Wilmurin: Land of Darkness

by H. J. Cronin

  ‘I am afraid not, Johan, the emperor has made up his mind. My son will be of great assistance to you in my absence,’ she said, warming his heart. ‘This is not the end, I believe the course of the future can be changed. That lies with you Night Hunter, so I say farewell for now.’

  ‘Thank you my lady, may your gods watch over you and your kin,’ Johan said stepping away from her.

  ‘And may your god watch over you, Johan son of Haramithir,’ Lady Lalo said. She then embraced her son and spoke to him in his own tongue, and then she was escorted up the stairwell, back into the city.

  Johan was the last to mount his dolphin and the companions, along with their alvarian escort, rode their mounts from the depths of the sea to the surface. The air-breathing companions had the same bubble mask formed around their faces so they could breathe. On their ascent to the surface, Johan marvelled at the underwater world which lay before his eyes. Fish, big and small, swam in their schools. He saw large shark-like creatures on the hunt, and he even saw a giant whale swim below the party.

  They arrived on the surface within half an hour of leaving Falantis. Johan sucked in a deep breath of the first whiff of fresh air he had felt upon his face for nearly a week. The storm had left the air clean, and the blue sky was a welcoming sight. Not so far away the companions’ ship floated, and as the emperor had promised, it had been untouched by the storm. There was no sign of damage to a single sail; they boarded the ship and all of their belongings were intact. Ardag felt particularly happy that his narnum pipe was still there. They set sail north, towards Jotun.

  There was a further week of sailing before they set eyes upon a distant land. The air had grown cold and it took them another day to be within reasonable distance of Jotun. Johan could see great big cliffs forming a barrier between sea and land. They sailed for an opening they spotted which must have been at least one mile wide. As they sailed through a valley with white cliffs on either side, the air became even colder. The companions had no winter clothing so soon began to feel the cold. On top of the surrounding cliffs were forests of snow-covered pine. They sailed for many hours through the valley before they reached an enormous lake which stretched as far as the eye could see. The cliffs on either side gave way to a pebble beach which formed the perimeter of the lake.

  The small party sailed dead ahead until they reached the shore. They beached the ship and the alvarian escort departed with no words to the companions.

  Now only Johan, Bry, Ardag, and Larko stood on the stony beach gazing at the edge of a pine forest that lay in front of them, each of them feeling anxious; their breath could be seen in the cold air as their breathing rates increased. This cold was very alien to the companions after Wilmurin’s very mild climate; even in the coldest of winters, Wilmurin could not match this place. They were surprised that the water didn’t freeze.

  ‘Why did we not think to pack any winter clothing?’ Bry exclaimed; she shivered and she could see the air she breathed.

  ‘Why did you not think of picking anything up in Selarmus? Knowing that we would be sailing to Jotun in the north where it is cold!’ Ardag replied, also shivering.

  ‘Oh, well I am so sorry my mage, I was too busy being chased,’ she replied, and slapped him on the shoulder. Larko stood silently gazing out into the forest in front of them; Johan smiled at the exchange between his friends.

  ‘Well maybe the next time we put our trust in a woman we must send her with a shopping list!’ Ardag said, trying not to laugh. It wasn’t long before the three companions burst out laughing. Larko still stood motionless.

  ‘I am sorry to break up your childish game,’ Larko started. ‘Where do we go to find this Lone Druid?’ The others looked at him, his tone making them instantly forget the jolly moment. A brief silence followed.

  ‘I do not know if Jotun is still inhabited. We’ll head into the forest, build a camp, get some warmth and then decide our path,’ Ardag suggested, breaking the silence. Bry and Johan nodded their agreement but Larko still remained quiet, his eyes fixed ahead.

  Larko looked over his shoulder at the companions and in a certain but apprehensive tone said, ‘Your uncertainty as to whether Jotun is inhabited or not is about to be answered, druid. Men are approaching.’

