by DJ Morand
The morning sunrise shone upon him, replacing the chill of the night with warmth. Turning from the witch’s corpse he forced himself to face the horizon. Auren didn’t want to look back, the carnage was more than just a battle against supernatural forces. It had torn something from him. He felt soiled. The sun rose steadily behind him casting shadows before him. Auren sighed. He continued walking away from the battlefield, struggling with his thoughts.
I’m finished, he thought.
He wiped at his face, smearing the blood and mud again. With a frustrated groan he tore off his armor and the shirt underneath. The breastplate splashed against the wet ground. The shirt was stained with rust, and some of the blood had managed to mar its gray surface. He drew it to his face and wiped the muck away. Looking up to the horizon Auren took his first steps forward as something other than a legionnaire.
The Siege of Haverfjord
Haverfjord: Year 1507 AO
25 Sepfer: Calal - 8th Hour of Eralda
City Center: High Magistrate’s Home
Dansen Bale sat across from his father. Waldo Bale was a thin man and not overly tall. His high cheek bones made harsh lines on his face that seemed to make his eyes look sunken. Dansen knew his father was not a harsh man for all Waldo’s appearance otherwise. The dining table spread out between the two of them easily covering ten feet from end to end. Sitting at the head of the table, Waldo furrowed his brow, and he sipped some of the brown broth from his spoon. Dansen rubbed at the stubble growing on his chin. His father would have given him a disapproving look, had they been sitting near enough for him to notice. Since his mother’s passing nearly six years ago, Dansen and his father ate meals at either head of the table, rarely speaking to one another. The light smell of the soup mingled with the rich aroma of the fresh baked bread.
Dansen’s favorite was the yeast risen loaf complete with pumpkin and spices. The bread was exquisite. At least, it would have been to any other. Having grown up as the son of the High Magistrate, Dansen had lived well and eaten well to boot. Even since his mother’s death, he had no shortage of fine food to feast upon every night.
He sopped the remainder of his soup up with a piece of the pumpkin bread.
“The other magistrates feel it is time for a change,” Waldo said.
Dansen stopped chewing and looked up at his father. His unexpected words caught Dansen off guard.
Waldo continued. “They don’t feel that the Bales are seeing to their interests,” he said. “That we are not seeing to the interests of the city as a whole.”
Dansen swallowed, then said, “Father? The city if flourishing; trade has never been better.” Dansen set the bread down. “Who says these things? Nicter? Graffen?”
“It is all four of them, not just the East and South district Magistrates. Triton feels the North district suffers from the trade at the docks in the East district, and Vern complains that the South road gets more traffic than the West road,” he said. Waldo dipped his spoon into the soup and silently sipped at it again.
“They’re wrong,” Dansen said. “They’’re just--”
The door to the dining room burst open cutting off Dansen’s words. A ragged looking man, wearing the clothes of Belsinfjord’s messengers, staggered over to High Magistrate Bale. Waldo raised one eyebrow in curiosity. Dansen knew the look, and it was obvious his father was not pleased. Messengers generally waited on the High Magistrate’s operating hours, except in the case of dire emergency. Dansen looked at the messenger from Belsinfjord, the northerly city along the same coast. Belsinfjord was known for its fisheries more than the other coastal cities. However, something about the furrowing of his father’s brow and the messenger’s wide-eyed stare gave him pause. His father growled. It was a low and almost feral sound. It gave Dansen chills.
Waldo turned his steady gaze on the messenger and then motioned to the butler. Their butler was a short man of average build. He scurried over to Waldo, who spoke quietly to him. Dansen couldn’t hear what his father said, but the butler nodded vigorously and hurried away. He came back after a few moments. He placed an inkwell and quill next to Waldo. Dansen watched as his father scribbled instructions onto the messenger’s orders.
“Take these to the North gate,” Waldo said. “Back the way you came. Make sure they get into the hands of Magistrate Triton Ghast, do you understand?”
Waldo Bale’s gaze burned as the messenger nodded and said, “Magistrate Ghast.”
