by Jon Kiln
The Mirnean soldiers were relentless. It seemed no matter how many fell under the onslaught of arrows, they still kept coming forward and climbing over their fallen comrades to get over the castle walls. Further afield the enemy had trebuchets, large catapults, and were firing heavy stones at the castle walls, but so far they had been unable to breach them.
Further around on the east side of the castle, the Mirneans had put ladders against the walls. They climbed them constantly to try to gain entry onto the battlements. Many were pushed over sending those on the ladders to their deaths on the rocky ground below. There were too many and soon Mirnean soldiers were on the battlement, in hand to hand combat with the Palaran defenders.
Myriam found herself face to face with a huge Mirnean attacker who towered over her. He held a large broadsword, so big that even he had to use two hands to maneuver it. With a malicious smile on his face, he advanced on Myriam. He couldn’t believe his luck, the Queen of the Palarans on the battlements, undefended. She was a mere slip of a girl, and she was his for the taking. He swung his great broadsword back, and brought it crashing down where Myriam stood.
Only Myriam was no longer there. She had seen his moves coming and balancing herself on the balls of her feet, she twisted first one way, then the other. As the sword had come crashing down, she had thrust her own sword between the gap in her opponents armor. The sharp point of the blade slipped easily between the metal and into the attackers abdomen. As she withdrew her sword out, it was tinged red with the large Mirnean’s blood.
The Mirnean warrior cried out in pain and dropped to one knee. As the blade was withdrawn, a look of shock was imprinted on his face. In his arrogance and eagerness, he realized he had underestimated this little girl. In frustration he shouted out his battle cry and swung his heavy sword at Myriam, but again she was no longer in the same spot. Still on one knee, the Mirnean lost his balance and toppled over onto his back.
Myriam knew instinctively that this was her moment to finish him off. He was on his back with the heavy armor weighing him down, making it difficult for him to get back up. She quickly darted under his flailing sword and thrust her own weapon into his neck, the blade easily cutting into the flesh and sinew, then exiting through the other side. A gush of bright red blood spurted and bubbled from the warrior’s mouth as he convulsed in his throes of death.
Myriam felt relief flood over her, but it was tinged with a sadness. She had killed a man with her own hands. Despite the fact that it was his intention to kill her, she still felt a terrible guilt. Watching, horrified, as he gurgled out the last of his breath, she felt a hot sting on her leg. Quickly she turned to see another Mirnean soldier had slashed at her, cutting between the joint at her thigh and hip. A sticky, warm wetness ran down her leg. The wound was deep and painful. That was one thing Ganry could not teach her, how to cope with pain.
She fell backwards onto the ground, blood flowing freely from her wound. The Mirnean soldier, certain of his kill, advanced on her with his sword raised. Her own weapon had fallen from her reach. She had no strength left to lift the blade in defense anyway. As she braced herself for the fatal blow, at the very last moment a Palaran Guard, moving in a blur, ran his sword through her attackers chest, and he fell to the ground, dead.
“Come, my Queen, you are in need of rest and someone should look at that leg. It bleeds heavily,” her rescuer said.
As he spoke, a few men crowded around and helped her down the stairway of the castle turrets. The man returned to the fighting and she hoped he would live to see this through. He had just saved her life.
The children who were hiding away ran to gather around her curiously.
“Who was that man?” she asked, hoping to remember him.
“He is just a farmer,” one child answered.
“I know him, he is in the neighboring farm to me,” a small girl said, her big eyes wide open, happy she could help the Queen. “He is Pedro Langley. He is not just any farmer, he has a pig farm.”
Myriam nodded at the information. If she lived through this, she would seek out Pedro Langley the pig farmer, to thank him properly.
The children held her up so she could hobble to the medical area. Here, her grandmother and other women were busy patching up the wounded. She could also smell cooking. It seemed odd the smell of food, but no doubt it was a warming broth to keep up the strength of those who passed through.
The children helped her gently to the floor, her back to a wall so she could sit up. Smiling, she watched them as they ran off, eager to play their part in the grown up battle. Myriam waited her turn to be fixed. Maybe she could go back again once she was bandaged. Someone handed her a cup of steaming broth and she took it willingly. Her own strength was weakening. Looking at her leg, she could see a round pool of redness on the floor. She was losing blood fast.
“Myriam!” her grandmother cried, seeing her granddaughter in such a bad way. “Help me get the Queen inside. She’s losing blood too quickly,” her voice echoed in Myriam’s head, seeming to be a distance away as if it was echoing down a tunnel. Myriam tried to concentrate on the voice but her vision spun, and she soon slipped into unconsciousness.
Two women lifted her slumped frame and carried her to a quieter room. The Duchess D’Anjue set about caring for her granddaughter. She could not afford to lose her. Who would rule in her place? Besides, she happened to have a lot of love for this girl, who had bravely rescued her from a barren desert land.
The Duchess quickly took off Myriam’s armor. The wound was indeed deep and the Duchess felt out of her league. She knew she would need to stem the blood flow, and do it quickly before the Queen bled to death.
