by Jon Kiln
“What?” Ganry was beside them in a flash, his mouth full of lamb and bread.
“The road along Cifenon forest,” Hendon said excitedly.
“It’s Linz. We can see what he sees,” Myriam squealed.
“What?” Ganry swallowed the food down. “And where are the Lake Men?”
“There they are, he’s turning around to face them…” Hendon continued. “Oh, and I see them, hundreds of men, armed and ready for war.”
“Then he can see what you see, too,” Artas said. “Look all around you and show him where we are.”
“Yes, yes,” Myriam laughed. “He can see everything we can.”
“How many men does he have?” Bertrand asked, a skeptical look on his face.
“At least five thousand, but he’s not leading them all,” Hendon replied, with his eyes still closed.
“They are moving in clustered regiments, just like I instructed him to,” Ganry said, licking the last few drops of stew from the bowl.
“Can they speak to him?” Bertrand looked at Ganry. “With this magic they’re using?”
“There’s no such thing as magic.” The muscle-bound former mercenary laughed.
***
“We will keep moving south,” Linz ordered the men following him. “And tonight we won’t camp. This is not another little sortie into a small patrol or garrison. This is the reason we have left the lake. This is war, for justice and peace. We fight to have the rightful ruler of Palara regain her crown, and to preserve our ways as the Lake Men.”
A shout went up from his army, confirming their allegiance to him and the venture he was leading them to. Ganry had taught him well. He knew exactly what to do, absorbing every detail the former commander of Emperor Fontelroy’s legions had instructed him with. His sharp mind had earned him a few good points in Ganry's book, and the thirteen year old leader of the Lake Men had never felt more proud.
“If only my mother could see me now,” he thought. “And uncle Clay. This is for you, uncle.”
Suddenly he felt the urge to hold the ornamental dagger in his hand. He flipped it out of its sheath and a strange sensation overcame him. He paused, closing his eyes. His intuition about moving south had been right. Images of the southern lands began to fill his mind, and the smiling face of the lovely princess. She was there, in the southwest region, and she was waiting for him. He felt it in his mind and his heart.
He called out to his fastest scouts. “Ride fast, to our other three regiments. Have them ride hard, all through the night, to the Basalt Mountains. Keep to the western rim of the forest. I will lead the rest there myself. The time has come, my brothers. We ride to war.”
***
The last rays of the dying sun disappeared over the western mountains, casting a dark pall of gloom over the land. Hundreds of flickering torches lit up the eastern plains where Harald and his army of ten thousand men waited. The foreboding calm before the storm weighed down on everybody on the western hills, where the camp lay behind the stream.
“They are waiting like demons, ready to fall upon us,” Hagar noted, as his restless horse stamped on the ground.
“They number ten thousand. Easy odds for our three thousand,” Ganry laughed, “except for their longer lances, thicker shields and precision training.”
“Where is that dark outlander?” Marston asked. “He had much to say about his contract with the Duchess, and how his army of twenty thousand would ride with us.”
“Has he fled with his tail between…” Hagar snorted.
“Qutaybah is no coward,” Ganry said grimly. “And it is not an army but a naval fleet that he boasted of. If that slaver does keep his word, then Harald’s navy at the port of Brammanville is in for a rude awakening.”
“Then let’s hope he keeps his word, for if the navy descends upon the western shore, we will find ourselves between the army to the east, and the navy behind us,” Artas offered, holding on to the strong arm of the grim and silent Lord of Ogden.
“You had best retreat to the princess’ tent,” Ganry said to the slender noble. “Your skills with the bow, no mater how lethal, will be of little use in the dark.”
“Do they intend to attack now, or wait till dawn?” Bertrand asked, riding up to the front.
“They are waiting for the regent,” Hagar noted. “They will attack as soon as he arrives.”
“And how soon will these five thousand Lake Men be joining us?” asked Marston.
“As to what the princess says, they will be here after dawn.” Ganry grimly eyed the Palaran army waiting just a few miles away.
