by Pedro Urvi
Mirkos’ gaze rested on the faces of the soldiers and saw fear taking its toll in the presence of that threatening cloak of darkness. He went to speak to them, but as he took a step forward a terrible pain ran along his back and he was forced to bend double. Dolbar, concerned, went to help him, but Mirkos stopped him with a wave of his hand. He could not show weakness, not now. The terrible wounds inflicted by the blood demon were torturing him but would not succeed in beating him; he was too old and stubborn for that. Mirkos was aware that he was alive by a miracle of the ancient gods. But he would fight with all his courage and determination, for his own countrymen, for his land, until pain and death took him away, never to return.
He straightened with the help of his staff of power.
“Listen to me, Rogdonians!” he called at the top of his voice. “Don’t give in to fear, hold fast!”
The soldiers listened in silence, looking for the slightest trace of hope to lighten their spirits.
“Fight with me, Rogdonians! Fight beside Mirkos, Battle Mage of the King, and I promise we’ll send those vipers to the hole they came from!”
The ominous cloak of darkness reached the foot of the wall. Beneath its ill-omened shadow advanced the sons of the desert, those who served the sun of death. Mirkos conjured the two protective spheres, the one of earth to protect against physical attacks and the ethereal anti-magic one, for he did not wish to repeat past mistakes. What had happened in Silanda had taught him a valuable lesson. Keeping up both spheres consumed his energy but he had no choice, as he knew with absolute certainty that two hundred paces away under the blackness several Curse Sorcerers were waiting eagerly to attack him.
“Clear this area quickly,” he told Dolbar. The soldiers fell back immediately.
Mirkos closed his eyes and concentrated. He pronounced words of power in a mystical chant, invoking the Spell of Air he needed. He pointed at the blackness with his staff and a white light of great intensity leapt out in its direction. The light attacked the cloak of darkness, filling it with brightness.
The soldiers on the wall cheered when they saw the darkness being destroyed by their powerful Mage, and hope surged up within their hearts like a seed germinating in the warm sunshine of Spring.
An ocean of enemies lay revealed. The archers fired at once, sending thousands of arrows against the Nocean legions. Death began to fill the plain, death which would now seek the battlements like a demon with blue body and black wings which thirsted for Rogdonian blood.
“Release! Release at will!” Dolbar ordered his men.
Impassively, the Nocean legions advanced their high, arrogant banners with the symbol of the golden sun, losing men by the hundreds in the process, but the wall was already within their reach. Nothing would stop them now.
Mirkos looked out at the enemy lines searching for the counter-attack to his spell. The enemy Sorcerers now knew his location, and there was no doubt that they would attack. He could not make out any Sorcerer, but he could sense the presence of two of them, very powerful and formidable. And a little further away, someone whose power was equal to his own, if not superior… and that made the old Mage’s heart shrink. Age knew neither pity nor forgiveness and at that crucial moment for Rogdon it was making him feel all its weight. I might be a worn-out old man and I might be injured, but this old sack of bones is determined not to let them pass. I’ll fight to my last breath. They might be younger, more powerful even, but this old Mage still has a couple of tricks up his ragged sleeve. They won’t defeat me so easily, no! I’ll fight with all my years of experience!
At that moment a hundred arrows fell on Mirkos. Surprised, he took several steps back and nearly fell off the inner wall. What the…? Another hundred arrows fell around the Mage. Mirkos checked his protective sphere with concern. It had rejected the arrows, but it was weakened. He concentrated and reinforced the spell on it. He had been expecting a magical attack, not a physical one. Those treacherous Noceans were as skillful as they were dangerous. Zecly’s work, no doubt about it…
And then he sensed it. Curse Magic being conjured: powerful, very powerful. But where?
He ran out on to the parapet and swept his gaze over the whole enemy line, from left to right. And he identified him, to his right, at the end of the line, more than three hundred paces from him, out of reach of his magic but less than two hundred paces from the wall. He was going to cast a spell on the wall and there was no way to stop him.