“Triton Ghast,” Waldo said. “Good, go now. There is little time.”
The messenger nodded and rushed out of the room at a near sprint. Waldo Bale turned to Dansen. “Demons have come down from the Riftlands,” he said. “We need to go and prepare the defenses. Politics will have to wait.”
Dansen didn’t know what to say. He stared at his father, dumbfounded.A fact of life, within any of the lands west of the sea, was that demons were real. Dansen knew that demons were real and they could certainly attack a city such as Norfjord, or even Belsinfjord, but Haverfjord? He was willing to believe that demons had attacked the northern cities, but he doubted they could move so far south as his home.
“Dansen,” his father said, his voice harsh. “Go and get your bow, I fear we will have need of every man able to arm himself. Go now!”
* * *
Haverfjord: Year 1507 AO
25 Sepfer: Calal - 9th Hour of Eralda
East District: Docks
The sun was dipping below the horizon, and the looming moons of Eradri and Iendri sat at the opposite horizon. Dansen held his bow, an arrow knocked, but not drawn. He followed behind his father, who was garbed in leather armor with metal plates sewn onto it. At his hip, Waldo wore a short, wide bladed, sword. The hilt of the weapon was fashioned into the image of a fish, with its mouth open to the base of the blade. The scaled fish was the symbol of the Bale house. Dansen had always thought the scaled fish was a funny sigil, but the people of Haverfjord respected its authority.
As they moved through the crowded streets of the city, an acrid vapor hung in the air. Dansen could see that the north was lit by another kind of light, but the sky above that light was dark and choked with blackness. He realized that there must be a massive fire somewhere nearby. He could not think of what in the north would burn like that. He realized he didn’t want to.
Waldo paused, looking north. “Dansen,” he said. “Start gathering the people; get to the docks and evacuate as many of them as possible.”
“Father no,” Dansen said, pleading. “I want to stay with you.”
“Do as I tell you, boy,” Waldo said. His voice was hard and set. “Something wicked this way comes, and the people must be far from it. Go and evacuate them.”
His father’s surety gave him a measure of resolve. Dansen nodded and turned from his father, moving to the east.
The city streets wound up and down. Many of them could not be reached from the current without breaking off and heading down one of the cramped alley ways. Luckily for Dansen, the cut-throats and thieves were just as afraid of the coming onslaught as he was. He managed to navigate without being accosted by the local toughs. As compact as the city was, it was not overly difficult to get from one end to the other relatively quickly. After a fifteen minute trek, Dansen could see the ships in the bay. The East District was led by an old sailor by the name of Nicter Thorne and, much like his namesake, he had always been a pain for the Bales. The general disarray of the East District bothered Dansen on a fundamental level. He made his way to Dock Street. He shook his head at the overly conventional name and sought out Nicter’s seaside home.
Each of the Magistrates had their own homes within the city, but just as some work harder than others, some homes needed more attention than others. Magistrate Thorne’s home was little more than a dockside hovel. The scent of dead and gutted fish assaulted his senses as he passed a number of fish carts and vendor stalls. The docks were nearly deserted this late in the evening, so Dansen was not surprised to find Nicter at home.
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“The high and mighty son of Bale comes to visit,” Nicter said. His voice had a thin sound to it that was not made any better by its adenoidal tone.
“No time for the usual courtesies Nicter,” Dansen said, doing his best to keep the hate out of his voice. “Father has called for a retreat to the ships.”
“Boy,” Nicter said. Somehow the word seemed to come from his nostrils. “I’ll show you a thing or two about manners.” He paused as if just understanding what Dansen had said. “Retreat? From what?”
Just as Dansen drew in breath to answer him a whistling sound echoed above them followed by a cacophonous roar. The building next to Nicter’s home burst into a million tiny fragments as a boulder slammed into it. Nicter stumbled forward, gripping Dansen’s shoulders tightly. His eyes were wild and fearful. He knew that Nicter was a bastard, and Dansen knew that the man was smart and conniving. He hadn’t known that Nicter was a coward.
“Sound the retreat,” Nicter said through gritted teeth. “Every man for himself!”
