Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  You… you traitor!

  “You do not belong in the mountains,” Lord Gareth commanded. “Return to your gaol, Sariel!”

  HOW THE WORMS SQUEAL! Pain flooded through Johnathan’s body again. He forced his eyes open and saw that Lord Gareth still stood there. YOU CANNOT WIELD THAT ACCURSED STONE. HE HAS FALLEN TO MY SERVANTS ALREADY! YOU SHALL BOW LOW!

  “Sariel. Lord of Death and Lies and Deceit. I shall not succumb to your madness. Mother God is always with me.”

  LUCRETIA? LONG HAS SHE FALLEN IN THE WARS OF OLD. THERE IS NAUGHT REMAINING BUT THE FAINTEST GLIMMER!

  “Her Light ne’er fades,” Lord Gareth said proudly. “You have no pow’r here.”

  Johnathan struggled to keep his eyes open. Pain flooded over him in waves, and shadows danced in his sight. There seemed to be a nimbus—light and faint—‘round Lord Gareth.

  Mother… God…?

  ALL LIGHT FADES!

  “Then why do I still stand, Sariel?”

  “My master can appear upon the plane, but the portal has yet to open,” an unknown voice said. “When he comes, even the Light’s greatest champions will fall to Him.” Johnathan slowly turned his head to the left, and he saw two figures walking towards Lord Gareth, near formless. “My brother’s ward is upon you.”

  “I walk in the Mother’s Light. You do not.” Lord Gareth said flatly. “Your god has no power here, nor do you, whoever you are.”

  “I was once called the Herald, though I have passed that mantle onto another. I am the reason you are here. Why you are all here. Beneath mountain or outside walls.”

  Faceless Shadow. I must… I must… He tried to move, but he could only grasp the stone floor.

  “He warned me of you,” Lord Gareth replied.

  “How kind of my brother,” the unknown voice said. “Fifteen thousand years ago, I was called the Betrayer, all on account of your master’s cowardice. I tasted power that he could only dream of. He sent you to seize that power, but you come to me now empty handed.”

  “Shall I take his essence?” another voice asked, gruffer and deeper. “I have not spilled blood since we left the desert.”

  “What have you done to the high servitor?” Lord Gareth demanded.

  “I convinced him of his folly,” the first voice had said. “As I will do to you.”

  “Mother God will—”

  The lord steward screamed. Shadows seemed to suffocate him and muffle his cries. A pillar of coalesced darkness and shadows thrust down from above, cascading all o’er Lord Gareth. Johnathan tried to stand, but he had no strength left. The pain seared and burned; the realm became no more than shadows and shades.

  “What of these?” the deep voice asked. “Three knights and—it is him.”

  “So it is, so it is,” the first voice mused. “Show to me the powers that you have learned.”

  “Heh, as you command.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Before the Gates

  Elin called for the fifth company of the rearguard.

  The line smashed into a spray of defenders, pushing them away east past the trench west of the south gate. He raised a hand, and archers behind lit arrows. The captain called out, and fire flooded into the entrenched foes. Screams and mayhem emanated, and others came out fighting with sapping strength.

  “Sixth, eighth, and ninth!” Elin shouted out and the barren ground erupted. The rued black clad defenders fell in a swath; their blood soaked the ground and their screams filled the air. “More,” he growled, tightening his grip on the reigns. It had been five days since Ser Johnathan Falenir departed, and with every passing hour it seemed unlikely that the gate would ever open.

  Ser Kevan Jarn called for more companies, and Elin watched grim-faced. The western trench was taken, and the east, he wagered, would not stand ere long. “Bring the catapults up. Take aim at the western flank.”

  Men and women pushed a catapult down the slope. The Isilians on the ramparts shouted and pointed frantically, but the rearguard companies warded the course. It took many, but the boulders were loaded, and Elin gave the command to fire. Chips of rock and debris floated down the wall from whence the weapons struck, though the fortifications still held strong.

  “Again!”

