by H. J. Cronin
Palar required all of his strength to defeat the guard. The two men approached each other swiftly. The guard swung his sword, aiming for the rogue’s head. Palar ducked and using all his energy he tackled the guard down to the ground. With keys in hand, he repeatedly punched the guard in the face, reducing him to a bloody mess; Palar ignored the pain in his knuckles.
The rogue quickly put on the guard’s chainmail vest and helmet and took his sword. The screaming guards that had escorted Palar would surely draw unwanted attention. Palar had to move quickly; he ran through the door and up the stairs that led away from the corridor. He was now back in the well-lit hallway; doors on either side led to various rooms – at one end the Great Hall and at the other the exit of the keep.
Surprisingly the hallway was empty, but he could still hear the guards screaming downstairs. Then came the familiar sound of metal boots on stone. Palar quickly hid in what appeared to be a small cloakroom next to the dungeon entrance. He held his breath so as not to make any sound. The thundering footsteps came closer and soon a dozen armoured guards ran past. Palar’s heart was pounding; luckily the guards didn't look around them, but went straight to the dungeon.
Palar knew he didn't have much time so he waited half a minute and then left the small room. Now there were two guards guarding the exit; unfortunately for them, Palar had been taught exceptionally well how to fight. They saw him instantly and ran over with their swords drawn, hoping to stick the fugitive like a pig.
Palar parried the first guard and attacked the second one ferociously. Weeks of torture had exhausted his body but he used his anger to his advantage. The adrenalin aided him greatly. He repeatedly stabbed the second guard in the stomach with his sword, just before the first one came back at him. The two were locked in a brief melee before Palar finished his enemy with a swift cut to the neck. Palar decided to ditch his sword and chainmail vest – they would make him too conspicuous – instead he armed himself with a small dagger from the guard’s belt; he was just as effective with a small blade.
The rogue left the keep and entered the busy town of Selarmus; men in black armour were scouring the place, searching for him. The alarm sounded and now it looked as though the entire garrison had joined the hunt. Palar kept to the shadows.
Escaping Selarmus was going to prove difficult. By now the Black Widow’s men would have blocked every exit from the town, not allowing anyone to enter or leave. He promised himself he would not be captured again, even if it meant death, but he had one thing left to do before his death: to seek out an old friend.
Palar, looking every inch a beggar, made his way to the waterfront, keeping to the shadows of course. Once he arrived at the familiar dock, he took a dangerous moment to breathe in the fresh air – the first time since his imprisonment. He saw three guards running in his direction so he quickly sidestepped into an alleyway. After a few agonising moments, Palar anticipating the worst, they ran past the opening, obviously not seeing him. He breathed a sigh of relief and returned to the waterfront.
He saw the inn halfway up the cobbled pathway and immediately walked towards it. Guards were milling around, searching ships and questioning locals. The waterfront was made up of inns and fish related shops. Selarmus felt different to Palar; before, it had been a thriving port and a smugglers’ haven, which Palar knew a lot about – it was organised and fair. Now it seemed as though law and order had disappeared, now the Black Widow’s men handled authority, and it was apparent that they ruled with an iron fist.
Palar reached the inn and walked in; there were many patrons drinking and enjoying themselves. This hasn't changed much, he mused to himself. He then saw his target, Yarnok, behind the bar, serving drinks to a couple of women. The man who had betrayed Palar, the man who had been like a father to him. Yarnok had not seen Palar so Palar approached him directly.
The rogue stood directly in front of Yarnok and stared at him; it took a moment for the innkeeper to notice the man in his torn tunic. 'Pa....' was all a startled Yarnok could say before Palar grabbed him by the scruff of his collar.
Palar spoke in a harsh but whispered tone, so as not to alert any of the patrons, 'Into the back room now before I cut your throat, you fat pig.'
Yarnok visibly sweated and only nodded, then led the way around the bar to the back room. Yarnok left a small blonde-haired barmaid in charge. As they entered the small room Palar quickly closed the door and threw Yarnok to the ground.
