Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web (The Complete Epic Fantasy)

by Thomas J. Prestopnik

  On the field’s west side, King Cedric and his men were likewise occupied while upon their horses, hewing down a group of Islanders and men from Kargoth who had charged from behind a thicket of trees. But it was a much smaller group than their friends were facing and they dispatched the enemy with ease.

  “Their sword skills do not live up to their boasting,” Captain Tiber commented as he galloped past the King and turned around.

  “It’s not over yet,” King Cedric remarked, indicating a dozen horsemen stampeding directly at them.

  As the King watched his opponents draw closer, he gazed across the battlefield. His eyes absorbed the thrusts of cold swords, the dizzying flights of feathered arrows and the raising of oak and metal shields in the multitude of battles raging across the scarred grounds. He witnessed men falling, dying and bleeding on both sides. For an instant, all the cries and moans of men, the constant swish of arrows, and the heartless clanking of metal blade upon blade seemed to cancel each other out in his mind. King Cedric watched the horrors play out before him in utter silence as if he had gone deaf, allowing him to fully process what was happening here so far from home in Drumaya, so far from his wife and son and daughter. He wondered if he would ever see their faces again or if they would remember his a year from now, or five years hence should death greet him this fine autumn day upon the dying grasses among the Ridloe Mountains.

  “Ready, sir?” Captain Tiber repeated his query a second time as his horse stood alongside the King’s.

  King Cedric flinched, pulled back into the raucous fury by the captain’s strong, deep voice and the thunderous pounding of horse hoofs growing closer and closer to their position. He noted that the men with him had already lined up on either side, waiting for his command to ride out and meet the enemy. With a reassuring glance from Captain Tiber, King Cedric nodded and gave the word.

  “Ride out!” he cried, lifting his sword and aiming it forward. “Let’s show these scoundrels why we traveled over the Kincarin. Let’s feed them the bitter taste of defeat that none will ever forget!”

  The King’s line bolted forward with passionate cries of victory and vengeance as his men recalled their fellow soldiers who were ambushed and killed on the plains. Soon the two forces collided in an explosion of clashing swords and choking dust, their horses relentlessly pounding the flattened grass to nothingness. A handful of men on both sides fell from their steeds during the initial impact, some losing their balance as horses collided while others dropped after the fatal thrusts of deadly blades.

  Minutes into the conflict, King Cedric’s horse veered off to one side of the main battle during a confrontation with a soldier from Drogin’s most elite forces. The earsplitting ring of every sword strike rent the air like a sharp clap of thunder. Moments into the duel, Captain Tiber anxiously noted that the King had encountered a formidable opponent from Maranac, yet marveled that his monarch was holding his own against a younger man as he fended off each blade swing with vigor and determination. Tiber hoped to assist the King after he finished fighting an equally skillful Islander, but his eyes and ears were suddenly filled with horror when he saw King Cedric grab his upper left arm after it was struck by his opponent’s sword. The King let out an anguished cry as pain coursed through his injured limb and blood trickled between his fingers.

  “To the King’s aid!” Captain Tiber called to any who could hurry to the monarch’s side through the mayhem and dust.

  Tiber, along with those who had witnessed the exchange, knew that King Cedric was now at a severe disadvantage. The King fought on as best he could though his skill with the sword was greatly diminished. The left sleeve of his shirt, partially visible beneath a protective leather vest and cloak, was soaked with blood. The King’s face grew ashen. For a moment, the ruler of Drumaya appeared disoriented upon his agitated steed. His opponent smiled with contempt while seated proudly upon his horse just a few feet away. He raised his sword and pointed it at his wounded foe, pausing for a moment to bask in his assured victory.

  “To think that I should take down the King of Drumaya,” the man said proudly, a taunting smirk upon his whiskered face. “Irabesh will be pleased. King Drogin will be doubly pleased,” he added, his smile growing wider. “But I can’t even imagine what reward awaits me when Vellan hears of my triumph.”

  “Keep imagining,” King Cedric muttered, his words strained and his face grim because of the deep gash throbbing in his arm. He raised his sword in his right hand, gritting his teeth and willing away the pain for the moment. “This fight isn’t over yet!”

