“Practise your strikes. Keep each and every swing full and powerful. I find it helps to scream out a battle cry. Keep it strong so it reverberates around your body, and channel that energy through your body.”
Sumnar let out a blood-curdling scream, as he delivered an imaginary blow with his blade.
“You are kidding, right?” retorted the Princess.
Sumnar ignored her and just continued his instruction. “Often, when using your sword, you may be tempted to use just your arms to swing the blade. Don’t do this. Use your entire body to control the weapon. This allows more force to be applied in attack. Also, it doesn’t damage your muscles as much. A battle cry will help to remind you of this.”
He pulled the orange back and flung it again. Fayette watched it swing once more, then on its return brought the stick down. She caught the orange right at the bottom of the arc with full force and split it, the flesh of the orange spraying everywhere. Sumnar raised his eyebrows. “Well that was a fine strike!
“Now we’ll try it blindfolded.”
“You are joking?” the Princess replied. He smiled and handed her a black mask.
“You need to be aware of everything around you. Sense what is happening in front and behind you. Sometimes using your eyes can focus you away from where the greatest danger is. Perhaps it is behind you! Reduce your reliance on them and place a greater faith on your other senses: your hearing and feeling; a wisp of wind; the vibration of someone underfoot. Perceive and try and explore your surroundings with all your senses.”
He picked up a stick moving round her. He poked her in the back and she turned and swiped her wooden sword at him and missed. He stepped sideways trying to present an unpredictable target. “Sense where I am, listen.” He tapped her on the bottom. “Hey!” she complained and he chuckled to himself.
So, the days passed. During the day they practised in the courtyard until Fayette’s arms and body ached, or until her muscles were drained of energy and she could not lift the sword above her waist.
“You’ve developed strong individual strikes. We will now try to string them together. Combine your attack. First hit your opponent’s gloves, then twist and slash up to the head or a stab to the chest.” And so her training continued.
At night, away from the hustle in the rest of the castle, they sat on rickety stools and ate simple stews across a big sturdy table, the flicker of candlelight casting shadows around the walls of the spartan room. Sumnar would tell Fayette tales of his travels, the voyages he had undertaken across the oceans and lands beyond. A wondrous kingdom full of magical places, of strange peoples and mythical creatures, Fayette perched with her chin on the palms of her hands. She suspected that Sumnar was prone to a little exaggeration as sometimes his stories were a little far-fetched.
She observed that he proved a little more expansive with every jar of foamy ale he consumed, though she did not mind, as Sumnar was an accomplished storyteller. She loved the wistfulness in his eyes as he told the tales. He travelled back and relived every moment himself. At times he would pause and inhale deeply on his pipe. He blew the aromatic smoke up towards the ceiling as he recounted a friend, or a place.
He was a man of passion, and she sensed his deep attachments to each of his stories: “I had been searching for a wise man; one who had lived alone for many years secluded on a high, icy mountain top, where the air was clear, the water pure and the soil rich. He ate simple foods, cleansing his body and soul from everyday troubles.
“He sat in meditation, exploring uninterrupted the remotest parts of his own mind. He unlocked many secrets, piecing together remnants of our ancestors’ memories, buried and hidden. He walked the parts of his mind untouched; unravelling the mysteries of who we are, where we came from. Everything was recorded there within his mind, passed down from his father and mother. The shadows of their lives, their memories, had been handed down to them in turn by their mothers and fathers before them, and now passed to the wise man himself.
“Forgotten powers, some evil, some good, generations of memories. All shaping us, making us who we are now. The wise man would descend from the mountain once a year on the summer solstice, then share his thoughts with the learned monks in a small monastery in the lush green fields and orchards down below.”
Sumnar poured himself another jug of ale, took a large glug that left a foamy residue on his beard that he wiped with his sleeve. “I had spent time with the monks learning of the powers of meditation, of focusing your mind. But I suspected that the old man only taught part of his story. There was much more to learn, so I intended to seek him out, request that I become his apprentice and study with him.
“I started out from the base of the mountain, having packed food and water into a sack. I took my staff in hand and began the climb to the top, a climb of five days. At first I passed through thick pinewoods and ferns and crossed rocky streams of crystal clear melt water from the peaks above. As I got higher, the temperature dropped as the atmosphere thinned. The flora changing, becoming scarce; the plants becoming thinner and tougher; ferns and pines giving way to hardier grasses and smaller shrubs.
“I camped the first night just below the snow line, under a rocky overhang. It gave me some protection from the biting winds. I lit a small fire to keep me warm, wrapping my cloak around me to give me warmth. The next two days I trudged through deep snowdrifts up to my waist. My breath would form ice around my beard and cloudy plumes formed with each gasp of breath. My feet were frostbitten despite several layers of cloth wrapped round to protect them.
“On the third day the weather changed; clouds gathered around the mountain tops; snow swirling almost like a whirlpool above me in the sky; the winds funnelled down from the peak of the mountain, bending me in two as I fought against them, whipping at my cloak which flapped around me. I had to dig in my staff to stop myself from falling backwards down the slope. The closer I got, the fouler the winds became.