'How much was my life worth, you backstabbing prick?' Palar yelled at him and kicked him. 'What price did they pay?' Another kick. 'Speak, you dog!' And another kick.
Yarnok coughed, trying to regain his breath. 'I am so happy to see you, I thought you were dead, I am sorry old friend,' the innkeeper managed to say. 'A couple of guards saw us talking and they demanded that I hand you over. I feared for my life,' he said, wallowing in his own self-pity.
'You were like a father to me, but you would sell your own mother to save your pathetic life,' Palar said with disgust and kicked him again.
'You would have done the same Palar.'
Palar glared at him with anger, 'Never compare us again. I am not a squealing little pig. How much was the information worth?'
Yarnok groaned, a look of shame on his face, 'I have enough gold to last me a lifetime. All of which you can have – and I also have your old equipment and weapons.'
The attempt to woo Palar didn't work; he was fuming. 'You could possibly have just destroyed the world with your treachery. You told me on the pier that "business is business" – I don't believe a word that comes out of your mouth. I will take all that belongs to me.'
Yarnok looked frightened, 'How could I have destroyed the world? Please, have mercy, for old times’ sake.'
Palar laughed at the helpless innkeeper; surprisingly he felt no pity for the man that had reared him. 'That boat was going to take us to a place from where we could defeat this High Count Darkool. I hope my companions found a way, but because of you the whole quest was nearly ruined. I will kill you now, slime ball, regardless of our past. You know too much already.'
Yarnok tried to struggle free. 'No, please, I beg you, Palar. Don't, you are like a son, don't,' Yarnok pleaded.
The rogue ignored the innkeeper and drew the dagger he had taken from the guard in the keep. Without mercy, Palar pounced on the feeble man and cut his throat; blood began to spew from the wound and create a red puddle around Yarnok as he gripped his neck, making pathetic gurgling noises.
Palar stared down at Yarnok and sighed; for a very brief moment sadness came over him, but that was quickly replaced by thoughts about his next move. At the back of the room was a door leading to stairs down to the inn’s cellar complex. He searched the rooms downstairs for his equipment, and then eventually found everything in a trunk under Yarnok’s bed.
It was all still there, from his brown leather breast armour to his dark green padded undergarments, even his dark green hooded cloak, his daggers and his crossbow. What made him smile the most was seeing his pipe for the first time in months, and next to it, a large bag of narnum. He thought for a moment where he would go next. The guards in the dungeons often spoke loudly, and from what he had heard, the war was nearly over; everywhere apart from the deep south was under enemy control. A hostile environment for a fugitive.
A loud scream behind him interrupted his thoughts. He crept down the corridor that led to the foot of the stairs. He heard a woman’s voice calling for help – obviously the barmaid had found Yarnok. Now was the time for Palar to leave; he loaded his crossbow and casually walked up the stairs into the back room. The barmaid stared at him in horror; she had worked at the inn for a long time and knew Palar well. He just walked past her and Yarnok’s limp body.
He went into the front part of the inn where all the patrons silently stared at him, and it was apparent that they had heard the barmaid screaming; no one said a word or attempted to confront the rogue. The doors burst open, breaking the silence, and in stormed three guards a
rmed with pikes. The patrons all sat motionless, waiting for somebody to make a move.
The first move came from Palar. With lightning speed he lifted his crossbow bow and shot at the guards; his precise aim made it easy for the bolt to hit a target, and with a thud it hit one of the guards in the face, killing him instantly. The other two glared at their fallen comrade and charged at the rogue.
Now Palar quickly strapped his crossbow up and drew his two short swords. He ran at the two guards with both blades held out. As he came close he leapt onto a table, knocking drinks and food to the floor, and then launched himself at the two guards, avoiding their pikes, bringing one of them down with him. He repeatedly stabbed one in the chest, one blade at a time, then he stood and challenged the other one.