“Nooooooo!” he shouted in fury, and began to run towards the Sorcerer.
At the end of the wall a putrid greenish cloud began to take shape over the defenders, who were firing volley after volley at the Noceans. Mirkos ran as fast as his battered body was able, while the cloud took more definite shape over the defenders; it was the color of sickness. The first soldiers affected by the curse spell dropped their bows and put their hands to their throats.
They were suffocating!
No Nocean was climbing the wall at that point. Along the rest of the wall the assault was going on. Hundreds of hooks passed over the battlements, digging themselves in. The assault ladders were already standing in their hundreds against the wall. The Rogdonian archers launched arrow after arrow at the blue and black horde.
“Repel them! For your families!” Dolbar shouted as he stabbed the first Nocean who reached the battlements in the heart.
Beside him another two reached the battlements and drew Nocean scimitars and long curved daggers. Brown–faced, black-eyed men wearing long blue tunics over black pants, protected by long chain-mail as far as the knees. They wore cuirasses with the emblem of the Noceans engraved in the center: the ruthless desert sun. These soldiers wore round helmets over their long curly hair, crowned by a sharp point a hand-span tall.
“For Rogdon!” roared Dolbar, and launched himself against them.
Mirkos reached the lower part of the wall where the maleficent cloud had been conjured. A thousand Rogdonians lay dead, their bodies twisted into horrible postures by terrible spasms. A cloud of poisoned air. Damn them! Damn them! He fell to his knees impotently as he watched the last soldiers left alive twist in anguish and die, asphyxiated by the lethal spell.
“You’ll pay for this!” he shouted in fury.
He got to his feet and began to cast a spell in the midst of the poison cloud, protected against magic by his sphere. He could feel the Sorcerers had retreated; they were not going to confront him directly, the cowards. And they would pay for that! With his staff above his head he conjured a spell of great power, while the fight on the wall turned frantic. Dolbar and his men were fighting like men possessed, throwing off the battlements any Nocean who managed to climb them. The casualties began to mount. Mirkos calculated the distance. Closing his eyes, he finished casting the powerful spell which had consumed much of his energy.
Above Mirkos’ head there took shape an enormous bird of fire. The whole bird was incandescent: body, wings, talons, beak… Mirkos pointed with his staff at the enemy, ten paces away from the wall amid the enemy lines.
“Burn them to ashes!” he ordered.
The fiery bird spread its wings of fire and flew against the enemy lines, passing over their heads, impregnating them all with its burning essence. The Nocean soldiers touched by the fiery wake of the bird burnt instantly, consumed by flames. Screams of horror filled the whole south of the plain. Hundreds of Nocean soldiers were burning to ashes. Mirkos breathed deeply and concentrated once again. The bird of fire began to wing its way slowly toward the heart of the Nocean legions, impelled by Mirkos’s power. Terror and chaos took possession of the enemy, and men ran desperately in an attempt to find cover from the blazing heat the bird spread in its passing. Men and earth burnt equally, as if a great fire had broken out in the midst of a leafy forest. Mirkos watched the stampede and shouted:
“Run, you traitors, run! You’ll find no escape from my wrath!”
With what little power was left to him, Mirkos sent a number of balls of fire against the retreating forces. On impact th
ey exploded in flames which consumed everything around them. The forest of Noceans was swallowed up in flames, and the screams of terror and despair were chilling. Thousands died and the smell of burning flesh was sickening. Beside the wall only remains of charred bodies were left. The enemy sounded the retreat and the legions abandoned the neighborhood of the city as Mirkos’ spell was consumed and died away, swallowing the fleeing army in a last funeral pyre.
Dolbar finished pushing back the last few assailants and ran to the Mage. Mirkos fell to his knees and clutched his chest in pain.
“What’s the matter, Mirkos?” Dolbar asked when he saw the Mage fall.
“I’ve… overdone it… my body… can’t bear…”
The great Mage fell to the ground unconscious.
“Mirkos, no!”