“In the roar of the wind I just detected voices. Or could I? Warning me to turn round. ‘Do not enter here,’ they said. ‘Return whence you came.’ But I pushed on until the day faded, turned to dusk and then to dark. The blizzard got stronger, howling around me. I could not see my hand even when I held it in front of my face; my fingers and my toes turned numb, the cold slowing draining my body of its heat and energy.
Sumnar momentarily frowned at the memory. “With a sudden realisation I felt that I could not go on any more. I turned and sat down in the snow. My mind felt a certain type of peace once it had reconciled itself to the fact that this was the end and I could rest forever. Sleep. Never again unsatisfied or unfulfilled. I closed my eyes and started to drift away.
“Then almost like a dream I felt two strong hands grasp me by my shoulders. I was lifted upwards out of the drift. Snowflakes landed on my face as my arms and legs dangled beneath me. Floating through the air we drifted upwards; through the wind; beyond the blizzard.
“I opened my eyes and in the distance I made out a shimmering light. A dim flicker of a fire in the mouth of a cave above. I drifted towards it and entered into it. The comfort of warm air enveloped around me like a warm blanket returning me to life. I drifted off with this heady feeling, like a child returning to the womb.”
Sumnar paused and placed his hands on the table. “It’s getting late,” he said. “We should retire.”
“But the story!” urged the Princess. As if this was a book that she could not put down.
“All in good time,” said Sumnar. “Now we rest,” and he rose from the table and shuffled across to his small bunk.
*
Ambassador Martis’s party had ridden solemnly all day, their thoughts torn between those of their brethren who had fallen prey to the invisible foe, yet pondering what lay ahead. Another night that may be their last, possibly suffering the same fate as the other guards.
Yet they were still so many days from Celestina.
Gulden observed the fall in spirits of his men who were cold, wet and hungry. The rain had continued all day and he could sense a number of the men failing under the strain: coughs, colds and a few starting fevers.
Ambassador Martis was a little frailer and suffering even worse. Gulden was concerned as to how many days they would be able to keep riding this hard. Many of the men developed sores on their legs and hands from the arduous journey. The horses could be seen to be losing weight, their ribs now protruding through their leathery skin. They needed more frequent rests to prevent them from collapsing. Their outlook appeared bleaker and bleaker. At the end of the next day they stopped in a hollow sheltered from the wind and the fires gave a little more warmth.
The soldiers wearily slid off their horses and sat in huddles near where their stallions grazed. They ate the remains of the bread, cheese and salted beef from their packs. Gulden walked amongst them, stopping to squeeze one on the shoulder, utter a few kind words to try and lift their spirits. Most wanted simply to talk about their wives and children. Memories of home, yet knowing that they also could be facing the enemy as they spoke.
Dusk descended on them. Gulden stirred himself once more. “Friends, the night is coming, let us ready ourselves again. God give us strength to be brave, to defend with stout hearts, that our courage should not fail us or the men standing at our shoulders. For the sake of our wives, our children, let us survive this night.”
Everybody slept fitfully, waiting for the enemy to pounce again. When they came, as with the previous evening, it was sudden and they descended upon them without warning. Shouts resounded around the camp. Gulden leapt to his feet and whirled around. Nothing! Then he felt something, sensed something. He searched the heavens above him and saw a black silhouette in the sky masking the stars.
“My God, they are above us. They are attacking from the sky, look to the skies! Fight with your swords above your heads.”
He thrust his blade upwards and felt it sink into flesh, and a chilling shriek gurgled above him. Then the beast dropped from the sky to the ground on top of him, pinning him down. He rolled to his side, kicking off the beast and freed himself. Raising himself to his feet, he went to the aid of another guard who was struggling with a creature on the grass. He raised his sword above his head and dug it into the beast’s back. It arched and screeched. Almost half human, half winged bat; protruding dead black eyes; rows of serrated fangs; leathery wings flapped from thin muscular arms; jagged razor-sharp claws slashing from thick muscular legs.
“Gargoyles,” Gulden exclaimed. “Look to the sky, gargoyles!” For the next fifteen minutes it was mayhem. They fought back bravely, metal against bone, talons tearing at human flesh. They drove them off and silenced the screeches of the dark angels as they descended on the soldiers. Their cries diminished as first the gargoyles were felled and then they retreated.
When the sun came up again they’d lost another three men, and at least as many horses. Fifteen of the creatures had been slain. In the light of day they examined one lying on its back.
“These are ugly-looking beasts,” said one of the corporals, giving it a kick in the ribs.
“These are strange times we live in,” said Gulden to Ambassador Martis. “Whoever thought we would be fighting gargoyles. I thought they were a myth. A legend born by the clergy to terrify unbelievers into sheltering in churches from these monsters of children’s tales. Yet here they are, their demonic eyes and festering souls haunting our waking hours as well as our nightmares, and at Gorath’s service.
“Well,” added the corporal, “at least we now understand what we are fighting. That gives us a chance. Now we just need to decide the best way to defend against them!”