  “I beg to differ,” the man replied, glancing beyond the King’s shoulder. He saw that Captain Tiber had just struck down the Islander he had been battling and was now speeding this way. “It’s time to end this as I have another victim ready to take me on.”

  The Maranac soldier charged forward and repeatedly crashed his sword against King Cedric’s blade, feeling the monarch’s good arm weaken with each strike. When he saw Captain Tiber draw nearer, charging madly upon a wave of thunderous hoofs, he decided to go in for the kill. The soldier reined in his horse slightly and pulled back his sword, then charged at King Cedric who had grown tired from the fighting and the loss of blood.

  Captain Tiber knew he wouldn’t reach his King in time. Then as if another force had taken control of his actions, he grabbed his sword by the hilt as if it were a spear and hurled it at the Maranac soldier. It sailed though the air, reflecting sunlight off its edge before piercing the man’s protective garments and burrowing into his body below the chest.

  The soldier froze upon his saddle, gripping the reins with one hand as his horse slowed and trotted past the King. The man’s other arm fell limply to his side and his weapon dropped to the ground. When he gazed deliriously down at the sword protruding from his abdomen, a look of disbelief registered upon his face. For a moment he was oblivious to the pain, growing lightheaded and as pale as ash. The raucous sounds of fighting echoed and faded in his mind. When he looked up, Captain Tiber had drawn near on his horse and reached for the hilt of his embedded sword, but whatever words were on Tiber’s lips, the wounded soldier couldn’t hear them over the heartbeats reverberating in his head.

  Captain Tiber, his steely blue eyes locked onto the enemy, unceremoniously pulled the sword out of the King’s attacker. The man instantly fell off his steed and died moments after hitting the ground. The captain gazed at the body sprawled upon the dried grass but was unable to evoke even a modicum of sympathy as he raced over to King Cedric to assist him.

  “Let’s move away and tend to your wound while the others clean up from this skirmish,” he said, quickly examining the King’s bloody arm and pointing northwest to a clear spot near the trees. “We must hurry before another wave engulfs us.”

  “Very well,” King Cedric replied with a weak smile. “I’ll let you bind my wound, but I’ll return to the battle when I can.”

  “If you can,” he said, sounding more like a son than a soldier serving under his command. “But rest assured as there are others here who will fight doubly hard to make up for your absence.”

  “I know they will.” The King followed Captain Tiber through a narrow opening away from the several battles raging around them. “I wonder how they’re faring on the other side of the field and along the lake.”

  “Since we’re still standing, that’s a good sign,” Tiber replied. “So maybe things are not as grim as the sight of your wound. Now let me examine it more closely and bandage it with a strip of my cloak,” he added as they neared a vacant patch near the trees. “Hurry. Time is pressing.”

  Though many on the battlefield had witnessed Captain Tiber’s astounding maneuver, Ramsey wasn’t one of them. He’d been engaged in another fight on foot with two dozen fellow warriors against a nearly equal force along the eastern tree line. Drogin’s men had charged at them and soon all were engaged in one-on-one sword fights. The clatter of crossed blades ricocheted off the nearly leafless elms and beeches and th
e fragrant scattering of spruce trees and other evergreens. As the fighting progressed, individual conflicts took on lives of their own as the combatants moved north and south along the woods. Some took their fights into the trees or in small clearings among the towering pines and bony branches.

  Ramsey was locked in a struggle with an Island soldier whose focused stare was as sharp as his sword smashing against Ramsey’s weapon as the two backed into a thicket of trees. When Ramsey caught a glimpse of a soldier from Kargoth heading their way to assist his comrade, he knew he had only moments to act.

  “It’ll soon be two against one,” the Islander muttered with satisfaction after glancing over his shoulder. “Would you rather die at my hands or face one of Vellan’s spellbound slaves? Your choice.”

