It was one day deep in his cave that he scented something sweet that he had not smelled in perhaps a century. The lovely smell of supple human flesh wafted through the air currents into his lair, and he was amazed that he had not noticed it sooner, for it was fairly close. He puzzled over this as no human had ever entered the caves this deeply; they could not seem to survive the heat, and the air was toxic to them. As it came closer, it became quite apparent to him that the smell was that of a female, reminding him of the girl child turned to woman long ago.
Whoever she was, she tried very hard to approach as quietly as possible, but Feghul’s ears were keen to pick up any sound not natural to the caves. She was most definitely heading toward his lair, and she could not be far away. The fact the human was willing to just walk so deeply into the caves made Feghul cautious, and taking his scimitar, he lowered himself into the lava pool. The cave floor sloped gently into the magma, which allowed him to keep his head and the scimitar out of the molten rock. Someone approaching from the far side of his cave would only see his eyes and the top of his head, if they were able to distinguish him from the cave itself at all.
Feghul did not have to wait long before the woman came down the cave tunnel leading to his lair. She was beautiful with the bronze skin and golden hair of the nobility of Dulkur, but this fact was completely lost on the Grek. She wore clothes, as Feghul had seen other humans do, and was clad in a shimmering black material that clung tightly to her form. Her feet were protected from the hot stone floor of the cave by soft soled sandals held to her feet by silk laces that wrapped around her calves and shins. She strode into his cave with a swagger that a human would have recognized as confidence, if not arrogance. When she entered his abode, she came to a halt and surveyed the interior intently, her eyes washing over Feghul briefly. The woman smiled slightly as she moved toward and fondled the implements Feghul used to make his weapon. She then turned and looked directly at the Grek in his hiding place.
That she saw him was plain enough, and Feghul jumped to his feet, his rough hide steaming in the slightly cooler air from the extreme heat of the lava pool. He held his scimitar in one clawed hand, and the woman’s eyes rested on the beautiful weapon. Her smile widened as her eyes narrowed, and Feghul knew suddenly that she had come to take his possession from him.
He roared in anger and charged the human. A mere twenty feet separated the two figures, and knowing her life was in immediate danger, the woman extended her left hand in front of her. Blue flame shot from her fingertips and washed over the Grek, who stopped suddenly in the unexpected attack. The fire was extremely hot, but no worse than the heat of the lava, which he enjoyed to bathe in from time to time. Realizing that she could not harm him, he began to approach her slowly, relishing with every step the violence he was about to inflict upon this trespasser. He laughed, the sound a horrible mimicry of the little girl’s from long ago.
Feghul was an oddity for his race to be certain; in addition to creating his scimitar, he was capable of some emotion and thought beyond basic survival instincts. But even this Grek could not have been prepared for what happened next. He could not have known that while Hykan was this sorceress’ patron god, she had some ability to call on power from the other three elemental gods, nor would such knowledge have helped him.
The woman backed toward the mouth of the tunnel that opened into Feghul’s cave and crossed her arms violently in front of her as if they would protect her from his impending attack, and she muttered some words that he could neither hear, nor understand if he had. He stopped his approach, hearing a sound build from behind her in the tunnel. It was a low rumble that built slowly to a roar, and the cave began to vibrate with some oncoming force.
Having so little experience with it, Feghul did not recognize the sound of rushing water. The woman dove to one side, covering her head with her arms, as gigantic plume of water exploded from the tunnel and impacted the Grek with impressive force. Though he did not fall to the cave floor, it did force him back a step or two. It was appallingly cold and under its roar could be heard the sound of hissing as it sizzled away upon striking the cave, Feghul’s hide and the lava pool beyond. As the frigid water impacted his body, the opposing elemental forces of extreme heat born of fire and lava and unnaturally cold water cancelled each other out violently. Intensely hot steam filled the cave, but it was not this that ended the Grek; his hide, his protection from all things that would harm him, grew stiff and rigid. As the flow of water ended, he realized that he could not move, and a sound little different from the cracking of glass could be heard in the now quiet cave. Feghul looked with instinctual horror as his now tight hide pulled itself in opposing directions, cracks forming all along its surface arrayed like a spider’s web. He had one last thought, that to get back to the safety and comfort of the lava pool, and it was that final effort he placed on his muscles that wrought his end. What little control he had caused a great twitch in his legs; though they did not move from where he stood, it caused his entire torso to wheel and fall off balance to the ground. As Feghul’s body impacted, there was a great shatter, and he came apart in every direction as if his body had always been made of brittle stone.
All that was left of Feghul was his forearm and clawed hand still wrapped around the hilt of his scimitar. The woman stood from her position on the floor, brushing imaginary dirt off of her black silk clothing. She casually strode to the severed claw holding the sword, the only part of Feghul that was spared, and picked it up by the creature’s forearm. She carefully took hold of the sword by its odd guard and uncurled the claws from around its hilt to let the hand and forearm fall to the cave floor. She held the scimitar by its hilt with her right arm, her sword arm, and marveled that a creature such as Feghul could make such a beautiful and lethal weapon. She could feel its strength adding to her own, and she knew it would amplify her sorcery as well as be deadly in its own right. The golden haired woman of Dulkur whispered a prayer of thanks to Hykan, Elemental God of Fire, before turning and leaving the cave behind.