  The defenders were frantic. Some captains tried to pull their companies from the skirmishes. Elin dispersed his own to cut them off, warding the siege engines.

  We must at least dent their shield. Convince them that their fortress is not impregnable. Five days and we are no closer, Mother God be cursed!

  The catapults fired a third time. Defenders above and below winced; the battlefield shook, but the walls stayed firm. It was like his men were throwing pebbles at the ramparts. “Pull them back before we are overrun. Push the eastern trench, now.”

  Elin tried to piece together what he had missed, but he could not see it. Frustrated, he seethed. He was on the doorstep, but he was losing the war.

  He suffered more victories than defeats in the last five days. Yet with every push and advance, the walls did not tremble, and his own companies slowly lessened.

  If I do not find a way in, the Faceless Shadow will flee, and this will be for naught.

  His every thought turned to the Faceless Shadow, and the senselessness that was birthed from his influence. Imperator Argath Diomedes was worse than Prince Adreyu Marcanas e’er was, and it was on account of that cloaked figure. Elin knew it was a poison that already spread to the Southern Nations, and would soon come to the White Walls.

  We must push through. Whatever the cost.

  “The eastern trench will fall, but it shall take overlong.” Ser Kevan said after sending away a messenger. “Catapults, scorpions, trebuchets. There is some mastery to these walls that we have not seen before. Perhaps soon we may call upon a battering ram for the gate, though it would be as like the same result. What shall we do when we look upon the gates?”

  “That will be our ruin,” Elin replied diffidently. “If I were ordering defenses, I would focus upon the gate. Burning oil, boulders, weighted barrels. That awaits us at the door, ne’er mind the archers with flaming arrows. We would lose the rams long before they broke the doors.”

  “Is there hope for Ser Johnathan?”

  Elin looked toward the towering black mountain, its shadow stretching endlessly in the late afternoon sun. It was monstrous and daunting, and he could not help but think of his nightmare—the lingering dread and the fades of life—and what lay in its heart.

  There is no hope, there never was. It was folly, though I would have heard no new counsel if he were here.

  “They would have broken through by now, ser, if there were any hope in it,” Elin declared. “Is there word from Lady Deborah upon the east?”

  “Little of it is good. Though they have less siege weapons than we have, it is wrought with the same result. She is losing more than we have. Once more she asked to pull the bands from the north gate and push through the defenses in the valley. I took the liberty of declining her request. I did not think your mind had changed.”

  Five days had come and gone, and the eastern companies were not flanked, not once. The band that Elin ordered to rove the northern mountains was sparse and spare, no more than a few hundred. Yet they had reported no movement, no musterings. It is like it lays wholly abandoned.

  Elin understood why the lady knight wanted them pulled back. In truth, he thought what three hundred more swords would do upon the south gate. Yet their warnings would prove too crucial.

  “It has not,” Elin replied. “If she is taken by surprise, what little remained would have much to answer before the Crystal Throne.” He spit. “I will not return without the heads of the Faceless Shadow, Imperator Argath Diomedes, and whatever nobles and councillors we find. They will come to account for what they have done, willingly or no.”

  All will come to account for what they have done, he wanted to say, whether they wear black and brown, red and black, gold and green, or silver and white. He would
not admit that to Ser Kevan. The man was loyal, but when pressed to tear down the White Walls, he did not know what the knight captain would say.

  If Ser Johnathan survives this, I must know my knight captain’s loyalty.

  He stared sullenly upon the field as the battle raged on. Archers from above picked off his own, be they knights, pike, men-at-arms, or spears. He called upon more to push them back. The bodies piled up in the valley. Most, he knew, were the unfaithful; those who would scorn at what he must do at the war’s end. Others were those who would obey unceasingly; and every arrow notched creeped closer to a dominion of royalty or pirates, and the endless cycle of death.

  Hand to breast, he thought of his children, and the light of his life. Dead and gone by the ambition of madness. There is no sacrifice too great, I swear it to you.

  “It is long past our waiting here,” Elin declared. “I would have that trench fall before dusk sets.”