  The soldier ramped up his attack, hacking through the encroaching branches to get to his prey. Ramsey defiantly held off every swing with each backward step he took deeper into the trees. He smiled when the approaching fighter from Kargoth stumbled and landed face down upon the field, an arrow sticking out of his back.

  “You’d better recalculate those odds,” Ramsey said through labored breaths. “It’s one against one again. No help from Vellan this time.”

  The Island soldier shifted his position as they fought so he could see behind him, irritated that his counterpart had been slain. In that brief distraction, Ramsey swung his sword forcefully to take down his opponent, yet the man was still too quick. He saw the blade coming chest-high and swerved sideways, avoiding a fatal blow. But Ramsey had attacked with such vigor that the top edge of his sword hit a slender tree and stuck in its bark. He couldn’t dislodge his blade before the other man sprang at him. Ramsey had no choice but to leap backward to avoid a deadly swipe, desperately looking for a large stick to use as a weapon. With nothing to grab, he spun around to flee but tripped over a tree root, landing in agony upon his back. He scuttled backward on his hands and feet until a tree blocked his way. The Islander stepped forward, brandishing his weapon high with a victorious smile.

  “There’s nowhere to go now,” he said.

  Ramsey backed up against the trunk of a large beech, expecting to die beneath the tree’s sprawling limbs as the remains of its golden-bronze foliage rustled in the breeze. He felt trapped like a wounded animal as the metal blade was poised over him. He looked up through the branches at the peaceful sky, waiting for the inevitable as the Islander towered above with the sword pointed downward. But Ramsey’s attention was suddenly drawn away from the cobalt-blue heavens and the rich, white clouds drifting overhead. His eyes widened in surprise, not fully believing what he saw hidden among the branches. He quickly glanced down at his overconfident rival and sighed, offering a defeated smile.

  “Well played, my friend.”

  “You fought bravely. I’ll give you credit for that,” he replied as he raised his sword higher, ready to bring the fight to its fatal conclusion. “May my words offer comfort upon your demise.”

  Ramsey grinned as he combed a hand through his mop of sweaty hair. “Perhaps,” he replied, continuing to raise his hand until it was above his head, his fingers wide open. “But you know what? I don’t need your empty words today.”

  With raindrop speed, a dagger fell from the tree, handle first, and landed in Ramsey’s open palm as if conjured out of the air by magic. Before his foe comprehended what had happened, Ramsey locked his fingers around the hilt and flung the sharp blade at the soldier, lodging it squarely in his throat.

  The stunned Islander floundered backward, wide-eyed and gasping for breath. The sword dropped from his hand as he frantically reached for the dagger. Light turned to darkness before his eyes as he collapsed to the ground, convulsing. Ramsey jumped up, grabbed the sword and ended his life with a swift stroke. With his heart pounding, he looked around through the security of the trees, happy to see that no one else had followed him into the woods. The harrowing sounds of warfare still reverberated outside the tree line. Assuming that all was safe for the moment, Ramsey stepped back beneath the large beech tree and gazed up through the branches again, still not believing his eyes. Sitting concealed upon a limb about a quarter of the way up the tree were two figures, both smiling down upon Ramsey after witnessing how he had escaped from certain doom.

  “How in blazes did the two of you end up there?” he asked, more amused and amazed than angry.

  “It’s a long story, but I can give you a speedy version now,” said one member of the excited duo. He climbed down the tree and hopped onto the ground as if merely playing outdoors near his home in Montavia. Prince William looked up at Ramsey, a trace of concern in his eyes. “But Aaron and I require your assistance first. We need to get to King Basil’s estate.”

  “Why?” he asked as Aaron worked his way down.

  “Because the woman in charge of the royal kitchen is a traitor!” Aaron uttered with disgust. “Nyla is a spy from Maranac.”

  “A spy?”

  “And we know of others in her group, too,” William added in desperation. “Though the war has already started, we can’t let them get away after what they’ve done. Can you help us?”

  Ramsey couldn’t conceal a grin, happy to see the boys alive and well. “I’ll see what I can do, considering the situation. But first I need to hear what happened. So commence with the speedy version, if you please.”

