"My brother Dehrbane now oversees the building of our defenses. I fear every tree within miles of here is being felled, and every stream diverted. It will take a decade for the land to recover."
"If at all," Layarax replied. He bowed, and turning away, walked to a narrow staircase winding up into the darkness of the upper tower. The prince watched him as he ascended the stairs, turning to leave only after the wizard was out of sight.
Chapter 3: An Army Shattered
Dayhoral was a young wizard by Frey's reckoning. While some gray littered his short brown hair and beard, his appearance was youthful. This was particularly so when observed standing next to his master, Layarax the Great. As the magus stepped into the war council, Frey motioned for all save Prevost to leave.
"What sign, Dayhoral?" asked Frey. "Our spies have confirmed your vision. The enemy has crossed the mountains, but we no longer have report of them. Can you conjure up another vision? Or tell us my brother’s location?"
Dayhoral's look was gaunt as he sat upon a stone. He wore a thick brown robe tied at the waist with a simple leather belt. Mud caked his boots and ran up his leggings and robe.
"I fear no new visions have I seen," he said. His voice was exhausted, and his eyes red from fatigue. "When I dreamt the first vision, the enemy swept out of the north like storm clouds, straight toward Ceremane."
Frey turned back to regard the black clouds moving his way, now crowned with lightning.
"Dayhoral," asked Frey thoughtfully, who after a moment looked at the wizard. "Do you believe as Revhalom? The coming of the Prince of Graves?"
Dayhoral kept his silence as his eyes darted to the northern horizon.
"My lord,” he said at length, “I'm no prophet. And with all respect due to the elder Revhalom, neither is he. Yet many of the prophecies of the Scrolls of old are being rapidly fulfilled, and all seems in place for the coming of the Prince of Graves."
The distant air murmured a low, rhythmic thunder. Frey stepped forward out of the alcove. While pregnant black and gray clouds slid south from the great mountains before them, the prince knew the quiet rumble did not issue from the sky. Prevost cast a nervous glance at his liege.
"Gods," swore Frey. "They only crossed the mountains two days ago. Could they be upon us already?" Dayhoral and Prevost joined him and peered at the approaching darkness in the sky. "Do they truly ride the clouds, as in your vision?"
"The armies of the Necromancers are surely under dark enchantments," replied the wizard, folding his hands into his robes. "The mortals in their ranks will perish with such powers pushing them on, but not before they finish their mission."
Frey turned an angry eye toward Dayhoral.
"We will not let them. Tell me, wizard, will your magic be able to aid us?" A clap of thunder rolled suddenly, and the cliffs trembled. Dayhoral reached a hand out to the cliff face to steady himself. A sound as of a heavenly whip cracked in the sky, and arcs of white lightning danced between the clouds.
"I will do what I can. With Layarax and Revhalom upon the plains, I am alone. Pray whatever necromancer aids this army is the lesser wizard."
Frey looked Dayhoral over critically. Turning back to the north, he listened as the sound of the rhythmic thunder from the ground started to blend with the chaotic thunder from the sky.
"I'll keep my prayers to myself, wizard. Find yourself a place to watch the battle. It is nigh." He turned to his left and looked down the steep cliff trail. In the shade of the ravine's walls, he spied Captain Vraim, who was watching him intently. Frey raised his right hand, held it for a moment, and then brought it down quickly. Vraim drew his sword and raised the hilt before his face in salute, and then turned.
"To arms! To arms!" he called, spurring his horse as he galloped to and fro to ensure their forces were in position.
* * *
The earth shuddered in step with the advancing army, sending stones clattering down the rock walls wherein Frey had secreted riders, lying in wait in shallow caves and behind great boulders strewn throughout the length of the basin. Frey stood next to his horse, a prized stallion of northern stock, holding its bridle and stroking its white mane.
Of the four sons of King Atherion, Frey was the only one from a different mother. The Queen's passing many years ago had turned Atherion into a hard man, although not a cruel one. Two years following her murder, the north country of Deihaim threatened revolt, thereby removing the protection against raids conducted by Deihaim's lawless cousins farther to the north. To the shock of his court, Atherion offered to permanently bring Deihaim into the Kingdom's fold by marrying the daughter of the North Country's sovereign.