  “Knight-Commander,” Ser Kevan began, suddenly animated. “It is not wisdom to thrust yourself upon the field while we press an advantage. If you should fall…”

  “It is not my fate to fall in the wastelands, ser. Call what remains of the rearguard. We will push them past the trenches, and then we shall wheel in siege engines that remain. That wall will fall.”

  “Knight-Commander…”

  “Call them, ser, or I shall take your head and do it myself!”

  Ser Kevan pulled his horse away, and began to shout orders. The thunder of hooves and plate echoed behind Elin, rallying to the low rising hills. All that would be left behind were the wounded, healers, and priests.

  There is no sacrifice too great.

  He knew what he was about to do, and what would come would be unforgiveable. That if Mother God e’er reigned in the Pantheon, that there would be no forgiveness, no alms; that the embrace of the Mother would forever be lost to him. It did not matter, not to him. Those already dead, those who would die from unchecked corruption, those were who mattered.

  He unsheathed Judgment and held the blade aloft, glimmering in the sun. Steel scraped against leather behind, and the knights of the first, second, third, and fourth company met him upon the hill. The defenders did not look or stir, nor his own upon the field.

  “They are called, Knight-Commander,” Ser Kevan announced. “We are at your command.”

  “We ride,” Elin began, eyes intent upon the bloodshed below. Every word reflected the pain he felt. “We ride to purge the cycle of death. We will push them out and unto the walls. Every siege engine will come. Scorpions will pierce the stone, catapults will smash the walls, and our trebuchets will send them flying.

  “We will breach the walls and put down every last one of these black-blooded cowards. They burned our home! Soiled our ground! No one was warded from their lust. You saw them. The aged and sick, the young and innocent. Not all buried in graves—some left parched before the sun! They follow the orders of their liege, as if they had naught to do with it. They excise his will, and through that our home burned!

  He turned and looked into the eyes of those who rallied behind him. “I do not forgive them.”

  “Death to the Mountain!” the voices chanted in unison. “Death to the Mountain!”

  The thunder of the descent into the valley caught the attention of the Isilian captains. Some flooded into the trenches, whilst others turned, spears facing upwards. Elin did not slow. He kept his horse steady and leaped through: wood and haft cracking as the horses thundered in the valley.

  He swung his blade low, dismembering the brave, chasing down the cowards. Calling out to the captains, he ordered his legions amid the chaos. He deflected arrows as he pushed towards the force of foes, cleaving whoever stood with blade bared.

  Blood and steel filled the air. He pushed his horse hard through the ranks, renting through plate, leather, and steel. The sea of black cleared through crystal white that he hewed. Then, he looked to the cracks of the barren earth south of where he was, and the skittering beneath the surface.

  “Flush them out of the trenches!” he called and leapt from his horse, landing at the head of the trench. There he called upon the knights and studded leather fighters. He down into the earth and shoved aside corpses and discarded steel, and thrust toward the defenders.

  He fought a scrawny stick of a young man who went to pierce his throat. He knocked the blade away lazily, pushed his foe against the wall, and thrust Judgment through a gap in the lower plate. The man lost his wits, covering the gaping wound, dying noisily.

  He turned and saw a man with a war hammer. He ducked and let the savage cut fall, thudding into the ground. He pivoted and slashed the man’s throat, joining the hammer in the sinking gloom.

  Foe after foe came at him. Tall, burly men with claymores and bastard swords, death in their eyes, but that was all he gave them. Men and women in studded leather, wielding short swords and daggers, came near him, though he slashed through them as like a knife through butter.

  Endlessly they seemed to come down. Elin stepped upon broken bodies more than barren, soiled earth. He called to push forward, knowing that he would lose men and women to poor footing if they lingered much longer.

  “Let us go ahead, Knight-Commander,” a knight declared from behind. Elin guffawed, but let the man lead onwards.