“Oho, look out below!” a crier called out from high above a tree top. “Harald approaches, and he looks ready for battle.”
Sure enough, cresting a rise, the regent of Palara came thundering up on his warhorse, Thawban, with his arm raised high, holding aloft a sword that was larger than any Ganry had ever seen. Its blade was flat and wide, and even longer than Windstorm, and on its pommel, a large stone, the size of a man’s fist, shined a fiery red, covering the immense blade in a blood red shimmering glow.
43
As the first few streaks of light illuminated the pink skies of dawn, the horn for a half hour rest sounded. Fighters drew back from conflict, warily eyeing their opponents as they retraced their steps. The dead and the dying were allowed to be retrieved by the healers and pit diggers. Ganry drew rein beside Bertrand.
“This is a stalemate,” Bertrand said. “What does Harald wait for? He hasn’t joined battle in the first three sorties.”
“What would I know of the ways of kings and regents?” Ganry said, wiping the blood off Windstorm. “Perhaps he waits for the princess herself to fight him.”
Ogden spoke up suddenly. “He waits for his navy to beach and have us surrounded.”
Ganry looked at the older man with suspicion. “How would you know that, Lord Ogden?”
“Not everyone close to Harald is as loyal as you are to the princess,” Ogden remarked. “Especially when you know which palm to cross with gold.”
“So there are spies in his own home, who have told you of his plans.”
Ogden flashed a rare smile and kicked his horse into a canter away from the battlefield.
“Come, Ganry, wash your wounds and fill your belly,” Hagar called out. “We will be fighting again soon enough.”
“How many have we lost?” Ganry asked the captain of Ival Hold.
“I’d say about a hundred and eleven, if I counted correctly. More of them, than us.”
“Aye, we hold the high ground, but they are more in number and might,” Bertrand added.
“The Lake Men will be here soon.” Ganry accepted a piece of fruit from Marston.
***
“What do you mean, fool?” Harald yelled. “What prevents your men from crushing them outright?”
“They have the advantage of higher ground, sire, with the stream making a natural barrier against us.” The captain of his army bowed low. “And the one called Ganry, he has killed more than a dozen of our best fighters single handed, with his accursed sword.”
“What sword?”
“The one fabled to be the handiwork of the mysterious Grimlock bladesmiths.” The man trembled. “It is said that the weapon can cut through anything.”
“Is that so?” Harald sneered. “Let us see how it fares against the Dragon Sword.”
Harald hefted the massive weapon with both hands. The blade was glowing red, as if it was on fire. The air around the sword shimmered in the emanating heat.
A messenger stepped up to the regent, bowing low. “Sire, news from the western shore.”
“Ah, my navy has arrived.” Harald stood up. “How soon can they march up behind the princess’ army?”
“Er… the navy… sire…” The man began to perspire.
“What is it, fool?” Harald rounded on him. “Where are they?”
The messenger knelt down. “A massive fleet… from Vandemland, destroyed the entire navy, my l
ord.”
For a moment Harald stood still like a statue as the ill news sunk in. His face began to redden and he let out a roar. The messenger burst into flames at the touch of the Dragon Sword as Harald spilt his skull with it. He kicked at the burning body and threw back his head, wailing at the brightening sky.
“Sound the horn, we attack them now!” he screamed at the captain. “Every man. Send every man at her. I will burn her alive myself.”
***
Hendon looked out over the battlefield from their tent on the high ground. “The horn is sounded.”
“We must go and help the men,” Myriam cried exasperatedly. “I feel so useless here.”
“Princess, Ganry would have it no other way.” Artas gave her a look of helplessness. “If I could, I would be down there, but my place is here with you.”
“Oh, don’t be foolish, dear Artas,” Myriam chided the young man. “You’ve done more than enough for me since the beginning of this madness. And what have you in return but a broken ankle and pierced shoulder.”
“I will live, dear Myriam, and I will bear my scars proudly.”
“We have to win this war first,” Hendon reminded him. “I sense the regent is up to something.”
