by Brian Murray
Platos watched the Chosen, who did not move and stood staring at the Dark One’s tent. The beasts had stopped howling as they waited to feed on the dead. From the tent came a single shrill scream. The Chosen jumped, but his face remained grim and set.
“What are they doing to the man?” asked Platos.
The Chosen did not answer. He just watched the tent, waiting for movement. He did not have to wait long.
All along the mound, men gasped and many turned their backs on the scene. The Chosen frowned while he watched the Dark One lead a small procession. Behind him two Caynians carried a cross on which General Gordonia had been crucified. The Dark One walked right up to the moat and stopped. Behind him, the two Caynians stabbed the cross into the ground and Gordonia screamed in excruciating pain.
The Dark One addressed the Chosen. “Your men did well today. A brave act! I have been informed they were the Grey Pony clan. It is an honour for them to die on their ponies with their swords in hand. Well, your general will not have that honour. You will watch him die. Watch him whimper and cry, and his bowels will empty down his legs.” The Dark One paused. “The choice is yours.” The Dread waited silently.
The Chosen did not answer and knew exactly what the Dark One was referring to. He watched the Dark One walk away from the cross. Rowet looked at his friend. His armour had been removed and his chest savagely cut. His face was heavily bruised and blood trickled from the man’s lips, down his chin. The next sound almost broke the Chosen’s heart.
“Roo, please,” called Gordonia weakly.
The Chosen held out his right hand. “Crossbow,” he simply said.
Platos looked at his emperor, then took a loaded crossbow from one of the defenders. He handed the weapon to the Chosen. Rowet bowed onto one knee and prayed. Then he smoothly rose and took aim. He saw General Gordonia lift his head, nod, and smile a bloody smile at his emperor. Tears misted in Rowet’s eyes. He clamped them shut as he recalled their last conversation at the southern gate.
***
“You come back to me, old man,” said Rowet, smiling broadly.
“I think this is goodbye, Roo,” replied Gordonia softly.
“Do not say that. You can achieve your victory and ride triumphantly back into the city.” As the words came out, deep down, Rowet knew it would not be so.
“Roo, you have been my dearest friend. I do not have children, never really had time, and that is my biggest regret. But I guided you and you have turned out to be a great man. After the atrocities committed by your father, you have proved to be the perfect successor. You are the true Chosen. You are the best of men and I love you like I would my own kin.” Gordonia raised his hand to stop Rowet from speaking. “This is goodbye. I have enjoyed every moment serving you, my emperor, and I will serve you in the next life as I have done in this. I hope you will have me in the next life?”
Rowet just nodded, emotion clogging his throat.
Gordonia sighed and smiled. “I will see you again soon, my son. Look out for me. They will give me the grey pony to ride in battle. That is the greatest honour for a Grey Pony clansman.” Gordonia looked up into his friend’s misting eyes.
“Goodbye Roo,” he said softly.
“Goodbye Gordy,” said Rowet, stepping forward and hugging his older friend. He watched the general ride from the city. The southern bridge withdrew and the gate slowly closed. Rowet waited until the lowering gate blocked his vision of the disappearing dust, before returning to his palace.
***
Rowet opened his eyes and now, like then, tears tumbled down his cheeks. He took a deep, calming breath and pulled the trigger. He watched Gordonia’s body spasm then relax, pulling against the restraints.
Gordonia was dead.
Rowet dropped the crossbow and fell to his knees. He cupped his hands over his face and silently wept for his friend. Platos put an arm around his emperor’s shoulders and led him from the mound. He also was choked with emotion and could say nothing to console his friend. Platos ordered the carriage driver to take the Chosen to the palace and have his daughters tend to him.