  Indeed there were men approaching, a dozen in all, lightly jogging towards them. As they came closer their appearances became clear. They were huge, much larger than the average man. They had thick facial hair; some had plaited beards whereas others let their beards flow, beards of many colours. Some had half-shaven heads, others had shaggy hair. Some had no hair at all. The men wore bulky fur jackets which increased their already large frame. They bore round shields with peculiar designs of many colours on them. In their other hand they wielded a variety of weapons: swords, axes and spears. Half of them wore helmets.

  They stopped in front of the companions and scrutinised them for some time. Johan whispered to Ardag, ‘Who are they?’ he asked.

  ‘I do not know Johan, be on your guard,’ he replied.

  Bry spoke quietly enough for her friends to hear, ‘I am ready to change, just give me the word.’

  ‘I am sure there is no need for that Bry,’ Ardag said. ‘Stand by, they approach us.’

  The dozen men came towards them and one man, slightly larger than the others, stepped forward. He had a nearly plaited brown beard, and a half-shaven head with two long plaits which reached his shoulder.

  The man spoke with a husky and powerful voice, ‘You speak common words?’ he asked.

  Ardag stepped forward. ‘Indeed we do friend, we mean no harm,’ he said, offering out his hands as a sign of peace. He could reach his katana quickly if needed.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man asked.

  ‘We are druids, from Wilmurin, we are here seeking—’

  Before he could finish the man cut in, ‘Druids? Here in Jotun? We will find out your business soon enough. You must come with us, you are safe with us.’

  Johan was anxious at the thought of going with these unknown people, so he stepped forward and stared at the man. ‘Before we go with you, you must tell us who you are,’ he asked him.

  ‘I am Finnvid, son of Chief Folkmar of the Mjorn,’ he said, bowing; Finnvid had a thick accent but knew the common speech well. ‘It is the custom of our people to shelter guests from the cold. You come with us and we feed you.’

  One of his men stepped forward and put a hand on Finnvid’s shoulder and said aloud, ‘War Master, these people have a green demon with them! You cannot let them into our home.’ Larko was clearly unnerved by the sudden attention they gave him.

  Ardag spoke up, ‘He is an elf, Larko is his name. He is a friend of the druids.’

  ‘We have heard stories, passed down many generations, of Wilmurin and green monsters which rule it. They kill and drink the blood of men,’ Finnvid said, gazing at the elf in horror. Ardag thought it strange that such a big man seemed so afraid.

  It was Larko’s turn to step forward. He bowed. ‘I mean no harm. My people are virtually extinct, and I am one of the few remaining. I have come here with these druids to be of assistance,’ he said.

  ‘Very well, elf,’ Finnvid said, cautiously naming the green creature he feared. ‘Come with us, but if I suspect any ill behaviour you will be killed.’ The companions looked at each other questioningly, but knowing that they had no other choice for they would freeze out here. So they followed the Mjorn into the forest.

  4

  Under Siege

  The soft and muddy ground stank like a bog and made for unpleasant walking. Bethegar and Parmeus walked the last two days of the long march south to Lerthayl. Taking on their animal forms would have been a futile idea, for the guards would instantly strike them down if they escaped. The three week journey had been hard; the only food and water they had been allowed had been a small ration given to them by their captors. Some days they hadn’t eaten anything.

  They slowly entered the enemy camp, vampire soldiers glaring at the prisoners
as they passed. It was of little comfort to Bethegar that the sun managed to break through the dark clouds in this part of the world; it became obvious that whilst the castle remained in druid hands, a small amount of light remained. The camp, made up of many tents that housed the vampire soldiers, formed a perimeter around Lerthayl, the horde of skeleton warriors who required no rest standing in a solid ring around the city.

  The two druids were eventually thrown into a small pen which wouldn’t have been fit for a dog. Rusty metal bars surrounded them and the floor was covered in faeces and other horrible matter. Bethegar could see two men crouching naked in the far corner, their pride lost; they looked like empty shells.

  ‘What in the name of Drugar do we do now, Bethegar?’ Parmeus whispered.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Bethegar replied, looking around anxiously. ‘I have the strength to take on my bear form, but any attempt to escape will be met by death.’