Desperate Defense
“By the Frozen Gods! Who dared to give the order to retreat? What sort of an outrage is this? Answer me!” King Thoran roared at his Generals.
The Generals looked at one another uneasily, but none of them spoke; the atmosphere inside the command tent was so intense it seemed bloodshed was imminent. King Thoran was completely beside himself. Even Count Volgren’s six powerful and battle-hardened personal guards, stoically guarding the command tent, seemed to shrink in the face of the furious outburst.
Count Volgren bowed his head and spoke in a faint voice.
“The Battle Mage of the Rogdonian King is extremely powerful. He unleashed a volcano among our lines, your Majesty… We’ve lost many men…”
“I did not order a retreat!” King Thoran exploded.
“We had to regroup to avoid more losses, they were decimating us…” General Olagson put in.
“We’ve also lost two of the three Ice Mages, your Majesty,” General Odir said. “Only Uluson has survived… and without the backup of magic…”
“The Rogdonian Mage has fallen! Uluson has confirmed it!” the King roared.
“They resisted the assault with incredible determination,” General Rangulfsen pointed out.
“Take the damned city!” Take it!” the King barked at Rangulfsen.
“The Noceans have also been repelled in the South,” Volgren commented. “We should launch a joint attack and put an end to the last resistance…”
“I don’t want anything to do with those desert rats! There won’t be any deal with those treacherous vipers! We’ll take the city with our own forces! We have the best infantry of the entire continent!”
Volgren waited a moment before speaking.
“There’s something else, your Majesty. Something’s happening at the Pass of the Half Moon. We haven’t received the supplies that should have come from the fortress. We’ve sent several riders, but none of them have come back… very strange, your Majesty, there’s something wrong there…”
“I don’t give a damn about the Fortress of the Half Moon!”
“Your Majesty, it’s our rearguard, we can’t leave it unprotected,” Count Volgren said. “We need to understand what’s going on there. I have a bad feeling…”
“Raze Rilentor to the ground! Bring me the head of the king! I want my revenge!” the King yelled, red with rage, and grabbed his war axe.
They stared at him, fearing a bloody outburst. The monarch planted himself threateningly among the Generals.
“As your majesty wishes. It shall be done,” Count Volgren said as humbly as he could, in an attempt to appease the King’s rage.
For an instant Thoran seemed to calm down, but still his axe swayed in his hand. His eyes were fixed on the Count: bloodshot, furious eyes.
A deathly silence fell on the room.
“Good,” the King said at last.
Count Volgren tried to hide a sigh of relief, but was very much aware of the danger threatening his life.
“And now we still have one more matter to deal with,” the King said, and nodded at one of his guards. “Bring him in.”
The guard left the tent, all eyes upon him, and returned a few moments later followed by a man wearing a hooded cloak which hid his face.
“He arrived less than an hour ago,” the King said. “I believe he has something important to tell us.”
The newcomer pushed back his hood, revealing his face.
The surprise of all those present was complete.
“Lasgol!” Rangulfsen and Volgren exclaimed simultaneously.
Lasgol bowed briefly in greeting.
“My Royal Forest Ranger has told me a very interesting story,” the King said.
“Lasgol, did you find out who betrayed me?” Rangulfsen asked, deeply interested. “Is that why you’re here?”
Lasgol nodded.
“Indeed, General,” the King said. “It seems we have a conspirator among us, a filthy traitor.”
With a triumphant gleam in his eyes, he turned and placed the edge of his axe on the neck of Count Volgren, who was petrified with surprise.
“Was it Count Volgren, Tracker?” the King asked Lasgol.
“Yes, your Majesty. The Assassin confirmed it. He is the conspirator.”
The Count’s eyes opened wide.
Thoran gave him an icy look.
“Count Volgren, I sentence you to death for high treason,” he said, and raised his arm to deliver the fatal blow.
Volgren mumbled something unintelligible.
To everybody’s amazement, General Odir seized the King’s arm from behind and stabbed him in the neck.
“Treason!” cried General Olagson as the King fell to the ground, drowning in his own blood.