The remaining guard gazed at Palar in horror and chose flight rather than fight; he dropped his pike and ran towards the exit. Palar couldn't let him live so he threw one of his swords at him. The blade spun through the air and stuck the guard in the spine; he fell down with the impact of the blow. Without a word, Palar took three gold coins and flicked them towards the patrons whose dinner he had spoilt – one man stared at him and took the coins carefully, as if they were poisonous vipers.
He finished off the guard, recovered his blade and left the inn. The waterfront was now even busier than before. It seemed as though the number of guards had trebled, and they were all searching for him. It wasn't long before some of them spotted him. There were ten of them, too many for Palar to confront, and they ran towards him calling out to alert the others.
Palar had one option – to swim. Without a plan, he ran down to the sea. A wide beach separated much of the shore from the port, where the trade ships docked. He ran along the sandy beach with as much haste as his legs would provide; behind him the guards were giving chase, but their heavy armour weighed them down, allowing Palar to gain some distance.
Palar dived into the sea without fear, and the cold water hit him like a thousand daggers. His leather armour and clothes began to soak up the water like a sponge, causing them to drag him down. Adrenalin and determination allowed him to swim strongly, however, fighting the cold, current and waves.
The guards did not pursue him into the depths, although Palar knew their superior would later discipline them, which was a fate only marginally better than drowning. Palar carried on swimming for half a mile before heading to the northern shore of Wilmurin – there were a few smuggling locations he knew of along the coast so he headed for the closest one. Eventually he relied on the current to aid his swim. He didn't know what to do when or if he reached the shore alive. Palar had always lived on the edge of his life; once again he was doing just that.
The town had been decimated, only ash and charred wood remained from the once flourishing Mid-Town. The town had been right in the centre of Wilmurin – an important strategic position for the Clan of the Lion – the troops tasked to protect the town had been quickly overrun by High Count Darkool’s horde. Once the barricades were destroyed, the men didn't last long.
Luckily they held the barricades long enough for the town's population to evacuate. Refugees from the majority of nearby towns and villages fled to Lerthayl, where they all hoped for a chance to survive within the lion’s stronghold.
Bethegar felt sadness as he looked over the burnt corpses of the brave defenders, their golden armour now charred black and their faces unrecognisable. They lay where they had fallen in battle and where the Vandalore clan had set them and everything else on fire. The glowing green sky gave the burned out town an eerie atmosphere. Bethegar felt cold and angry.
He knew he was wasting time; he slapped himself in the face and put his anger to better use. He continued his relentless journey north, with still many, many miles to go. He had travelled for two weeks now; using a bow he had crafted he hunted birds to eat. Food was a lot scarcer than he would have liked. Hunger wouldn't stop him, though.
Mid-Town wasn't the only human settlement that had been destroyed – the war had left nearly every town decimated. Bethegar passed through a small village that sat halfway between Shartak and the capital. The villages in this land were loyal to the Black Widow. The residents didn't take much notice of the large bearded man who passed through; Bethegar had a rag that covered much of his head and body – he appeared to be a beggar or a hermit. If someone recognised him, his game would be over. He decided this would be the last village he would pass through – the risk wasn't worth it.
His next obstacle would be the River Flord – every crossing was likely to be guarded so he decided to swim across. It took him three days from the Black Widow village to reach the roaring river. Two miles of forest lined each side of the great river; this was the only part of Wilmurin he had seen that was not devastated by the war, and that surprised Bethegar. Whether a small part of Darkool’s humanity remained or he had preserved it for something sinister, Bethegar could only guess.
Whatever the reason, Bethegar was happy for a moment to see a part of the beautiful world he grew up in. He and his brother, Brehan, had often come here to play and swim when their father had business to tend to in the capital. The river was as blue as he remembered. He had crossed the northern part of the river, the rocky part, months earlier, the rest was pure beauty.
If he made it through this war he promised himself he would return here. He had not seen anyone for days; he knew of nobody that pursued him. He took a brief moment to sit on a large rock and dangle his feet in the cold water. He felt at peace and forgot about the war and all of its horror. Then, as if on cue, a stark reminder came; floating upstream towards him, he noticed the outline of a corpse. It drifted past him, clearly a male body with two arrows protruding from his back. Moments later another three drifted past. There were no signs of any enemy nearby.