The move succeeded. Princess Shealia became Queen of Valeot, and soon bore a son, Frey. Although many of the denizens of Deihaim were a mixture of the Northmen and the men of Valeot, her blood was undiluted from the savages that once raided the coasts of the August Kingdom and her Duchies.
Like his mother, Frey's features were those of the Northmen: blond, tall, and powerful. His eyes were like blue ice, and in a quarrel his burning stare could turn away most of less passionate blood. In the days of his youth, as he trained for war under the tutelage of the masters who taught his brothers, his instructors both cautioned and praised him for the berserker-like rage he brought into a fight.
That lust now pounded in his breast as he felt the coming tempest beating upon the earth. His breath quickened. A slight smile touched his lips and he closed his eyes. Glory awaited him. He opened his eyes and alighted upon his stallion. Shrouded within the darkness of a shallow cave, he drew his sword Faerthring from its scabbard — a gift from his grandfather — which emitted a tinny whine. Through his leather and mail woven glove, he felt it vibrate softly in anticipation of battle.
The enemy had come. Doom marched through the pass, filling it from cliff wall to cliff wall. Frey looked down at a shadowy river overflowing with soldiers in black and gray armor, armed with jagged spears and wide cutlasses, helmets fashioned in the likeness of skulls and wolves. Banners of the Necromancer Kings led the way, an ebony field with the full moon displayed as a silver disk, the hateful runes of an ancient day scrawled across it. The blood lust swelled. Frey poised to plunge down into the enemy ranks and signal the ambush to begin.
He hesitated a moment. Strange dark shadows in the midst of the horde passed among the regular soldiers, driving the army at its unnatural pace. Known by no other name than the Dark Captains, these warriors were known to have been indoctrinated into the dark arts of evil wizardry. They rode upon fierce dragonmares, nightmare crossbreeds spawned centuries ago in the hills of the northern Necromancer Kingdoms. The size of powerful horses, the creatures were covered in coarse black hair, except along the chest and near the snout, where thick scales revealed the natural armor underneath.
He scanned the countless soldiers, looking for the closest of the Dark Captains. Frey would engage them first. Unable to hold himself back any longer, he lifted his horn, took a mighty breath, and let out a powerful blast that for a moment overcame the pounding rhythm of the iron shod multitudes and the thunder above.
"Valeot!" bellowed Frey, and his steed leapt down the path. Like a bird of prey swooping out of the sky, he swept past the Dagir Xethu soldiers who had yet to realize the trap had been sprung. A Dark Captain turned just in time to see Faerthring come down in a savage arc, cleaving his head from his body.
Riders in blue and silver sprang forth out of the walls of the pass, falling on their enemies with fury. More horns sounded from on high, and a rain of deadly arrows fell like lightning on the front hosts, some close enough Frey could have smote them himself. The horde halted its advance as the horsemen drove in from both sides. The relentless press from behind the seemingly endless enemy numbers, however, ensured the pause lasted only moments.
Dark Captains, their dragonmares roaring and steaming from savage maws, called forth commands which were not mere orders. A sudden shadow swept across the battle. Some of the Da
rk Captains were chanting, their incomprehensible language riding on the tide of the chaotic clash of arms. Frey saw two, three, probably more stand in their stirrups. They were carving sigils into the air, which peeled away like skin, revealing a living nothingness within the unnatural spaces hanging before them. The prince averted his eyes as a shudder ripped across his body. There were shapes there, evil forms that pressed against the blackness, desperately trying to break through.
As the chanting grew louder and coils and shapes began erupting through, brilliant blue globes appeared before the Dark Captains. The primal terror then fled Frey and his warriors. The globes flared like small suns, and all were forced to turn away. A moment later, the globes vanished, the preternatural tears in the air with them, and the Black Captains who summoned them lay charred and lifeless on smoldering mounts.
Vraim rode close to Frey.
"Our wizard has proven his worth!" he shouted. "He's keeping the evil arts of the Dark Captains at bay!"
