nose to nose with Wilby.

  Lordich was instantly beside them both as silent as a mouse and dropped the hood to his cloak. His long grey hair fell down his back, and he stroked his beard. ‘He wishes to commune peacefully.’

  ‘I do, Sir. I am Captain Wilby of the City Guard. Whom might I be addressing?’

  Lordich’s piercing green eyes looked at the captain with derision. ‘Lordich Secracar, Chief Warlock, Brotherhood of The Dragon.’

  Captain Wilby’s eyes widened in shock. Lordich was the last person he had wished to see that day. The tales of that man’s horrors were well known. ‘The castle is yours, my Lord,’ he stumbled.

  ‘I see that you have kindly left a door open for me. Thank you. You will no longer be needed. Kill him!’ Lordich ordered as he headed confidently to the door of the castle.

  ‘Please, no, I have a family. Parl –’

  Lordich smirked at Wilby’s sudden silence as his head left his shoulders to thump gruesomely into the dirt and come to a rolling stop, a look of disbelief set upon his face.

  Lordich stopped momentarily to view the body of the former King Hantestum, and then after navigating two sets of doors gleefully entered the empty courtyard to the castle. Only bodies lay prone where his archers had succeeded in their task. With a swish of his black woollen cloak, he skipped deftly up the main steps to the keep and threw open the oak panelled door.

  His footsteps echoed along the main corridor, dark and void of life. He listened keenly for signs of occupation.

  With none to be heard, the doors to the throne room parted upon his will, and he entered, frowning at how shabby the void was. He stepped quietly along a moth-eaten carpet leading him through a series of empty tables until there before him, his prize awaited.

  He stepped up onto a central platform and took a moment to look over the intricately carved eagle wood throne. He rubbed his fingers along its surfaces, wandering around the back and ad
miring the craftsmanship.

  This is certainly a throne fit for the rightful ruler of Rosthagaar, he thought, and smiled to himself.

  Happy with the ease in which he had taken the castle, he positioned himself over the throne and very deliberately sat. In his mind, he was already King of Rosthagaar, and that gave him legitimate reason enough to bring down The Brotherhood of The Wulf.

  Orcs and humans began to pile into the throne room, whooping for joy and examining all that had been left behind by the quickly exiting castle occupants.

  Grel marched up to the throne and kneeled before it. ‘All hail King Secracar.’

  A great cheer rang out. ‘Hail, the King.’

  Lordich smiled happily and gripped the armrests to his new throne. The kingdom was his.

  TO RODINE

  Queen Lerial waved a fond farewell to Laliala with a silken kerchief, which she then promptly used to blow her nose loudly.

  King Henfal looked at her disapprovingly and too gave a royal wave to the parting visitors. ‘Lerial, stop crying, it is unseemly for a queen to be seen acting so.’

  Lerial ignored him and continued to wave until the small boat had vanished from the sight of the harbour.

  A light mist had descended that morning, swirled around the large sailboat and chilled its occupants.

  Coinin sat staring out over the water, watching their appropriated galleon lazily heading in the opposite direction. His heart ached to be alongside his brother who was vanishing from his life for a year or more.

  The sea beyond the river inlet began to get a little choppier, and he knew he was in for a rough ride. ‘I see now why The Brotherhood aren’t sailors.’

  Menin laughed. ‘And you’d be right. However, I will be appointing Dalai as our first Admiral. Once we have commissioned a fleet of ships built, of course.’

  ‘How long till Rodine?’

  Zaruun, his hand holding firm to the tiller, replied. ‘I estimate twenty days, should the wind hold its course and we maintain this speed.’