1.
Cor stared incredulously as Thyss related how she came by her blade. Hykan, god of fire and her patron god, had imparted a vision unto her of the scimitar and where it might be found. The sword itself had shown her the history of Feghul and how he came to construct the weapon. Cor had of course seen visions of and through his own apparently enchanted weapons and armor, and it was becoming quite clear to him that these items had their own intelligence and will. It seemed that these artifacts always found their way to someone who could make the best use of their power, one way or the other.
Cor rode his brilliant, golden palomino named Kelli, and he rode ready for battle excluding his helm, which stayed conveniently clipped to his saddle should he need to don it quickly. The helm, round and large with no apparent visor, would have covered the entirety of his head and neck, hiding the long and unkempt near black hair of a Westerner and the gray skin of a Dahken. His face appeared strong and angular, as if a solid jaw, strong chin and cheekbones were chiseled from stone by an artisan of the greatest skill. Cor wore the hauberk and legguards he had retrieved from Noth’s catacombs; the match pieces to his helm, they too were apparently made of gleaming black steel. The hauberk was actually two solid pieces of plate armor, a front and a back that buckled together under the arms. They were wrought in the form of a heavily muscled torso, and the torso they protected was not quite as developed but no less strong. The legguards were made of several pieces of black plate held together by chain, and a pair of plate sabatons and chain gauntlets, both of which he had taken from Taraq’nok’s armory, rounded out his ensemble. This left most of his upper and fore arms unprotected, the deathly pallor of his kind for all to see.
Soulmourn and Ebonwing hung ever present at his sides. Soulmourn, the single edged longsword he had taken from Lord Dahken Rena’s tomb, reflected purple in sunlight, and Cor was still uncertain as to what kind of metal from which it was made. He had never sharpened it once, and he was cer
tain that neither had Rena. Yet the blade always remained undamaged, unscratched and free from rust, even as it punched through steel armor. The crosspiece was unadorned and led to a hilt that was leather wrapped for the top hand and plain steel for the bottom. A pommel, wrought of steel in the form of a miniature, fantastic skull completed the hilt.
Cor always held Ebonwing in his left hand while in battle, and he always thought that the fetish had some power of which he was unaware. He felt it course through him every time he fought. Ebonwing had been a symbol for kings and queens of some ancient world long past, and Cor was certain they had left part of themselves within it so as to make sure the talisman never left the sword for long. The thing was evil looking at nearly a foot long with a leather wrapped handle made of ebony. A bleached white skull, perfectly human in appearance if one overlooked that it was the size of a cat’s skull, adorned its head, and two tiny black batwings attached to its neck right below the skull. However, Cor never had any reason to suspect an evil nature about the thing, despite its truly wicked appearance.
After she related her tale, Cor told Thyss of how he came to own his own weapons. She did not stare in wonder at him, as he did when she told her tale, but he could see flickers of interest spark within her eyes when he related the battle with the giant spider. He described the building in which he found Ebonwing in great detail, both inside and out, and this brought a number of questions from Thyss as she tried to understand what magic was at use in its construction. At this, Cor regressed back to the vision Soulmourn had granted him, reciting both weapons’ history as well as he could remember it. Thyss merely nodded at this in understanding, but made no further comment.
They rode at the head of a ragged band of mostly children, and as such, -they had to stop regularly. The children simply were not prepared for the hardships of a journey, and the weather turning colder as autumn deepened did not help matters. Cor worried about the infant almost constantly; at times he could hear the babe crying from behind him. The wet nurse had chosen to accompany the group as she had no family of her own, and the baby needed someone to care for him. And beyond that, nothing other than continued slavery awaited her should she stay.
Cor did not fear pursuit; in fact, he knew it was inevitable. Emperor Nadav would send someone, likely a small, swift moving force to Taraq’nok’s castle, and of course, the slaves and overseers that the group left behind would point the pursuers in the right direction. But Cor knew, that even with swift horses, the emperor’s trackers were a good ten days behind, if Taraq’nok’s statement as to the distance of Ghal was accurate. He estimated that, if they could not pick up their pace, it would take five days to reach the Loszian side of the Spine, and there he would somehow have to face Lord Menak.
Cor endeavored to puzzle through this problem, but he could not come up with a clear or obvious solution. When they stopped for the night, the group huddled closely together for warmth, as both he and Thyss thought it a bad idea to light a fire. Cor strayed from the others and walked alone in the dark some distance from the meager camp. There was no chance that Menak would simply allow Cor and his refugees to pass the gate into the mountains. Despite Menak’s apparent wish to avoid Loszian politics, he would not miss such a chance at glory - the killing of over two dozen Dahken. Also, to allow them to pass would no doubt forfeit his own life, and if Cor was certain of one thing, it was that the Loszians value their personal survival over all else. Cor heard quiet footsteps approaching from behind, and he stopped his slow pacing.
“What are you doing Dahken Cor?” came Thyss’ voice, almost a whisper.
“I don’t know how I am going to get these people through Menak’s garrison,” he answered, turning to face her.