* * *
The black army swelled, and Frey and his cavalry were forced to fall back. Frey reached out and rapped on Vraim's helmet, who nodded. While Frey hacked and parried, Faerthring ringing and singing in bloodthirsty glee, the Captain raised his horn and sounded three rapid calls.
With a roar, the main body of Frey's cavalry emerged over the rise concealing them from the Dagir Xethu. Like a great war hammer they slammed into the heart of the enemy, annihilating the surprised soldiers and sweeping away any with the wits to stand their ground.
Frey laughed, and despite the countless foes that replaced every fallen enemy, his blood was hot and fatigue did not assail him. Faerthring pulsed in time with his heart, and no enemy, no dragonmare, no Dark Captain was able to stand before him. Captain Vraim stayed at his side, defending his back and ordering the signalmasters and flagmen as Frey commanded.
The enemy ranks continued to flow through the wide pass. Eventually the hosts were so thickly entangled, the archers above slowed their deadly rain for fear of striking their own, and were forced to move further north to engage the never ending rush of reinforcements.
Suddenly the sound of new horns echoed throughout the killing grounds, and from the northeast another wave of silver armor and blue crests charged, descending down a steep wash along the ridgeline. Frey let out a victor's yell when he saw line upon line of wildly waving banners with the silver hilt on an azure field. Racing before the banner bearers was a familiar form adorned in tarnished heavy armor. Atop his full helmet was a blue plume, and on his shield the royal colors of azure and red declared the commander of the new force.
"Prince Ghelan! Prince Ghelan has come!" bellowed Frey. "Signalmaster, call the horsemen! We move to join my brother now!"
Like a spear hurled into a wild animal, Ghelan's charge split deep into the Dagir Xethu's eastern flank. Confusion again buffeted the enemy at the surprise assault, which the elder prince's cavalry used to exact a murderous price.
The pass was quickly choked with soldiers, alive and fallen. Still the Dagir Xethu came, climbing over the lifeless heaps strewn from cliff to cliff, creating a macabre battleground.
Frey and Vraim led a group of twelve knights forward to link up with Ghelan, but the fight was made more treacherous when a great mass of Dagir Xethu, with nowhere to run in the face of the charge, fled south toward them. Where once only a score of enemy soldiers separated Frey from his brother, now four times as many pushed them apart. Refusing to lose ground, Frey planted his warhorse and ordered Vraim and his knights to do the same. Like a great stone in the midst of a swollen river, the enemy struck Frey and his men, broke about them, and streamed past. And although they held their ground, Frey could not advance.
Another series of horns rocked the ravine. Ghelan waved his sword over his head and shouted something to his signalmaster. Three rapid peals issued from his horn, and then in the midst of the banner bearers four blue flags rose and fell in succession. Immediately the rear cavalry changed direction, and instead of pressing forward they bore to their left. By passing the thick of the fighting, they quickly linked up with Frey. With a laugh, Frey ordered the new forces forward, intent on joining his brother in the center of the melee.
It was then a shrieking blast of freezing air suddenly swept across the battlefield. Darkness followed immediately as the low hanging black clouds sank down and smothered the ground with an inky mist, casting a deep pall over everything. A chill not caused by the cold wind climbed Frey's spine. Without clear reason, his eyes drifted up and settled on the western wall of the gully, now only distinguishable as a darker shade of gray set against the mist.
The sound of a loud gong chimed, the peal rolling ominously through the death-filled gully. Inexplicably, the battlefield became silent and all movement ceased. The survivors stood still as monuments to the fallen in a fresh graveyard. Roiling black clouds traced with blood red sunlight rolled across the sky.
As Frey watched, a sudden blackness erupted from the top of the ridge which formed the western edge of the battlefield. Like a poison river the blackness fell, devouring the archers positioned along the ridge-face. It grew as it came, an unearthly madness billowing out before it.
As the consuming darkness closed in on the main battle, the great warhorses of the cavalry broke away in terror, many throwing their shocked riders to the ground. Even Frey's steed shuddered and let out a terrified shriek before madly bucking him from his back, then galloping south, away from the coming darkness.
Frey's body struck a large jagged rock, his head dashing against a stone finger protruding from the ground. Darkness and oblivion swarmed in to overtake consciousness. Struggling to stand, he removed his helmet and looked back to the north; he saw the enemy parting to form a clearing for the coming evil. None of the Dagir Xethu turned to watch it approach — all eyes faced south.