His brief moment of paradise was ruined by a reminder that there was a very one-sided war going on at the present time. He crossed the river using his bear form, requiring the bear’s great strength to fight the strong current. Now on the north side of the river, Bethegar continued his journey through the forest.
It wasn't long before he reached the forest edge. The land beyond the luscious forest was much like the land on the south side. A barren wasteland of charred grass and trees – it was as if he had stepped into another dimension, from one of paradise to one of devastation.
Without letting the sight disturb him, he continued north to the mountains. For hours, days, weeks he travelled. He passed the Whispering Forest, now just a charred skeleton forest, he passed Bruskany; patrols passed by, enemy patrols – Bethegar managed to hide just in time so he wasn’t captured.
Once he was a day clear of Bruskany he knew there were no more obstacles by between here and the mountains, only a six day hike. Hunger gripped him like a sickness, what little food he found was not enough. Once he reached the mountains, he would have to take one of the many treacherous routes to its peaks, where the mountain tribes lived. After that, he hoped Drugar had been correct in saying the tribes would join his cause.
Bethegar had not been north since its fall; Bemon, his home, lay to the east. Part of Bethegar fantasised about returning there, to see what had happened to it. Was it now a burned out, deserted city? Had High Count Darkool used it for his sick deeds? The last time Bethegar had seen Bemon it was ablaze. They had lost the battle, and the city and its inhabitants had suffered because of it. He blamed himself.
One thing Bethegar had vowed when he left Bemon was to return. Now he vowed to restore it back to its glory days with the head of the Black Widow above its gates. It was thanks to her that Darkool was able to strike such a fast, devastating blow. It was because of her that his father was dead, because of her poison that his brother, Brehan, had turned against his own clan. Whilst his main aim was to dethrone High Count Darkool, his first task, he promised himself, was to kill the Black Widow.
His and the world's hope lay with Johan. Bethegar hoped Johan, Bry, and Ardag were safe. Every victory of Darkool made it t
hat much harder for Johan to succeed; he would need an army to get to Darkool. It was very likely that Lerthayl would fall sooner rather than later, and when it did, only the Lizard clan would remain. Their absence from the war had only aided the enemy in destroying them.
Bethegar put his head down and continued his relentless journey. He could see the mountains in the distance and pressed on, hoping his fortune would change.
Palar drifted towards a tiny pebble beach at the foot of the tall cliffs. The beach was so small that half a dozen men would struggle to fill it. Palar was happy to be back on dry land. He knew this beach, he had used it to smuggle in the old days – it was one of many. There were crude steps leading up the cliff face. Although they were dangerous, they were his only option.
Once he reached the top, he was both shocked and awed by the land that lay before him. A once green wilderness teeming with life, now a sad, hideous land. Blackened grass and tree stumps, large scavenger birds circling in the air, the sky dark with a green glow. Selarmus hadn't been like this, the air was fresh and the sky blue. He was only twelve miles from the busy port yet it felt as if he was in another world.
Whilst imprisoned, Palar had heard odd snippets of news from the outside world, but never did he hear of scorched earth. He sat momentarily, thinking about what direction to take; he knew it would be futile to try to find Johan and the others. He would be of little use in the war in the south – by the time he travelled there, the war could be over. Palar made the decision to travel to the mountains; Darkool would have no reason to take the mountains, they were barren and inhospitable. He would live the rest of his days as a hermit, surviving off the land. He sighed, gave his old companions one last thought, and then started for the mountains.
11
Annihilation
King Lionel lay on a basic bed in the makeshift field hospital. It had been two months since his daring and futile raid on the enemy’s camp. A moment of madness that had cost him the lives of some of his best men. He knew that if he lived through this war, he would have to answer to the men's families. The most common question would be, why did you lead my loved one into an impossible battle? The king did not know the answer.