  Less than a quarter mile from King Basil’s estate, a second battle ensued along the wooden docks and narrow, sandy shores of Lake LaShear. A row of tall ships from Maranac were anchored off the coast, each one topped with Drogin’s flag snapping in the wind. Several skirmishes had also broken out in the streets of Melinas after a company of Drogin’s men burst through Captain Silas’ line, causing him to redirect some of his men to other locations. The clash of metal blades and the clinking of daggers were punctuated by the rhythmic waves along the beach. The sounds of warfare slowly spread out along narrow, cobblestone streets and among the trees and fallow gardens near hurriedly abandoned homes.

  After waging two small battles during the initial assault, Silas and four of his men now paused briefly in a narrow alleyway to catch their breaths after their latest encounter. A half dozen of Drogin’s troops lay dead around them. The captain gazed at their pallid, lifeless faces and then glanced out beyond the main street at the grim display of dead soldiers lying upon the sandy shore and slumped against the fishing shanties along the docks. He stood with his back against a stone, whitewashed building. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. A spattering of the enemy’s blood stained his shirt beneath a tattered cloak.

  Ranen stood across from him, equally exhausted yet prepared to throw himself into the next fight. “Things may look bleak, Captain Silas, but the day is still young.” The piece of scarlet cloth usually fastened to Ranen’s long, black hair was wrapped around his left wrist that an hour earlier had taken a stroke from an opponent’s blade. But he had gotten the best of his attacker and bandaged his wound with the colorful cloth as the body of the enemy soldier lay dead at his feet.

  “Do not confuse my silence for despair,” Silas replied while assessing their next move. He peered out into the street with caution and then beyond to Lake LaShear where the fighting continued in spots along shore. “The way is clear for now,” he whispered, addressing Ranen and the other three soldiers. He glanced at Ranen’s injury. “With luck, maybe we can find a proper bandage for your hand along the way and dispose of that one.” He grinned. “And perhaps a second one so you can tie up your hair again.”

  Ranen chuckled. “I’ll accept a new bandage for my wrist, thank you, but this piece of red material was given to me by my wife before I departed the Oak Clearing to meet with King Cedric. She cut it from the hem of her favorite dress so I would remember her during my journey and in dark hours. It will stay with me always, bloodied or not. And I will wear it when I return home and see her smiling face, if that is my fate.”

  Captain Silas was touched by the comment. “You are a blessed man, Ranen, and I
withdraw my suggestion,” he replied. “May that simple memento bring us all good fortune this day.” He stepped out of the shadows and looked into the street again, his attention drawn to the sounds of fresh fighting far to the left where a narrow thicket of trees bordered part of the shoreline. Silas retreated into the alleyway, his face flushed with concern.

  “What’d you see?” one of his men anxiously asked.

  “Another skirmish near the pines where Torr had stationed some of his men.” The young captain thought for a moment. “If we make our way back down this alley and grab additional troops from the contingent we earlier passed near the common, we can circle around to the other side of the trees and surprise Drogin’s men from behind. Torr will be surprised, too, but appreciative of our help.”

  “Let’s move at once!” Ranen said with urgency, worried about his fellow leader of the Haystack Clearing. “Apparently my friend could use some of this luck, too,” he added, holding up his injured wrist that sported the red bandage.

  Captain Silas nodded as he and his men raced down the alley and made their way to the village green where a large group of soldiers was preparing to pursue some of Drogin’s men farther into the city. He quickly explained the situation to a fellow captain and siphoned off a dozen troops to go with them to Torr’s aid. Soon after, they snaked their way through a few more side streets to a point just beyond the fighting, then circled back along a thin stretch of woods and entered the trees, their blades drawn and their footsteps swift and silent. The din of sword fighting and the shouts and grunts of tired but determined men drifted through the pine boughs upon a sharp, bitter breeze. With a signal from Captain Silas, the group of seventeen soldiers burst through the tree line and scrambled toward the fighting down a short stretch of sand riddled with dead bodies, the enemy’s back facing them. There were nearly fifty men already engaged in the skirmish, with Torr’s group slightly outnumbered.