When Platos reached the top of the mound he saw beasts edging towards General Gordonia’s body. Rage took over and Platos ordered the firing of all catapults. During the firing, a boat was lowered into the moat. Alone, Platos rowed across the moat to recover General Gordonia’s body. He clambered up the far shore to be faced by approaching Talon Hunters. Platos stood very still and waited. Suddenly, a whistling filled the air and a gust of wind passed over the smithy. A large lump of masonry smashed into the Talon Hunters, squashing one flat. Platos did not hesitate. He rushed forward, pulling his dagger clear. As he reached Gordonia’s body, more and more boulders hammered the ground around him. Swiftly, he cut through the straps holding Gordonia to the crucifix and the lifeless body slumped forward. With ease, the smithy carried the body back and with great care lowered it into the boat. He rowed back across the moat and only when he reached the mound did the catapult fire halt.
That evening, the Priests of the Chosen prepared General Gordonia’s body for burial. In a private ceremony, Gordonia was laid to rest in the palace gardens near to where Rowet planned to be buried next to his wife.
An unsettlingly quiet descended on the mound.
At dawn that changed.
CHAPTER 10
THE NEXT COUPLE of days, the Dark One still only sent the Talon Hunters to attack the western side of the mound. They crashed ramp after ramp against the mound and the defenders fought the Talon Hunters in bloody hand-to-hand combat. Each time the clansmen destroyed the bridges, then finally repelled the creatures with their catapults. The beasts always went scurrying beyond the projectiles and waited, brooding, ready to strike again.
The Chosen appeared tired. His eyes were smudged with dark circles and his face was gaunt, with a dull complexion. Needless to say, he felt how he looked. Platos, who fought beside his emperor, had lost weight from the constant exercise and stress. Towards dusk, the last Talon Hunter retreated and the defenders sank wearily onto the mound. No cheering rose from the defenders, no signs of victory, just a desperate silence as the men waited for the next attack. The Chosen sat down heavily and removed his helm. One of his Imperial Guards brought him some cool water. The Chosen thanked the man and drank greedily. Platos reached up, took the jug from the soldier, and downed the contents in one swallow. Water flowed down his chin, splashing on his armour, and ran down his neck. The master armourer swore.
“Well, that’s what you get for being greedy,” chastised the Chosen, laughing, his voice gravelly from tiredness. The smithy smiled broadly and shrugged his shoulders.
“Too true, hey.” Then he boomed with laughter. Suddenly the master armourer started singing a rowdy song. It spoke of a clansman’s love for this wife and how he missed her during his long journey. His voice rumbled out and along the western mound men heard his song usually sung in taverns and across the Steppes. One by one, warriors along the wall started singing with the smithy. During the chorus the noise of the singing men was deafening, drifting over the mound and across the moat to the gathered beasts. The beasts started to howl in response, but the hearty singing drowned out their baying. When the song finished, the defenders raised their weapons and cheered loudly.
“Sire,” called Danf.
The Chosen, smiling broadly, turned and looked up at the young clansman. “Yes Danf.” The clansman just pointed. The Chosen and Platos rose to their feet and saw the Shadows stalking towards the moat, with Talon Hunters behind.
“Better hand out the war-hammers and battle-axes,” said the Chosen grimly, not looking at Platos. The master armourer gave the order and the weapons were passed out. Platos gave the order for the catapults to be fired. The projectiles scattered the Talon Hunters, but the Shadows kept coming. Platos turned and for the first time called for the new crossbows to be brought to the mound.
“When they reach the parapet, aim high. The men know to drop to the floor when the order is given. Understand
?” The triggermen on the crossbows all nodded. There were dull thuds as new crude ramps hit the mound.
“They will be able to walk across the damn moat soon, there’s so much floating debris and bodies,” observed the giant smithy.
The Chosen smiled at Platos. “We will cross that bridge when it arises.”
“Was that a joke, your Highness?” replied Platos, chuckling.
The Chosen turned to face his master armourer. “Would I make a joke at a time like this?” he asked, smiling.
“Damn well hope so.”
“Here they come!” called Danf.
The Chosen and Platos stepped back, watching some of the Shadows swim across the moat and scale the mound using their strong, clawed hands. The Chosen drew his two short swords and Platos hefted his huge war-hammer. The first huge Shadow scrambled up the mound and reached the rampart. The fighting started.
