Dark Times

by Brian Murray

  ***

  Now, two weeks later, Marley sat under a cloudy night sky, gazing down at the small stone bridge, listening to the harmonious sound of the flowing water tumbling over rocks. He found himself thumbing his silver Royal Lancer Scout badge; a badge given to scouts who had proven they were the best. Only seven men currently wore the badge, given to them by King Logan. He looked down at the badge, which was pinned to the inside of his jerkin, to prevent glare. The badge had a bear’s footprint on the bottom and the king’s royal crest above. Surrounding the images were the words, ‘Royal Lancer Scout’. Marley smiled. He had the only squad with two badge holders in it. He dragged his mind from the past and looked back down at the small stone bridge.

  At that moment, a figure emerged from the gorge, instantly blending into the shadows. Marley squinted and rubbed his tired eyes, thinking he was more fatigued than he had realised. He could not believe the size of the man. More movement within the mouth of the gorge caught the captain’s attention. He rolled forward onto his knees to gain a better view. Nothing now seemed to be moving and he was about to relax. Then from the darkness of the gorge, something moved towards the stone bridge. Marley silently gasped.

  A dark shadow spread onto the bridge, smothering the stonework in blackness. A long moment passed. The cloud cleared the moon, illuminating the area in silvery light and the beast could be fully seen. Marley gazed down in horror at the creature. He again rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was indeed overtired. From behind, one of his scouts casually walked out to meet him. The scout was about to speak when Marley reached out and hooked his leg from under him, causing the man to drop sharply onto his back. The scout cut his hand on a sharp exposed root when he landed, but swallowed a curse. Marley put his finger to his lips for silence, then pointed towards the bridge. He heard a gasp from the scout and, with that, knew the beast was real.

  The scout crawled on all fours and moved next to Marley. “What is it?” he asked in a low whisper.

  “I don’t know,” answered the captain, not taking his gaze away from the bridge.

  After a few moments, another different creature appeared on the bridge and howled. Soon other creatures started gathering by the bridge and in unison they began to howl—a sound that made Marley’s skin crawl. Another cloud covered the moon. The area was again plunged into thick, inky darkness.

  Marley reached over and grabbed his scout by his jerkin, pulling him close. “Get the men ready,” the captain whispered.

  The scout hesitated for a moment, but Marley gave the man a subtle nudge and he silently scurried back to the camp. Marley was undecided whether to venture forward closer to the bridge or hold his current position. He knew his abilities as a scout would get him close to men, but these creatures were something altogether different. He was about to step forward when the cloud cleared the moon. Silvery light bathed the area. He pulled back close to the tree where his brown and green clothes would camouflage him. He watched as the creatures dithered at the bridge, seemingly unsure whether to cross. Then from the gorge, he heard a continuous crunching sound. Marley closed his eyes and turned his head to one side to heighten his hearing. The noise grew louder, indicating that the makers of the sound were coming his way. Marley opened his eyes again and peered in the gloom at the mouth of the gorge.

  ***

  The scouting Shadows and Talon Hunters reached the small grey stone bridge on the western side of Single Tooth Gorge and waited. They passed through the gorge with care, avoiding the shards of glass sharp rocks. The Talon Hunters started to howl. They smelled the fresh coppery scent of human blood. But they could not cross the bridge—they had been ordered to wait until the Caynians arrived. From the gorge, the sound of rhythmical crunching of iron-shod hooves on the shards of rocks grew. The Talon Hunters howled with impatience. From the exit, the first mounted Caynians emerged into the silvery moonlight.

  ***

  Marley audibly gasped when the first huge mounted warrior appeared from the gorge. A column of riders slowly continued to emerge from the gorge; each horse, each rider massive. Following the leading horsemen rode a warrior dressed in silver armour, also mounted on a huge horse. The silver-armoured rider moved between his horsemen to the front of the column. The warrior paused at the bridge and his horse began to paw the stone structure. From Marley’s position, he just could see sparks jumping from its iron shoes, twinkling in the gloomy light.

  The warrior looked around, then seemed to hold his gaze directly at Marley. Marley did not move, he did not breathe while the warrior stared in his direction. Then as if in slow motion, the warrior’s horse edged forward and stepped farther onto the bridge. Marley could hear the distinct clicking of the horse’s huge hooves on the stone bridge. The warrior seemed to take an eternity to cross the small humped stone crossing. He reached the other side and turned his horse back to face the gorge. Marley heard a deep rumbling command: “Come!”

  The creatures loped over the bridge and the horsemen started to march forward.

  Marley was about to join his team but glanced at the silver clad warrior one last time. He wished he hadn’t. The warrior had one of the creatures standing by his horse. He pointed directly to where Marley waited on the next hill.

  Marley did not wait to see what happened next; instead he hurried back to his men. He reached his team and could not hide the fear from his expression. They all had grim faces but Marley knew they were the best of men and would not break, no matter the mission or the situation. They were his men, hand-picked by Marley himself, and they had the same determination he had.

  “What the hell were they?” asked the scout who had seen the beasts.