“What more can he do?” Myriam asked, wringing her hands in frustration.
“He has acquired an artifact of great power,” the young forester said morosely. “A power that is more ancient than these lands.”
“How can you tell?”
“It is the stones, Myriam, the stones that you and I too have.”
“Look, down there, it’s Ganry,” Artas yelled suddenly.
The huge warrior was moving like a whirlwind, Windstorm in one hand and a broadsword in the other. The Palaran army was too strong for their paltry forces of armsmen. The ranks of highly trained soldiers wore them down, almost a quarter of their fighting men were dead and half again injured. Of the Palarans, only six hundred were down, hardly a handful of the ten thousand strong army.
“We’ve lost Bertrand,” Hagar said as he passed Ganry, fending off arrows that rained down on them from above.
“And Ogden as well, taken down by these accursed arrows,” Ganry snarled, wishing Artas was there with them. His skills with the bow would have been an immense help right then.
“We are being pushed back. If they cross the stream, we are lost,” Hagar warned, as he cut down another Palaran foot soldier.
“Concentrate the attack to the center, I will attack the left flank. Make them cluster for our bowmen,” Ganry shouted above the clangor of steel on steel.
“But you’ll be in the line of fire, too.”
“Ah, but I’m used to it.” Ganry grinned and nudged Bluebell to ride off to the left.
The large horse thundered down the side of the sloping plains, barreling into Palaran foot soldiers, knocking them to the ground. Arrows whizzed past his head, but he ducked and dodged them, swatting a few away with Windstorm.
“Ride hard, Bluebell, like you’ve never ridden before.”
He roared as his sword sang a song of death and sorrow.
***
“Sire, your blade.” The captain looked at Harald. “It is as if it's alive.”
“Nonsense, it is the taker of life.” Harald grinned, as he sat atop Thawban and watched the battle before him.
“But it pulses and glows like a beacon… as if it summons something.”
“Indeed, captain.” Harald roared, holding the sword up high. “The Dragon Sword summons my righteous victory over all the enemies of Palara.”
“Captain! Captain!” One of the knights came in riding hard from the east. “We are undone. A vast army is headed here, cutting off our supply lines from the east. Looks like over five thousand men, riding hard and fast, bearing many arms.”
“What?” Harald turned to face the man.
“My liege?” The man dropped to his knees, not expecting to see the regent there.
“Who are these men?” Harald grabbed the knight by his cloak. “Who leads them?”
“We know not, sire. Some call them the… Lake Men.”
“Arrgh!” Harald groaned and kicked the kneeling man away. “Is there no end to this? Wasn’t it prophesied that I will take the throne of Palara?”
The captain kept silent, not wishing to further aggravate the regent. He glanced up at the eastern plains. The thunder of distant hooves reached his ears.
“Let them come!” Harald bellowed. “Let them come and burn.”
The infuriated regent held up the glowing sword and hurled a few oaths into the air as the frontlines of the approaching Lake Men burst into the clearing.
***
“They are here,” Myriam exulted, standing high on the southern plain. “The Lake Men, and Linz.”
“But they are riding right into the battle,” Artas said, his keen eyes narrowed.
“Oh, and look there, what is that?” Hendon pointed at the western horizon.
“That… that’s the dragon.” Artas almost choked. “The dragon that destroyed Castle Locke.”
“The dragon?” Myriam repeated in awe.
Hendon felt a shiver run through him. “But what does it want here?”
“Something is drawing it here,” Myriam cried. “Come on, we have to warn them.”
Artas hobbled after her. “But, princess-”
Myriam ran down the grassy slopes with Hendon right behind her, sliding and slipping on her way toward the little stream.
“Ganry!” She yelled. “Ganry!”
“He can’t hear you, princess,” Hendon panted, whipping out his dagger and a wooden club. “The rush of battle fills his ears. Arm yourself, we’ll be in it soon.”
“Stay back!” Hagar yelled, riding towards the onrushing duo.
“Hagar, look to the west. A dragon…” Hendon said, as the captain of Ival Hold reached his side.