  ‘Well I’d rather go out fighting than rot in this horrible cess pit,’ Parmeus said, looking over at the two other prisoners.

  ‘We won’t die in this place,’ said Bethegar. He then looked behind him towards the tall walls of Lerthayl. ‘We may be able to reach the city and thus safety.’

  Parmeus shook his head and said, ‘Lerthayl won’t be safe forever, this army looks large indeed and if that patrol in Floran Forest was correct then High Count Darkool is here.’

  ‘He must be, because his soldiers brought us here. He wants us alive,’ Bethegar said, looking through the bars at the camp.

  ‘What can he want us for, Bethegar? To parade our bodies in front of the city of Lerthayl? To use us in his cruel games?’ Parmeus questioned anxiously.

  ‘It has to be more complex than that, we are sons of kings, and we are now kings ourselves—’

  ‘Kings of nothing now,’ Parmeus interrupted.

  ‘Whilst we still draw breath we are the kings of the north, while we still live the druids have hope,’ Bethegar said, now looking at a large tent which seemed to be in centre of the camp; he assumed that this was High Count Darkool’s tent. ‘And the Dark Count knows that.’

  ‘Then let us hope we discover our fate soon, my old friend,’ Parmeus said, patting Bethegar on the shoulder and managed a weak smile.

  The gate to the pen opened behind them. A vampire entered; judging by his armour and demeanour he was one of the counts. He looked at Bethegar and Parmeus with disgust, ‘Come, vermin, High Count Darkool will see you now,’ he said, and led the prisoners away towards the large tent.

  King Lionel made his regular inspection of the defences. He walked along the walls, alongside half a dozen guards, checking on the men who manned them. Most sat silently, waiting for the next assault, some gazed blankly into the distance. Every now and then the king looked over to the battlements and there they were, the undead horde who had come to cause havoc to the Clan of the Lion. The skeletons stood motionless in their formations, surrounding Lerthayl. Behind them were the tents of the vampire soldiers, braziers glowing in the darkness.

  After checking the walls King Lionel walked around the courtyard, his men, in their golden armour, huddled in groups around fires to keep themselves warm; he could hear light banter, morale was high. He checked the sentries who manned the gates and made sure it was still sturdy. He then walked around to speak to the wounded soldiers, the ones who were still able to hold a sword, identifiable by bandages covering their various wounds ranging from head to toe. The king felt sadness at the thought that once again, and soon, these men would be fighting for their lives, fighting an unrelenting enemy.

  A besieged city is the most unpleasant place to be. The people were on the verge of starvation, eating rats and soon horsemeat along with any insects they could find. At every warning bell that signalled an enemy attack the civilians would scream with terror and run to seek whatever shelter they could find. Blacksmiths worked endlessly to forge new arrows for the ever-dwindling supply. Many women came forward to act as nurses and tend to the wounded. King Lionel’s own three daughters volunteered to fight in an assault and to nurse the wounded afterwards. He had kept them off the wall though – their turn to fight could wait.

  An elderly, weeping lady suddenly approached the king and his guards stepped in front of her. She wore rags; the king could see she posed no threat and he told his men to stand down.

  ‘Please, my king,’ she wept. ‘Have you seen my son? I haven’t seen him for two weeks now, not since the last large assault. He was manning the wall. He has dark cropped hair and dark eyes, and a scar on his left cheek. Please my king, have you seen him?’

  The king had not the heart to tell her that the large assault two weeks ago had decimated the soldiers defending the wall. He had lost the majority of them. If she hadn’t seen him for two weeks then he was most likely dead, but he couldn’t tell her that; he knew that the moment people lose hope was the moment they lose the fight. ‘I have just spoken to your son ma’am,’ he lied. ‘He is on the wall ready to fight the next attack. If I see him I will send your love to him.’ It was hard for him to lie but he felt he had no choice.

  ‘Oh, bless you my king, bless you,’ she cried. ‘You fill my heart with joy and happiness!’ She clapped her hands and walked away. King Lionel knew that she would be just another grieving mother in this war.