  Marley shook his head. “I don’t know, but I think they spotted me. We need to get back to Teldor. We all know where the fresh horses are waiting for us. So I want us to split up into two groups. Hopefully, we will meet up at the first change.”

  Marley pointed at three men. “You men head south, then west. The rest of us will head west, then south. If you reach the change location first, don’t wait for the other group, just change your horses and move on. We must reach Teldor immediately. Let’s move, men, and good luck.” To lighten the mood, Marley added, “Oh, and I’ll give a month’s extra wages to the first group home.”

  The scouts mounted their horses, now smiling. Within moments, the two groups dashed off in different directions. Splitting up would be a gamble, but Marley needed to ensure at least one of the men reached Teldor, so he had decided this would increase their chances. The race was on, but only Marley knew they were being pursued.

  Behind the men, the howling started, like a low distant rumble of thunder.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Chosen rode in his white carriage through Kal-Pharina, with General Gordonia at his side. Behind the carriage, the Chosen’s white stallion was tethered next to Gordonia’s chestnut mare. The two men were on their way to Platos’s forge to see the development of the new weapons. They had been impressed with the models and now the Chosen wanted to see the weapons in their full glory. The carriage approached the forge, the Chosen pushed the white curtain to one side, and peered out of his carriage window. Above a wall next to the small forge the Emperor could see a huge wooden arm, which he assumed was the firing arm of the ‘catapult’, as Platos had called it.

  General Gordonia looked over the Chosen’s shoulder and gasped. “Now that’s a huge weapon,” said the general, his voice full of admiration.

  Before the Chosen could respond, they both saw the arm slowly being lowered. The carriage pulled up to the forge, the door was opened, and the Chosen stepped out. He wore his traditional white leather leggings and an open white silk shirt tucked into his leggings, to show the Chosen’s tattoo. The general was dressed in his formal military attire but not his armour. From the other side of the forge, there came a loud crash, followed by Platos’s deep voice, cursing obscenities. The Chosen could not help but chuckle, while General Gordonia just shook his head. The two men made their
way through the cluttered forge to the testing ground out back. The Chosen stopped in the doorway, his eyes wide with astonishment. In front of him stood the largest weapon he had ever seen.

  The catapult was huge, the firing arm at least as tall as three men and the base the size of foundations for a small house.

  The Chosen turned to look at Gordonia, who also stared at the weapon with his mouth gaping. “Better close your mouth Gordy, you’ll attract flies.”

  “Pardon,” replied the general, not taking his eyes off the catapult. He stepped towards the structure, marvelling at its beauty. The weapon was made of the darkest hardwood, held together with blackened iron rivets or thick rope. Gordonia walked up to the catapult, nodding in admiration. Platos, sitting on a bench beside the door turned, his mind still outraged by the stupidity of his apprentice.

  “Get away from the damn machine, man,” snapped the blacksmith. “Can you not see it’s primed, you idiot?”

  General Gordonia turned to face the huge smithy, who strode briskly towards him.

  “Were you born stupid? You could . . . ” Platos’s voice broke when he recognised the general. He turned at the sound of laughter, and saw the Chosen standing in the doorway to his forge, with two emotionless imperial guards on either side. “Your Highness,” started the smithy, bowing, “I did not expect you until later.”

  “I like to surprise my friends, master armourer,” said Rowet, using Platos’s formal title.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you,” said Platos, approaching the emperor. Crash! Platos spun quickly to face one of his apprentices. Seeing a bucket of iron balls rolling across the floor, the master armourer started to curse again.

  “Ban, you bloody idiot, I told you not to touch anything, and that means touch nothing. Now you’d better pick all those damn things up if you want to continue your apprenticeship here!” Platos started to walk to the young man, then remembered the emperor was waiting in the doorway. Cursing under his breath, he turned his attention to his emperor. He took a deep breath to calm himself and approached the Chosen. Stopping, he turned to General Gordonia.

  “General, please would you step away from the catapult; it could take your head off, and that would be a shame.”

  General Gordonia, who was about to reach out to touch the catapult, pulled his hand back as if he had been stung, and stepped backwards away from the weapon. “Yes, that would be a shame,” he muttered, nodding.

  Rowet again roared with laughter at his general’s discomfort. “That’s an impressive contraption, Platos,” he commented.

  For the first time, Platos smiled and admired his work. “Aye, it is mighty impressive. Should scare any army by just looking at it.”

  General Gordonia approached the two men. “Does it work?”

  “Does it work?” snapped Platos disbelievingly. “Does it work?” he repeated. “Goddamn right it works. Ban, bring me a stone.”

  The young Dar-Phadrin clansman rushed off to a barrel. He struggled to lift clear a tone about the size of a man’s head. Walking back with bowed legs, Ban held the stone like a baby, cradled in his arms. Carefully, he placed the stone in a basket on the end of the firing arm then rushed back, tripping over his own feet and falling in a heap.