Making up a tourniquet, she ordered one of the women to go and find a healer. They had a number of skilled healers in the castle, although she wished their good friend Hendon was here. He would know what to do. Busying herself in cleaning the wound, she put the thought of death out of her mind. Her granddaughter could not die, it was not an option. As she worked, uncontrollable tears trickled down her cheeks, blurring her sight. In her attempt to tie the tourniquet to temporarily stop the blood flow, she looked at Myriam’s pale features and contemplated the unthinkable. Was she going to lose her granddaughter? Was the kingdom going to lose its young Queen?
37
As the battle raged in front of them, Ganry ordered the men to move stealthily towards the walking corpses. They were slower moving than the Mirnean soldiers who had become separated from them. Oblivious to all around them, they simply shifted on in their single purpose of moving forward. With no hearing or sense, they had not heard nor were aware that their attackers were coming up on them from the rear.
They were easy prey, with only one simple purpose, to march towards the castle and push upon its gates. Occasionally they might stop if they sense living meat, though they could not recognize the Mirnean soldiers as meat, because the witches had protected them. Ganry and his men laid into them with sword and axe. There seemed little reaction from them, and when they did smell the meat of the Palaran’s killing them, it was far too late. Already more than half their number were in a heap on the ground with heads detached from bodies. The rest, slow moving and cumbersome, were soon dispatched the same way.
Ganry gathered the men together, surrounded by the fallen corpses. It would prove an eerie sight should an outsider look in on them; a group of men surrounded by decapitated bodies.
“The next stage will be harder,” Ganry told them. “If we are swift with our attack, I believe we will be successful.” He tried to rally the men, who were still a little shocked at their experience with walking corpses. Nothing can prepare a man for that type of work. It did not help that many were kinsman, neighboring farmers and herdsmen of Palara.
“Stay under cover as long as possible,” Ganry continued with his instructions. “Swoop in and kill as many as you can before retreating back again. Remember, the forest is your friend, it will help you evade capture. Once it is clear, then attack again
. Don’t let them settle. The longer they are looking over their shoulders then the slower their advance. We cannot win this war with these tactics, but we can slow them down, giving the boy and the wolves time to find the witches.”
Ganry gave the men time for his orders to sink in to their weary minds. He could see doubt on their faces, but he knew he could trust them. These were the best the Palaran army had. They would fight to the death.
“Artas, RiIey, I want you two to lead the men. Remember what I said, strike and retreat. Don’t get bogged down in long battles, you will soon be outnumbered and over run. This is about causing chaos and fear in the ranks of the Mirnean’s.”
“What of you?” Riley asked, although he already knew the answer.
“I work better alone. Besides, I have a personal matter to attend to.”
With the plan finally settled, the men were prepared to part their separate ways. Artas and Ganry embraced before they left each other.
“Take care, Ganry,” Artas said in a low, sombre tone. “You still have much to teach me.”
“And take care yourself, young Artas,” Ganry replied, smiling. “Even I cannot teach a corpse.”
Taking his sword and a small backpack, Ganry set off alone, moving quickly into the cover of the trees.
Artas watched him go with a heavy heart. He had grown fond of Ganry over the last few years. He looked up to him as a father figure, especially after the death of his own father at the hands of the usurper, Duke Harald. He could not help but feel, deep down inside, that he would never see his mentor again. He shrugged off the feeling of doom that had descended upon him and turned to the men awaiting his orders.
“You heard, let’s go give them hell!” he yelled, raising his sword in the air as his fighting spirit returned.
The guards split into small groups of ten or so, and advanced on the enemy. The invaders were completely unaware of the danger approaching them. They were so embroiled in the battle before them, surrounding the castle walls. The Mirneans had much success over the last few days, easily sweeping across Palara with little or no resistance. They had become over confident, believing they were untouchable, especially with the protection of the witches. They were soon to be shaken from that belief.
Artas and his men were almost upon the enemy, still with the element of surprise. Silently, with no rally cry, the men fell upon the Mirneans, slashing and hacking at them, until many were lying dead, or wounded on the ground. The surprise attack had increased the effectiveness of their fight. As the enemy became aware of the attacking Palarans at the rear, they attempted to surround them.
“Fall back,” Artas shouted. “Fall back. We will come at them from another direction.”
They fought a rear guard action as they quickly retreated to the protection of the dense forest that lined the battlefield. A few of the Mirnean soldiers followed them into the trees, but they were soon cut down. On seeing none of their numbers return from the forest, the rest of the Mirneans returned to their ranks, concentrating on the castle attack.
“Let’s move along the creek and come at them from the left,” he shouted at the men who followed him through the forest.
This was done with good success, and very little loss to themselves. Attacking swiftly from one point, before spiriting away back into the protection of the forest, and then emerging elsewhere to inflict more damage. They may not be able to win the battle with this strategy, but it was causing confusion and chaos in the ranks of the Mirneans. The enemy were constantly on the lookout behind them, expecting and anticipating an attack.
On one of their sorties into the rear of the attackers, Riley spotted two witches arriving on the battlefield. He was uncertain of their purpose, and had no doubt that it did not bode well. As they knelt down on the grass, he assumed they were summoning a spell to assist their own side of the battle. Quickly, joining Artas and helping him dispatch a couple of the enemy, he pointed out the witches to him.