  He carried on walking towards his original destination. The field hospital had been set up at the back of the immense cobbled courtyard. His daughters had helped erect it and helped the battle wounded. As he entered, the tense atmosphere outside gave way to a melancholy and sick mood inside. Screams of soldiers could be heard as surgeons plied their trade. Women in nursing attire tended wounded men, feeding and watering them. It wasn’t long before a dead soldier was being carried past him to be burned on the funeral pyre. Another casualty, the king thought to himself.

  He looked around to see if he could see his daughters. He could only see one, Harriet, a tall beautiful girl with blonde plaited hair. She wore a blue apron which was covered in blood, her hands and arms were also crimson. She tended to a wounded man so didn’t see her father approaching.

  He stood at the end of the bed observing how his daughter tended to the soldier, who had an arrow, with the black tip of the Vandalore clan, protruding from his stomach. Her touch had obviously calmed the man; she still hadn’t seen her father. Suddenly the man spluttered and gasped. There was nothing Harriet could do now to save him; he grasped her hand and slowly faded into darkness. She covered his face with a sheet and straight away looked for another casualty, still not seeing her father.

  ‘Even with a blood soaked apron, you still manage to look as beautiful as ever, daughter,’ he called out to her.

  She turned around at the familiarity of the voice and her eyes lit up. ‘Father!’ she cried, and ran over to him. She embraced him; he ignored the bloody apron and cuddled her back. ‘I haven’t heard from you for a while, I was afraid something terrible had happened!’

  The king laughed and held her tighter. ‘I have to make sure you and your sisters can look after yourselves before I depart this land,’ he said.

  ‘Not for a long time, Father, now stop that nonsense,’ she said and slapped his shoulder.

  They both smiled and shared the events of the day together. Harriet had lost three patients as well as the one Lionel had observed, one with a sword wound to the belly and two others with infections from old wounds. She explained how the nurses dreaded every battle, each of the women fearing that the next casualty would be a son, husband, or father. The flow of wounded increased with each battle; one time a soldier had been rushed in with three arrows protruding from his chest. His wife had been one of the nurses and had held his hand as he died. She wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last to lose a loved one.

  ‘Where are your sisters?’ King Lionel asked.

  She looked around and shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen them for an hour or so. The last time I saw them they were leaving this place to spend some time with wou
nded soldiers along the wall,’ she replied.

  ‘You three have always had a kind heart, just like your mother,’ he sighed. His wife had passed away some time ago of a rare disease.

  ‘We are our mother’s daughters,’ she replied with a smile.

  ‘Your brother turned out more like me,’ he said proudly, and then his tone changed to sadness as he said, ‘it is a shame it wasn’t me instead of him. I couldn’t even bury him.’

  Harriet looked down, her eyes welling up with the news of her brother’s demise. She sucked in a deep breath and looked at her father. ‘It was meant to be, Father, he was always strong, and he would have made an honourable king. The gods choose the fate of we mere mortals,’ she said, and put her hand on his shoulder. She wanted to draw him away from these thoughts, so she changed the subject, ‘How is the siege going?’

  ‘It goes as well as it could. The men are hungry and we have barely enough food to feed them, let alone the civilians. Every battle leaves me fewer men – soon the enemy will break through,’ he said, staring over her shoulder at a wounded soldier.

  ‘Do you think we can win?’ she asked, with a hint of apprehension in her voice.

  The king thought for a while before answering. ‘I think the best we can do is to hold on to whatever hope we have. This siege has lasted for some time now. Soon one side must give and, sadly, I believe that side will be ours.’

  ‘What will happen to the people if the Vandalore clan takes the city?’ Harriet asked, with fear in her voice.

  ‘The city will either suffer the same fate as Bemon and be totally sacked, or our people will be enslaved. I head to a meeting with the lords to discuss a last ditch attempt to take out the enemy,’ Lionel whispered.

  Her face fell and gave away thoughts of anxiety. ‘But Father,’ she said quietly, ‘there are too many of them, any attack on them will be futile, your men will be destroyed and you... I can’t bear thinking about what I would do if something happened to you.’