  Platos, marching up to the catapult, cuffed young Ban on the top of the head as he tried to rise. “Move, boy!” he barked. Then he turned to face the Chosen and General Gordonia. “Does it work?” he said once more, smiling. He pulled the firing trigger, his eyes dancing with amusement. The huge firing arm bolted upwards and slammed against the cushioned retaining bar. This caused the basket to snap forward and the stone to fly clear. Platos smile broadened as he looked at his guests’ faces. The stone flew and flew. General Gordonia started to squint, as the stone became a dot against a white fluffy cloud. Finally, the stone fell to earth, landing with a resounding thud.

  “Oh my . . . ” was all the general could say.

  The Chosen’s amazed expression turned into a broad smile and he applauded. “How far does it fire?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know. I have not gone out to find the stones. But I can tell you it’s a long way. When we have them on the wall, I can get the range. By the way, we can adjust the range by adjusting the tension of the firearm.”

  The Chosen nodded. There was nothing else he could say about the weapon—it was awesome.

  “I have taken the liberty of commissioning several of the potters to make spherical pots to be used for firing,” said Platos. “I had to use your name to prompt them into action. Are you sure we won’t fill them all with fire oil?”

  “We will be using them filled with seawater and some will be filled with burning oil,” answered the Chosen.

  Platos nodded, still not understanding why the Chosen should want seawater in the pots. He walked away from the catapult and turned his attention to the revised crossbow. This version was larger than its predecessor had been. The weapon was not primed and the three men walked up to the machine so that Platos could show them the adjustments he had made.

  “I have changed the crossbow considerably in order for it to fire iron balls. The cup I have made is oval to increase the spread of shot, and I have lined the runner with greased iron to aid the cup’s movement.”

  “What is this on the end?” asked the Chosen, pointing to a spade-like end, level with the cup runner.

  “I had a problem with a few of the balls heading straight downwards as soon as they left the cup. The scoop at the end is to ensure that all the balls fire towards the target.”

  The Chosen nodded.

  “I have also put a ball pivot here.” He pointed to where the crossbow was attached to the supporting frame. “This is so the weapon can move around. The firer can turn around and also move up and down.”

  Again, the Chosen nodded approvingly.

  “Ban!” screamed Platos, and the young man came running. “I need some iron balls.” The young man rushed off and struggled back with a bucket of iron balls, only to almost drop it on Platos’s foot. The master armourer reached into the bucket and retrieved one of the balls. He showed it to both men. He was holding a rough spherical ball about the size of a fingernail.

  “This seems to be the perfect size for maximum distance and damage.”

  The master armourer carefully loaded his new weapon and primed it. Turning it, he aimed it at an old, thick wooden door propped up against a thick wooden fence. Platos looked over his shoulder and smiled a smile of pure mischievousness at the Chosen. He pulled the trigger. Instantly, an almighty crash sounded when the iron balls splintered through the wooden door. After several moments, the dust and wood chippings settled. The door started to creak, then slowly folded in two at the middle. Each side of the door, the fence had been obliterated in the middle.

  “I hope no one was walking past,” said Platos, still smiling his wicked smile.

  “Marvellous!” exclaimed General Gordonia, clapping.

  “Yes, marvellous indeed,” agreed the Chosen. Rowet stepped forward and looked at the destruction caused by the weapon. He could not help but grin and turned to face his master armourer. His smile broadened and he nodded his approval. In turn, Platos’s smile grew, seeing the pleasure in his emperor’s eyes.

  Rowet strolled back to the two men. “We need to go and see how the city plans are progressing,” he said.

  “I’ve been speaking with the town planners and I think they now know what is to be done.”

  “Talk to them. That’s not quite the story I received from their office,” commented the Chosen, shaking his head.

  “I needed to be sure they saw my point of view,” replied Platos innocently.

  “Aye, understandable. But I believe one of them has a black eye, and you’ve been barred from entering their offices again.”

  “He took a little bit more persuading than the others. And, anyway, I don’t need to return to their offices, thankfully,” answered Platos, his wicked grin returning.

  “Let’s go and se
e.” The three men walked back through the forge. “More homey,” commented the Chosen, looking around at the mess, noting the many parchments covering benches, and on the floor.

  “Aye, no woman’s influence,” said Platos, removing his dirty leather apron and throwing it on a workbench. It landed on the oil-darkened surface, but then slid onto the floor, landing in a heap.

  The Chosen exited the forge and his personal guards all snapped to attention. “My horse,” he called, and promptly the Chosen’s white stallion was brought forward.

  “Horses?” asked Platos, wide-eyed.

  “Why yes, you do not expect to walk, do you?”

  Platos took a deep breath and looked at the emperor. “I’m not a horse person, your Highness. When they go up, I go down and when I go down, they go up. Not the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had, I can assure you.”

  Rowet looked into Platos’s eyes, saw a hint of dread there, and made a decision. “Well then, as it is a pleasant morning, I think we will walk.”

  “Walk!” spluttered General Gordonia in utter disbelief. His knees were already starting to ache just at the thought.

  “Gordy, you can ride with the men, Platos and I will walk.” The Chosen strolled away with Platos at his side, chatting. General Gordonia did not know what to do; if the Chosen was walking, then all his men should walk with him. Thinking quickly, the general came to a rapid compromise.