The King’s Guard of Honor drew his sword, but Count Volgren was faster and put his own sword through him.
Olagson and Rangulfsen drew their swords too, but were immediately surrounded by the Count’s six personal guards.
Odir put his dagger to Lasgol’s neck.
Volgren raised his sword. “Don’t you even try, you won’t make it,”
“Damned traitor!” Olagson spat at him.
“Easy, bear. I know you’re a strong man and a good swordsman, one of the best in Norghana, they say. All the same, if you try anything my men will hack you to pieces. I chose them personally, I can assure you that you won’t be able to cope with them and me.”
Olagson looked at the six formidable Norghanians around him and seemed to hesitate.
“I should have foreseen this,” Rangulfsen said. “But I never thought greed would drive you as far as committing high treason,”
“Greed? I’m not doing this out of greed. It’s time for someone with a brain and a vision to take the reins of the Norghanian people. This lunatic was going to lead us all to ruin, blinded by his desire for revenge. You know that as well as I do. He wouldn’t listen to reason. Something had to be done, and something has been done.”
“It wasn’t your call to make that decision,” Olagson said.
“The future belongs to those who dare,” Odir said with a malevolent smile. “Drop your weapons if you don’t want to end up like that lunatic.”
The two Generals weighed up the situation briefly. Then they dropped their swords.
Volgren pointed his sword at them. “And now I’ll give you a chance to save your lives. Swear fealty to me and you’ll live.”
The two Generals looked at each other, undecided. They had no desire to do it, but if they refused their death would be inevitable.
“I’ll crown myself King with or without you. You know it, so swear or else you’ll be executed as traitors for the assassination of the King. It’s in your hands.”
“You can’t do that!” cried Lasgol, and Odir pressed the knife on his neck.
“On your knees!” Volgren ordered.
The two Generals knelt slowly, defeated, surrounded by the swords of the guards.
“Swear your fealty. I won’t say it again,” threatened Volgren.
“You have my loyalty, my Lord,” Rangulfsen said.
“My sword and my honor are yours, my Lord,” Olagson said.
La
sgol tried to stop them. “No! You can’t!”
“Shut up!” Odir said, and punched him in the stomach.
Lasgol folded over in pain.
“Good, and now let’s seal this moment with an alliance. Bring me the Nocean,” he told one of his guards.
A moment later Sumal walked into the command tent, and though the scene would have stunned the calmest man, Sumal did not bat an eyelid.
“My dear spy, I want you to witness the events here, and then convey them to your lord.”
“So I shall,” Sumal said with a knowing smile.
“The King is dead, and I’m taking his place at the head of the Kingdom of Norghana. The Generals have sworn their fealty to me and serve me, as you can see.”
Sumal nodded.
Volgren produced a sealed document and handed it across.
“The alliance your Lord Mulko was offering. I’ve signed it. We’ll attack jointly at dawn.”
“I’ll communicate to my Lord what I have witnessed here and deliver the agreement,” Sumal said. With a quick glance at Lasgol, he left the tent.
“On your feet,” Volgren said to his two Generals, who rose to their feet slowly.
“Tomorrow, after the victory, we’ll blame the Noceans for King Thoran’s death.”
“That will bring about war with the Empire,” Rangulfsen warned him.
“Exactly, my clever General. Prepare our strategy, because after the conquest of Rilentor we’ll throw the Noceans out of Rogdon and the Kingdom will be ours,” Volgren said with a smile. There was a gleam of greed in his eyes.
“And what shall I do with this one?” Odir asked, indicating Lasgol. “Kill him?”
“We’ll execute him tomorrow. The men will want some fun after the victory. Chain him to a post. And make sure you do it properly, he’s a Chosen.”
Odir was about to leave the tent when Volgren said:
“One more thing: send a hundred riders to the Fortress of the Half Moon. I want to know what the hell is going on there.”
Odir nodded and pushed Lasgol out of the tent.
“And now, my Generals, let’s prepare the attack that will grant us victory.”