“Get a grip man,” Dansen said. “That wasn’t the demons.”
Nicter’s face took on a deathly pallor at the mention of demons. “Here? In Haverfjord? Demons?”
“Not yet, coming down from the north,” Dansen said.
There was another whistling sound and another resounding crash, albeit a bit further away than the first. Dansen turned around, forcing Nicter to release him. Smoke rose from one of the houses near the docks. He turned his gaze to the sea, looking for anything that would explain the flying boulders. Several ships floated near the edge of the bay. He watched as a flaming stone flew away from one of the ships. The rock sailed overhead, most of its flame dying out in flight. It struck down a few hundred feet from his location. Another boom followed it as a rain of wood splinters covered the area.
“Damnit man,” Dansen said. “Attackers in the bay.”
“No,” Nicter said in a nasally whine. “There’s no escape.”
“Shut up,” Dansen said. “Rally the people. Get to the South District. I’ll try to reach my father.”
“South District? That Graffen will never let me live it down.” Nicter whined.
“At least you’ll live and maybe a few others,” Dansen said. “Go on, I’ll go back to my father; we’re not done yet.”
Dansen didn’t wait for Nicter’s reply. He knew that the man had a stubborn survival streak and loose lips. If he was going to run away, he wasn’t going to be quiet about it.
Small favors, Dansen thought.
He continued moving as he had before, taking the same alley ways and streets to get back to where he had last seen his father. The red glow from the north had grown larger. He continued trekking through the city towards that red glow. As he drew nearer he could hear the sound of fighting. At the edge of the North district and the town center he started to see bodies of the fallen. Men with throats torn out and red blood carpeting the cobblestone. The stink of death permeated the area. It took everything Dansen had not to vomit.
He knocked and arrow and held the bow out in front of him. Steadily, he moved toward the sounds of battle. A creature of average height and obese girth leapt in front of him. The thing had tentacles for a mouth and it gurgled as it approached. Black and sinuous wings spread out from its back. The wings folded down and rested around the creature’s shoulders like a grotesque mantle. Dansen hesitated a moment before drawing back the arrow. The demon shrieked. It sounded like a bubbling cauldron that had overheated and was letting off steam. The sound pierced Dansen’s ear drums as he loosed the arrow.
The shaft of the arrow flew with lightning speed and struck the demon between the tentacles of its maw. The screeching ended and the demon fell on its face. The shaft of the arrow popped from the back of its head as the creature hit the ground. Dansen took a step back, his eyes wide and darting about. Something struck him in the back and Dansen felt a flash of white hot pain before everything turned to black.
* * *
Haverfjord: Year 1507 AO
25 Sepfer: Calal - 4th Hour of Feralda
City Center: Bale Warehouse
Dansen woke. His eyes opened slowly revealing dim lighting. He could smell the dank moldy interior of a basement, but he didn’t know where he was. Dansen placed a tentative hand against the side of his head and felt cloth there. He traced the cloth around to the back of his head and winced as his hand crossed over the crown of his skull. It was tender to the touch and a large lump had formed. He winced again as he felt the lump and felt pain streak through his sinuses. He felt at his face and took his hand away quickly; he had a broken nose. Steadily, he pulled himself to his feet. Several other people lay in various states of injury all around him.
“Whoa, sit yer arse back down laddie,” a plump woman said. “I kin no’ have the High Magistrate running all abou’ with a head injury.” The way she said injury made it sound like N GEE.
“High Magistrate?” Dansen asked in confusion. “My father--”
“Aye laddie, I spoke t’quick,” she said. “Yer father ... he fell.”
Dansen knew she didn’t mean that he had fallen down. He didn’t ask her how; he was sure he didn’t want to hear how his father had been slain. His father was dead, which meant that the burden of High Magistrate had fallen to him. The city was still under siege. At least, he assumed it was still under siege.
“Lady,” Dansen said. “Where are we?”
“Town Center,” she said. “Yer father’s shippin’ house.”
“The warehouse,” Dansen said. “How many are here?”