The Shadows slapped and hacked at the defenders with their large twin-headed, double-bladed axes. The order went up and the defenders on the rampart dropped flat. A crossbow fired. The iron balls whistled over the defenders’ heads and slammed into the Shadows. The velocity of the iron balls was fast enough to pierce the Shadows’ exoskeletons and green liquid oozed from the holes. Several beasts disappeared in a plume of foul-smelling black smoke. Another order was given. Swiftly, the defenders leapt to their feet to hack and smash at the other injured creatures. For the next few hours, the battle on the ramparts ebbed and flowed. Many Shadows reached the top of the mound and some Talon Hunters followed them. The defenders fought desperately, trying to stop the beasts. The order was called and again the crossbows fired. The small metal projectiles ripped through the attackers.
“We need to destroy the bridges,” shouted Platos as he smashed his war-hammer into the skull of a Shadow climbing the mound.
The Chosen ran to Danf. “Light some of the fire oil balls and drop them on the ramps.”
“Yes sire,” shouted the clansman over the clamour of battle. His men lit several clay balls and ran to the edge of the mound. A climbing Shadow sliced away one of the men’s legs. The clansman did not waste the clay ball and twisted his body so that he would fall over the mound. He landed on one of the wooden structures. The clay ball exploded, engulfing the man and two Talon Hunters in flames. The rest of the men threw their balls onto the bridges and the beasts scattered. Slowly, the damp wood burnt, but the bridges did not break.
“We need some weight on them!” screamed Danf to Platos.
“Crossbows! Fire!” bellowed the giant smithy, diving to the floor. The crossbows fired and the iron shot flew over the defenders. Several more beasts were downed. Quickly, Platos rose first.
“Throw them on the bridges,” shouted Platos, who shoulder-charged a Shadow that flew from the mound. The beast smashed into a ramp, splintering the weakened wood. A loud groan sounded as the long ramp buckled in half. The defenders saw what the master armourer had achieved and did the same. They hacked or smashed at remaining beasts, then threw them off the mound. Soon, there were no ramps left and the attack faltered.
Platos sat down with a long sigh and dropped his war-hammer. His face and armour were coated in green slime, goo, and blood, thankfully none of it his.
“You look a mess,” announced the Chosen, sitting down next to his master armourer.
Platos turned his head and smiled. “Me, sire? You look like you need a bath, your Highness.”
The Chosen looked down at his hands and torso, then shook his head. “Aye, I do. Can you get numbers of the injured and dead?” he asked solemnly, watching the beasts retreat.
***
The Dark One watched his Dread repelled from the mound again. He knew he could use the power of the Blade of Yallas to aid the attack, but now was not the time. However, he was furious that his Dread had not killed more of the mortals. The Chosen and his men fought well and they had new weapons that held his minions at bay. His rage rose when he turned and entered his tent. He stabbed the Blade of Yallas into the earth and the ground around it shuddered, turning black. He sat down and tried to calm his anger, but he could not settle.
“Naats!” bellowed the raging man.
“Yes, my lord,” answered the Darklord, moving from around a curtain behind the Dark One. “How may I serve you?”
“The mortals have proved to be a thorn in my side.”
“You could use the power of the Blade,” suggested the Darklord.
“I know that!” roared the Dark One, surging to his feet. He removed his helm and slammed it on the armrest of his throne. His red eyes blazed with pure rage. “It is not time. I want the other Children of the Light here first. Then, and only then, will I use my power! I have seen the futures and this . . . ” He hesitated. “This is exactly as I have foreseen.”
“I think you should defeat the mortals in the city first and then turn the Dread to face the Rhaurns.”
“You question my tactics?” stormed the Dark One, stepping forward to tower over the old man.
“Of course not,” started the Darklord smoothly. “I am just suggesting that it might be an idea. However, as always I bow to your superior mind.”
“I do have a superior mind. I am undefeated.”
“And what of Rhamagabora, lord?” asked the Darklord, immediately regretting his question.