“What?” The veteran armsman stared at the west in disbelief. “A d… dragon?”
“Quick, tell Ganry and the others,” Myriam urged the man.
44
The dark shadow falling over the battle field momentarily made the warriors look around them in confusion. The ear spiting shriek that followed made them look up and tremble. Men from both armies stood transfixed, having never seen such a sight in their short lives.
The enormous bronze dragon, its scaly skin gleaming in the morning sun, swooped down over the gathered men, its piercing shrieks chilling the blood. From its great maw, flaming jets erupted like hellfire, setting the trees and hapless soldiers near it on fire.
“Keep your wits about you, men,” Ganry shouted over the roar of its beating wings. “Lances and arrows. Bring it down!”
“This can’t be real.” Marston was aghast, as men around him ran screaming in flames.
The dragon dived down, flying close to the ground, its great head swiveling from side to side as if it searched for something. Then, with a mighty downward beat of its wings, it soared up high, shrieking at the sun above.
“It’s Harald’s flaming sword that draws the creature here,” Hendon said, running up beside Ganry.
“What?” the large warrior jerked. “What are you doing down here? Where is the princess?”
“I am here, Ganry.” Myriam ran up after Hendon.
“You’ve lost your minds.” Ganry stared wide eyed at the panting youngsters.
“That monster is here for the sword that Harald holds, even he doesn’t know it. But once he does…” Myriam’s eyes roamed the ravaged countryside frantically. The dying screams of men overwhelmed her senses.
“Too late.” Ganry pointed with Windstorm. “Harald already knows.”
The regent stood in a clearing, holding his sword high over his head with both hands, a power hungry leer on his face. The dragon swooped down and circled him twice, and then blasted a deluge of fire down on the laughing regent.
The sword in his hands was aglow and seemingly drew in the flames from the dragon’s assault. It began to
glow red hot, rivaling even the morning sun. A strange transformation began to come over Harald. He seemed to grow larger. His arms and legs stretched the armor he wore, and his helm fell off his head. He had a maniacal grin on his face and a sliver of drool down the left side of his chin.
“Princess,” he roared, pointing at her direction. “At long last, I have you.”
He waved the sword at the onrushing troops of Lake Men and the dragon took to the air, turning its attention and fiery breath upon the armies of Linz. The Palaran army, bolstered by a dragon on their side, renewed their assault on the armsmen of the south.
Men fell like hacked saplings under the great Dragon Sword as Harald cut a path towards Myriam. He didn’t care who was in his way, his own men or the enemy. He moved ahead unperturbed. His sole focus on the princess alone.
“Stay back, Myriam,” Ganry barked, stepping before her, Windstorm in hand. “Get on Bluebell and get away, back over the stream.”
“No, not while that monster is killing our allies.” Myriam defiantly stood her ground. “Linz is in danger.”
Hagar rode up. “Don’t be foolish, your highness. Flee back up to the creek and leave the battle to us.”
“I commend your concern for me, sir Hagar.” Myriam gave him a tight smile. “But I am fed up of fleeing. It's time I faced my fears.”
“Yes, it is,” Hendon added, leaping up on Bluebell.
Myriam took his hand and climbed up on Ganry’s large warhorse. The forester kicked the beast into a furious gallop, not away from, but into, the heart of battle.
“They’ve gone mad!” Hagar yelled.
“Are we any different?” Ganry cursed, breaking into a run after his horse.
He knew he had to get to Harald before the power mad regent could reach Myriam. An arrow bounced off his shoulder, slicing a tear on the leather armor. He ignored the pain, glancing up at the dragon as it roasted the Lake Men army. His eyes went wide as he saw Myriam and Hendon on Bluebell head right under the flying behemoth. But before he could call out to them, something knocked him down from the side. He quickly rolled back up to his feet, Windstorm up in reflex to protect himself.
Harald glared down at him from atop Thawban, the magnificent horse stamped its well shod hooves close to the ground where Ganry had fallen.