  A flurry of defenders came down, crashing through. Elin put his sword up, though one fleet footed woman in studded leathers crushed down upon the plate at his wrist. She gaped in horror when he did not flinch. He pushed her aside and pierced her throat with Judgment. Other corpses piled up on the floor, though his forces lingered again.

  “Knights, at the head! Push them out. Push through!” Elin yelled. “Out, out other the other side!” The knights bandied through, and he stepped upon the dead following at their heel.

  After a time, he saw that few of the defenders tried to push through, but fled. He gave chase through the twisted, narrow space. Suddenly the prey stopped, skewered upon thin bladed spears.

  “Knight-Commander!” Ser Kevan shouted.

  “My life’s blood still flows,” Elin declared, shouldering through the knights. “Are we clear upon the side?”

  “We are. I have archers at the bottom of the slopes, covering the trench.”

  Elin grabbed the limp, dead body of a swordsman and thrust it off the end of the spear. They were young, but he did not care. They were all daemons. “Clear them off. We keep pushing forward.”

  The spear lead, and he followed behind, while doubts raged through his mind. That was too easy, he thought. The horse dispersed them, but not enough. Something is waiting for us above.

  He emerged into the valley and saw that the remaining companies were pushing the remaining Isilians towards the southern gate. He called to those who remained to form a centre column, pushing further towards the walls. “Do not come under them. Whatever you do, do not come under them!”

  Arrows rained from the ramparts, but still he pushed them on. The Isilians in the valley dwindled. Some turned to flee, and his own threw spears at their retreating backs. He held them back as much as he could, slowly pushing towards the gate.

  He breathed heavily and tried to spy a weakness, a vulnerability. The walls loomed up, solid and strong. The doors of the gate were banded with iron. Endless men and women walked the ramparts, loosing crossbow bolts.

  He looked behind, and the scorpions and catapults wheeled up just beyond the trenches. He gave the order and they fired upon the walls. The boulders smashed against the walls, breaking harmlessly to the ground. The projectiles in the scorpions could not pierce the plain, coarse rock.

  The walls would not falter. The gate would not shake. The ramparts were too well manned.

  And there he stood.

  Near the over arching gate, he called for a halt. There were some scores of defenders by the gate, steel aloft, their backs to each other, trembling.

  He could press no further.

  He flexed his fingers on the hilt of Judgment, an
d wanted to call them back. He thought of constructing palisades around the trenches, and waiting further until a weakness emerged. Ser Kevan came to him suddenly. “We have not lost a man or woman in the past two minutes.”

  Elin looked up and saw that the men and women who walked the ramparts a moment ago had fled. “We take our chance, now.”

  Blood and broken bodies piled up before the gate.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Last Stand

  The Black Wrath listened intently to the messenger.

  “They poured in through the gates, south and then east. We are slowing them, but it will not be long before they are at the cross roads. Hours, my captain offers, but no more.”

  “What of the north?” the Black Wrath asked gruffly. The fall of the east and south gates were inevitable, though the north held much more interest to him.

  “We do not know. The captain he—”

  “You do not know, or chose not to find out?!” His patience was wearing thin. “Speak!”

  The messenger shrank back. “Know. We do not know. There are corpses near the gate, the eyes plainly see that. Any we send there do not return.”

  “And yet the doors flung open as wide as the south and east gates. Someone opened them.”

  “Yes, uh, they did. Yes, they did.”

  “Return to your captain,” the Black Wrath said dismissively, frustrated with the ineptitude. “Tell him to give up the ground and return at once to the Cimmerii’s Hold. Whosoever remains shall give their lives for the imperator.”

  The messenger bobbed his head and skirted away down the broken path and over the low walls of the courtyard. When the skittish man was no more than a speck on the horizon, the Black Wrath growled, “How long have you been listening?”

  The gate behind him creaked open and Lord Luc Endrast walked out. He was clad in black plate and a draping cloak of sable, though he walked with a hand near the hilt of his long sword. “Long enough to know that it was not your men that failed, inept as they are. A small number passed through Mount Cimmerii and opened the gates. Not unchanged.”