The Dark One raised his hand, about to strike the Darklord for his impertinence, but he subdued his rage. “Do not ever speak to me like that again,” he hissed. “I was deceived by the traitor. I would have won if it were not for him—him and that witch. This time I will win and destroy him and Her. My time has arrived and I will rule.”
The Darklord stood quietly, knowing the Dark One was on the edge. He could take the Darklord’s life in an instant, so the smaller man remained silent.
The Dark One’s eyes calmed and the madness eased from his body. Sanity regained control. “I need more Dread,” he announced. “I have left the portal in my palace, but the numbers that are coming through are too few. I want you to go to my palace and make sure the Keepers are fulfilling my needs. I need more Dread.”
“It will be as you command.”
“Do not fail me, Naats,” the Dark One growled menacingly.
“I have never failed you, master,” replied the Darklord, bowing deeply.
“Do not start now.” The Dark One pulled the Blade of Yallas from the ground and pointed it at the Darklord. He uttered a few words of power and the Darklord vanished in a flash of light.
***
The Darklord blinked. Before he briefly closed his eyes, he was standing with his Master. Now, he stood in the great hall of his palace to the west of the Steppes. If honest with himself, Naats Flureic was happy to be away from the Dark One. The last couple of days he had shown impatience and when the Dark One became impatient, he also became unstable and erratic. His raging outbursts increased with ferocity and he could soon attack one of his own, as quickly as his enemies. Now was not a good time to be close to the Dark One.
Naats sighed. He had been given his orders. When the portal opened, he walked into the shimmering space and crossed to the Realm of Yallaz’oom. Without pausing, the Darklord travelled to the Mines of Moranton.
***
Later that evening, Rowet together with Platos sat in his private chambers and read the reports. Since the fighting started, over five thousand men had either been killed or could not fight again. This did not include the four thousand Grey Pony clansmen who had died in the cavalry charge.
“The death toll is high,” commented Rowet glumly.
“Aye, but there is nothing else we can do.”
“I know that,” snapped Rowet and instantly apologised. “I am sorry, my friend. There is no need for me to take my anger out on you.”
“True, save it for the beasts.”
“We just need a little more time.”
“Time for what?”
Rowet looked Platos in his brown eyes. “My friends will come. We must hold until the
y arrive.”
“What can they do? You saw what those beasts did to the Grey Pony clan. Going head to head against them will not work.”
“You, Platos, know as well as I do the truth is simple . . . We cannot defend the mound forever. At some point, we are going to have to take the fight to the Dark One.”
“And die.”
Rowet sighed. “Yes, if necessary die.”
Platos cursed. “When do you think they will arrive?”
“I am not sure, my friend,” conceded the Chosen, shaking his head. “I am not sure.”
There was a quiet knock on the door. “Come,” called Rowet.
The door opened and the new Senior Priest of the Chosen entered the room, bowing low. “Sire, you summoned me?”
“Yes, Tikar. Please sit down. There is something I wish to discuss with you.” Platos began to rise from his seat. “Platos, please sit, this involves you as well.”
Rowet looked across the table at the tall, broad-shouldered younger man as he took a seat with a sigh. He had been working all day near the mound, using his talent to heal. The priest pushed back the hood of his thick robe and scanned the room. Tikar, in his mid-thirties, had thinning, black tightly-curled hair. His dark skin was creased with lines, but his blue eyes, rare for his kin, glowed bright with intelligence. He had a flat nose, large full lips, and a strong square cut chin. Tikar was being groomed to be the next senior priest, but with the sudden demise of his predecessor, he had been elected early. As a boy, Tikar had lived on the Steppes with his clan, the Oxskulls, one of the larger clans. He was the fourth son of the chieftain and at an early age showed he had innate magical talent. When the Priest of the Chosen had visited his clan, the chieftain happily gave up his son because the child frightened the man. Tikar had spent many happy years within the sect, gaining knowledge and learning about his talent.
Rowet poured the priest a goblet of water and returned to his seat.
“How are you faring, Tikar?” asked Rowet.
“I’m fine. A little tired but well, thank you for asking, your Highness,” replied the priest, his voice deep and resonant.