The Ambassador spoke. “I think I have heard tell of these winged beasts before. They call them dark angels. They inhabited the dark caverns to the north of Gamura and would come out at night and feed on cattle and sheep. It is believed that Gorath trapped them in their caves so that they could not feed. He fed them the flesh of man and they got accustomed to the taste and now they do his bidding. I am surprised that they are so far from the north. They need a master, a Black Wizard who trains them, controls them.”
“Hmmm,” said Gulden. “Let us not worry about that, for the moment anyway.” He pointed to a small copse of woods to the south and turned to his sergeant-at-arms.
“Sergeant Hart, take ten men with you to the copse and craft some bows and arrows. The best way to fight these things is to bring them down from the sky. Gentlemen, there is hope. The rest of you, bury the bodies.”
*
Prince Aron and his company had veered away from the river and found a well-trodden trail where the undergrowth parted, the ground worn to mud by travellers who cut across the meander of the Dalicuer. Aland and Ailin led at the front, Leo and Daylon in the middle, and Prince Aron brought up the rear.
“Leo, we’re trying to keep as low a profile as possible,” said the Prince. “I suggest you just call me Aron for now.”
“Yes, certainly, Your Highness,” said Leo. “Errr, I mean Aron.”
The Prince smiled weakly at him. “Well just make an effort to remember, will you.”
Leo turned to Daylon. “I have a question. Why do you give weapons such exotic names?”
Daylon thought. “Well, there are a number of reasons. Firstly, forging a sword is extremely expensive, especially those with more intricate carvings or inlays. So they are more than inanimate objects, they are personal prized possessions.
And Bernard would hardly do. Your legs would not quiver and eyes widen in fear in the presence of a blade named Bernard. However, ‘Beast Slayer’, ‘Truth Giver’ and ‘Iron Enforcer’ seem somehow supernatural. Not only do these swords strike fear into your opponents, but also make you stand prouder, a match for anyone, invincible. Add in the fact that they are blessed in formal religious rituals, and they take on a reputation of their own.”
Leo pondered. “Daylon, do you have such a weapon?” Daylon reached to his saddle, pulled out a cross-hilt dagger and passed it to Leo.
“A gift from King Armanar himself, it is engraved with the King’s Arms on the hilt, ‘Razor Phantom’!”
Leo admired the dagger. “Beautiful, it must be precious.”
“Indeed,” said Daylon, who took an apple from his pack and started peeling it.
They crested a ridge and Aland raised his fist to gesture to them to stop. Prince Aron joined him up front.
“Bandits,” said Aland. “Four or five of them, and they appear to be robbing a small group of nuns.”
Aron contemplated their options thoughtfully. “We should not take any unnecessary risks. This is not our fight, so I suggest we skirt back and follow the river once more.” However, at that moment, one of the bandits struck one of the nuns across the face, knocking her to the floor. She cowered in the mud, covering her face and quivering.
Aland shrugged, “Sire, what do we become if we fail to do what is right, whatever the consequence?”
The Prince nodded. He dug his heels into his horse, flicked the reins forward and galloped down to the melee ahead.
Daylon grabbed Leo’s reins and pulled him back. “The three of them can handle it.”
The bandits had been caught off guard, but once alerted they turned to face the approaching horsemen. They were a ragtag bunch that lived and foraged in the forest. They tried their luck fleecing any strangers or travellers that by happenchance crossed their path. Their weapons were old, rusted and coarse, likely hand-me-downs from prior generations. Aron drew up, flanked by Aland and Ailin, Flame and Flare resting on the pommels of their saddles. The Prince cocked his head. “A fine day to you, gentlemen.”
The leader of the bandits scrutinised them as an infantryman with a sword may do when faced with a ballista pointing at him, but was unperturbed. “You need to pay a toll. These ’ere are our woods and you need to pay a
toll to pass through them. Five farthings a horse.”
“Five farthings sounds very reasonable indeed, don’t you think?” said the Prince, turning to his companions. “In fact, a bargain at twice the price.
“So, what’s going on with these nuns?”
“They won’t pay,” said the bandit. “Said they gave all their earnings from the market to the poor. In my experience one of them cunningly conceals their money in their undergarments. Sometimes we search them all to find out which one!”
He winked at Aron. “Right you are,” said Aron. “Sounds like a tall story. You know, nuns giving to the poor! Now listen, we don’t want to cause any trouble but I do think you should let them go.”
“I don’t think so,” said the bandit leader. “If word got out we’d never be able to rob anyone again. We’d lose all respect in these ’ere woods.”
Like all first-rate impasses you can go forward, go back, or simply sit around until the sun goes down, and then go for a beer. Aron waited a while, giving the bandits all the time in the world to retreat but they did not. He also suspected that in their diminished capacity they would be rather poor company in the tavern. So he sighed and nodded to Ailin, who kicked Far Ranger into action and rode straight over the top of the bandit leader before he could raise his sword.
The other bandits, not surprisingly were shocked by this turn of events, given at one stage they had numerical superiority, they now faced the prospect of dragging a rather battered leader from the mud where he lay and retreating into the woods. Which they promptly did, muttering under their voices, “It was not quite stoolball.”
The Prince beckoned for Leo and Daylon to join them, dismounted his horse and helped the nun back to her feet. He then helped the others load their belongings and wares back on the cart.
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