“Damn, I knew this was going too well. Whatever evil they have planned, we should try and stop them.”
Both men quickly advanced upon the witches. As they both felt that speed was more important than stealth, they threw caution to the wind and moved rapidly towards the conniving witches. Barely half way to the witches position, they felt a shuddering terror as the skies loomed with an ominous darkness. Heavy black clouds blocked out the sun. The atmosphere changed as it became dark and foreboding, with an evil heaviness hanging in the air. From nowhere, all heard a huge crack of thunder, followed by a bright lightning strike that cracked against the walls of the castle, sending stone splinters flying into the air. When the smoke cleared, a large hole had appeared in the castle walls.
Both men looked at each other aghast. They could see that the witches were once again summoning a spell, and they increased their pace to try and stop them before it was too late. As they drew closer, Artas yelled out a battle cry and raised his sword in attack. He hoped to distract the spell casters, but one of the witches saw him coming and flicked her wrist in his direction. A bright blue light flashed from her finger tips and crashed into his sword, sending shockwaves through his entire body. For a moment he stood, frozen by the blast, before his legs buckled and he crumpled to the floor.
Artas’s battle cry had attracted the attention of other Palaran Guards, and on seeing the witches they too had charged at them with swords drawn. Every mans intention was to cut them down right where they stood. Soon the withes were surrounded by the guards, who hacked into them mercilessly. These were not humans, they were abominations who had risen the dead, and threatened the very survival of their kingdom. They showed them no mercy, and gave them no quarter.
Riley ran directly to Artas, fearing the worse as he saw his friend’s motionless body on the ground.
“Artas, Artas my friend. Are you still with us?” he cried, hopefully.
“Yes, Riley,” he managed to croak. “I still live, but I’m blinded by the damn witches. I can’t see anything.”
Riley smiled in relief. He and Artas had become good friends and he would mourn his passing, deeply. He reached down and helped a shaken Artas to his feet.
“You’ll have to leave me somewhere, Riley. I can’t see. I’m just going to hinder you,” Artas said with some urgency to his comrade.
“I’m going to take you back to the castle tunnel. You need the help of the wolves for this one,” Riley told him.
One of the Palaran Guards brought a horse that they had found wandering. Its rider was probably lying dead on the battlefield. As Artas stood, he felt Riley pushing him to mount upon the horse. Once he was certain that Artas was secure in the saddle, he climbed up behind him and directed the horse into the woods. There, they could make it to the hidden tunnels that led into the castle.
He spurred the horse to ride swiftly, but it was already exhausted from the trials of the day. Riley was an experienced horse rider and knew how far he could push his mount. Luckily, they did not have far to go to get to where the guards watched the concealed tunnel entrance.
“You there!” Riley shouted to one of the guards as they approached. “Take Artas into the castle, he needs the healers. I’m going to look for a wolf to come and treat him. He’s been blinded by witchcraft. Take good care of him.”
The guard nodded as he recognized Artas, one of the Queen’s companions. Every soldier in Palara knew of Artas, and how he had returned injured from a quest to find the dragons. They all knew him for the hero that he was. Watching as the other man swiftly rode off on a fresher horse, he assisted Artas down the tunnel and into the castle.
His battle was over, for now.
38
Cronos, still on Rochmyr’s back, moved deeper and deeper into the woods with the wolves following by their side. They had to find the witch woman and stop this death and destruction. He was sure she was the main source of power. If they cut her down, then the others may fall too. He’d ordered the giant, Rochmyr, to chase after the bear when she had made her esca
pe. They must not lose her. Bumping up and down on Rochmyr’s shoulders, he encouraged him to go faster. They must find her at all costs.
They were near, he could sense her. Unsure if he would be powerful enough to take her on, he hadn’t really given it much thought, up until now. Nonetheless, he had to try.
A feeling of dread swept over him. It seemed as if the very air had changed and was tinged with an evil presence. The giant let out a long mournful wail before staggering slightly, then dropping to his knees. He knelt for a brief second, then fell forward onto the hardened ground, throwing Cronos off his shoulders.
Rochmyr was unconscious and Cronos knew exactly why, it was her, it must have been. Luckily, just as the boy was picking himself up from the ground, Torno, his wolf protector, arrived.
He climbed onto the broad back of the large, long haired wolf. Torno sniffed at Rochmyr to see how he was fairing. He had grown fond of his comrade.
“Fear not, he only sleeps. The witch has enchanted him.”
Reaching down Cronos brushed his hand over the giants forehead, lovingly.
“Sleep my friend, we will be back for you.”
The hairs on the wolf’s back bristled. He growled deep from his throat at the thick bushes before them.
“Yes, Torno, I sense her too,” Cronos said. “Let’s go hunt her down.”
Torno entered the dense area of shrubs. A bear that size could not hide itself easily. Whilst the witch had managed to cast a spell on the giant, she would not find it so easy on Torno. His magic bloodline would protect him against almost anything she could conjure. He was not afraid of her. She had to be stopped, here and now. This was the best opportunity they had.