“Oh, I think your only course is plain,” she said, still approaching. He could see that one corner of her mouth was slightly upturned in a knowing smile. “You are going to have to kill the Loszians.”
“There are hundreds of them - warriors, crossbowmen and a necromancer. What chance do I have?” he asked. Even as he put forth the question, he could feel the urge to spill blood grow within him in response to Thyss’ suggestion. Cor suspected from where the urge came, and he pushed it away for now. The time would come.
“Perhaps you should have considered that before setting out in this direction,” she answered him. “But you have me, and I have never been conquered. Somehow, I am sure Loszians burn as well as anybody.”
Cor continued to work on the problem over the course of the next day. He could admit to himself that he was no master tactician, and in fact, his actual experience in combat was somewhat limited. But so far, he had been outnumbered in every battle he had fought against men, and he prevailed in all of them. Surprise and a quick first strike was no small advantage in any of his victories, and he would need to rely on them again here. His only chance was to come at the garrison at night; the few guards and pickets about would be protecting from an attack from the other side of the wall, not from behind. Perhaps, if he struck quickly enough, he could get his Dahken to the other side and into the Spine before the Loszians even knew what was happening. Something told him it was foolish, but he saw few options.
“Well of course,” Thyss said. “Even I am not so suicidal as to attempt a direct attack in the middle of the day. We will need to scout their positions. If we know precisely where Menak’s men are posted, our gambit just may succeed.”
“I know something about sailing, farming and fighting, but I don’t know anything about scouting,” Cor retorted darkly.
“It’s simple. You have to get close enough to see them, and if they see you, you’re dead,” Thyss responded, and she laughed heartily at the disdainful look on Cor’s face. “Leave it to me, Dahken Cor.”
The group traveled better this day than they had yesterday, crossing more miles in the same amount of time. It impressed Cor how well this group, mostly children, had adapted to this new hardship, and he wondered if it had something to do with most of them being of slave stock. He estimated that they would be within a few miles of the Loszian fort by the end of their fourth day. Thyss would then go ahead alone to glean what information she could, and they would spend the next day formulating the specifics of their attack. Cor did not sleep well.
* * *
Queen Erella of Aquis had been here before she was sure, but it seemed to have been long ago. She stood on a massive plain, populated with plush, knee high grass that stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see. Massive mountains adorned one horizon, but she could not judge in what direction of the compass they were. The sun overhead was completely obscured by massive, stone gray clouds. She remembered it had been a dream long ago that she had seen this place, and it occurred to her that she dreamed again.
As Queen Erella looked across the plain, she knew she would see the black armored warrior with his sword and fetish. He wore steel plate legguards, the plates connected by chain links, a hauberk of solid plate and a bulbous black helm, all of which gleamed even in the subdued light. This time, Dahken Cor did not stand alone, but with over a score of other armored warriors. She knew they were a formidable fighting force, and she could feel their strength and power emanating toward her. But somehow, she knew this was not so; the rise of a group of Dahken warriors had not yet happened.
From the direction of the mountains came a massive and frightening host. Thousands upon thousands of marching feet stamped the ground as an incredible army marched towards the Dahken band. The front lines of this army were the walking dead, those corpses that the horrible Loszian necromancy had forced to rise again and do their master’s bidding. Queen Erella shuddered both in revulsion and anger at the desecration the Loszians wrought upon the dead.
Behind them came live foot soldiers, the first ranks of which were a downtrodden lot, dirty and wretchedly thin. They wore no armor; in fact few wore clothing of any sort, and carried crude wood clubs for weapons. Then came the true soldiers. There were two ranks of armored professionals wearing bl
ack chain mail and plate armor, and they carried their swords, axes and maces in ways that one was certain they knew how to use them. Immediately behind these men-at-arms was a line of armored crossbowmen. These weapons had less range than the West’s longbows, but were feared for their ability to punch holes into armor. They also required less flexibility of movement, allowing their users to wear heavier armor.
Riding chariots, the robed figures of Loszian necromancers brought up the rear. They were all long of limb, tall figures, none shorter than perhaps six feet and many as tall as seven or more. All Loszian necromancers are lords of some level in their own right, and most wore dark colored silk robes carrying seals, crests and other emblems of their rank and title. Each Loszian seemed to have his own small group of soldiers surrounding him or her, a personal guard to protect their lord from direct attack. Though this was not a likely scenario, as they were in the rear of the army, far from where the battle would take place. It occurred to Queen Erella that these elite guards protected their masters from the treachery of fellow Loszians, rather than the army’s foes.
The great army marched onward, a huge dark mass that seemed to engulf the grassy plain as it inexorably closed the distance to the Dahken. The army stopped short of the Dahken only a few hundred feet away, and the corpses, slaves and soldiers began to spread out on either flank. They thinned and stretched the ranks in either direction, slowly forming a circle around the Dahken until the small group of warriors was fully enclosed by the forces of darkness. The scene held still for several long moments before the Dahken drew their weapons and arrayed themselves in their own circle, defiantly waiting for the impending attack.
The Cor Chronicles: Volume 02 - Fire and Steel Page 2