“A goodly number,” she replied. “More’n than ye’d expect. Some three hunnerd defenders, those that’s fought with yer father. Another hunnerd or so more common-folk like meself.”
“What of the other Magistrates?”
“Oh Nicter made it. I ain’t seen Triton or Vern, but Graffen is just there.” She pointed to a rail thin man who appeared to be quite old. His beard was white and well groomed save for the bright red dots of blood on his lips. “Poor ol’ fool,” she said. ““Took a club to the chest, broke several o’ his ribs.”
Dansen furrowed his brow then said, “Why weren’t the people evacuated from the South Gate?”
“A witch,” she said. “Seems ol’ Nicter was screamin’ all atop his lungs about it. The people fled north an’ found that the North District was already caked with the dead. Soldiers brough’ them here.”
“Bloody fucking hell,” Dansen said. “How long was I out?”
“T’men saved ye from some kind o’ demon,” she said. “They said it cracked yer skull an’ was preparin’ to eat ye.”
“Alright then,” Dansen said, rubbing his scalp. His tousled brown hair was wet and it send little droplets of water out in all directions. He gave the woman an apologetic smile. “My father has fallen, but the house of Bale has not. We can still rally the city and push back the demons, but I am going to need the help of the other magistrates.”
“T’magistrates are scattered,” the woman said.
“Yes, I know. That’s why we have to get them and bring them back here.” Dansen knew what had to be done, but he wasn’’t confident he could do it alone. He needed the magistrates and their loyal people. “I need messengers, stealthy scouts that can avoid the demons.”
“Pirates too,” the woman added. “They brought boats ashore, t’docks are overwhelmed with them.”
Dansen considered that for a moment. A witch, demons, and pirates; he needed all the help he could get.
“Alright, we deal with the pirates first. Where is Nicter?” Dansen asked.
“He’s about, I’ll find him.”
“Let him know the High Magistrate requests his audience,” Dansen said. “Make sure you word it just like that. I want him to know he’’s not in charge.”
The woman nodded, her graying blond hair shifting only slightly as she did so. She bustled past several men guarding the infirmary. Dansen turned to one of the guards.
&nbs
p; “I am going to need a new doublet and a leather jerkin. Was my bow recovered?” he asked.
“Yes milord, your bow and quiver are just outside there.” The guard pointed beyond the door.
“Good, please send someone to get the clothes and armor I requested,” Dansen said as he passed the guard.
The guard nodded and grabbed a nearby commoner. He spoke quickly, and the young man nodded.
* * *
Haverfjord: Year 1507 AO
25 Sepfer: Calal - 7th Hour of Feralda
City Center: Bale Warehouse
It took the better part of three hours to get all of the things he had requested. The scouts had been the first to arrive. They’d appeared harried by the woman whose name Dansen had forgotten to get. She was a capable keeper of house and Dansen made a mental note to ask her about work if they survived this. Dansen sent two scouts to each district, instructing them to find different routes. He gave each of them the full message he wanted brought to the magistrates of the north and west districts. Triton Ghast and Vern Witherson were both of an age with Dansen. They might resent his ascension, but he hoped they’d hear reason. His plan hinged on getting the magistrates to work together. The latter half of his plan would take some convincing, but if they survived the day, they’d be able to rebuild.
He knew the demons always came to kill and move on. The pirates would pillage and plunder. They might even do half of what he planned their selves. His primary concern was the witch. Dansen didn’t know anything about witches; he knew precious little about demons for that matter. However, his father had prepared for demonic invasion. The obvious route any demon might take always included the south. The battle at the Darkling Flows centuries ago had proven that. The Flows as they were now called still harbored dangerous and evil things, enough that his father had set contingencies in place should anything arise from them. Magic was not something Dansen would normally rely upon. However, given their present circumstances, he would give his soul and his firstborn for an ounce of it. As it was, there was magic throughout the entire city, but it required all four of the district Magistrates and the the High Magistrate to enact it. He wasn’t sure how the woman had known that the warehouse was the focal point, but he was glad everyone had gathered here.