The blackness was off the cliff now, where it paused. Out of the abyss, a great red dragonmare stepped out. It hissed and snarled, and a hungry look lurked within its black eyes. Upon it rode a nightmare in black armor, great steel plates etched with innumerable vile runes. Upon its shoulders was a gray mantle, flowing about it like the black cloud from which it emerged. Its helmet, forged in the likeness of a cruel dragon-like beast, covered the entire head.
Gods, thought Frey. The Xethicor leads the enemy.
It sat upon its mount, surveying the carnage of the battlefield. Arrayed behind it a dozen Dark Captains formed up, and behind them the swelling army of death regrouped. Then alone atop its dragonmare it advanced. The fallen cavalry closest to the Xethicor tried to rally, lifting weapons and readying for battle. Yet as the thing approached, some fell to their knees and cowered. Others dropped their weapons and fled. Only one stood his ground. Through the blurry fog clouding his vision, Frey shook his head again and wiped sweat and grime from his eyes. Alarm shocked his vision back to focus when he realized the lone warrior bore the royal colors on his medium shield.
Ghelan stood alone before the Xethicor.
Frey froze, his limbs suddenly stone. His battle cries perished in his throat as he watched the Vassal of Death, adorned with a golden crown, slowly approach his brother with the air of an executioner. With a careful, deliberate motion the thing pulled its sword free, a thin black blade trimmed in living fire which traced runes engraved along the edges.
Ghelan's weapon faltered as the Xethicor loomed over him, massive and elemental as a great black mountain. From his vantage, all Frey could see was the iron smile and fiery sword in the midst of the black bulk mounted on the dragonmare. As terror threatened to humble him and drop him to his knees like Ghelan, a flicker of rage sparked as the thing lifted its weapon. A powerful, primal resistance gasped for breath.
"Ghelan!" the youngest prince shouted. The Xethicor paused, and turned its metallic visage towards Frey. Then slowly, shaking violently, so did Ghelan. The hopelessness in his brother’s eyes nearly felled Frey. Their eyes locked, and Ghelan shook his head.
He
is lost, thought Frey.
The Xethicor turned back to Ghelan, and brought its weapon down in a graceful swing that never slowed as it sliced through the prince. He fell over, his lifeless face turned toward Frey.
A roar of victory and ruthless glee erupted from behind the Death Knight. Frey staggered back at the sight of his brother laying motionless below the armored apparition. He died without fighting, lost in terror.
The Xethicor's mount opened its jagged maw and shrieked at Frey, but the demon sitting upon it made no move. Frey's throat was dry, and his body suddenly ached as he fought a near overwhelming urge to flee. The dragonmare stepped forward and began closing the gap with Prince Frey. As it did so, the Xethicor raised its mailed left hand. Without a word it brought its hand down, pointing towards the remaining forces of the battalion, all that stood between the Dagir Xethu and the open road to Ceremane.
The motion was a command, unleashing the torrent of soldiers behind it. In a frenzied rush, the Army of Death again filled the wide pass, falling with mad hatred on the remaining defenders of Valeot.
None came near Frey, who fought to stand and prepare for the coming Xethicor. He commanded every action of his body — his legs to stand firm, his arms to raise his sword and his buckler, his eyes to look upon his enemy. A white-hot fury burned within that terror so nearly paralyzed him. He sought strength from anywhere, realizing then Faerthring was silent, a worthless length of steel as dead as Ghelan.
Death and carnage reigned around Frey when his executioner finally arrived, towering over him, filling his vision. From behind he dimly heard his forces as they were being butchered. From above the screams of his remaining archers barely penetrated the muted din. All he could see, smell, and hear was the creature that somehow already laid claim to his soul. Frey's knees began to buckle, and his body ached as he fought to remain upright.
I will die standing, sword in hand. Though none will live to see it, my death will be with honor.
As with Ghelan, the Xethicor paused, this time turning its head to look beyond Frey toward the sounds of the battle. Then without a word it raised its sword again. Frey choked a strangled cough, all he could muster, as a victory cry.