Chapter 3
“Still think this was a good idea?” Hadrenn kicked over a charred corpse which had been leaning against a burnt out wagon.
Bodies, some charred others having suffered obvious combat wounds along with the burnt remains of the encampment littered the cratered landscape. The snow so thick in the region after the last two nights of storms was nowhere to be found in or around the camp. Ash and smoke swirled around greatly limiting their vision as a light breeze persistently blew about the area fanning embers and causing new fires to flare up.
It had taken the party just over a day and a half to reach the enemy camp, the sun already low in the western sky. They were tired and hungry, but urgency drove them to ride through without rest, drinking and snacking on dried meats as they rode. The last few miles had to be tread cautiously as they had no idea what they would find.
“Never said it was,” Dredrik replied as he squatted down near a body to examine its wounds. “This one was killed by one of his own. The arrows in his body are identical to the ones in their own archers’ quivers.”
“Aye and there are no clear battle lines,” Wikkid added. “Looks like warrior turned upon warrior, must have been some melee by the looks of it.”
“Dredrik,” Eertu called out from his search. “Over here, I’ve found Uldred.”
Unable to see Eertu through the smoke Dredrik hurried toward the voice. The extra exertion forcing him to breathe more of the polluted air causing him to go into a coughing fit by the time he found Eertu.
The warlock stood before a post driven into the ground, the body tied to it was wearing the unmistakable armor of King Argile’s personal guard. The front of the armor had been ripped open, jagged edges protruding inward and the man gutted. Dredrik could not imagine the force it took to rend the heavy armor like that, but by the expression frozen on Uldred’s face he was probably alive when it happened.
Dredrik forced himself to examine the mutilated body of his friend further. “This was recent, maybe less than two or three hours, long after the slaughter that happened here. It is a good bet we are not alone out here. As thick as this air is a person could remain invisible no more than thirty paces away.”
With his own words ringing in his ears Dredrik’s eyes began darting about fearing that Eertu’s call had alerted who or whatever had defiled Uldred to their presence. “Let’s regroup with the others, we need to stay within sight of one another and keep quiet.”
“I’ve got a live one here!” Hadrenn’s voice rang out.
Eertu and Dredrik both cringed, eyes and ears concentrated on their surroundings. If their presence had gone unnoticed thus far, whatever surprise they had was gone now. Footsteps crunched nearby in the direction of Hadrenn’s yell. Dredrik motioned for Eertu to follow quietly.
Hadrenn swore as he turned the soldier onto its back after having literally tripped over the person causing a moan from what he thought was another corpse. Quickly he removed the soldier’s helmet to reveal a beautiful face framed by long wavy red hair. He put his ear near the young woman’s face to listen and feel for breathing then cried out, “I’ve got a live one here!” A quick examination found multiple cuts and gashes through her leathers and into her body, her quiver was empty and the blade she still held in her right hand bloodied. Whoever she was she went down fighting and by the arrangement of the bodies around her had taken a great many of her attackers down before being rendered unconscious. He picked up the helmet and found a dent in the back, probably from a hammer. He tossed down the steel cap and found a matching bump on the back of the woman’s head.
Looking around he found a tabard torn off of some pour soul within arm’s reach and began cutting it into strips to use as bandages. No sooner had he began unbuckling her cuirass the woman’s eyes popped open.
“No!” she tried to scream but her voice came out hoarsely. Her right arm shot up, the small dagger still in hand stabbing toward Hadrenn’s face.
Startled Hadrenn and let out a surprised scream as instincts honed by many battles kicked in. He barely managed to block her weak strike then punched her in the forehead with his right fist knocking her once again unconscious.
“Um, crap,” he mumbled to himself. “That’s not gonna help you any.” He sighed, shrugged then continued to remover the chest piece when he heard footsteps in front of him. “She’s pretty banged up but I think she’ll be fine. She’s got a couple of bumps, one on the back of the head, and one on her forehead.”
He looked up expecting to find one of his mates only to find a huge plate armor clad figure with a horned helmet standing over him. A huge two handed axe was raised over the warriors head ready to strike. He tried to jump back out of range but even then he knew it was too late as the great axe fell toward him.
Dredrik let out a ferocious battle cry as he threw out his shield arm deflecting the blow that would surely have cleaved Hadrenn’s head in two. The impact of the axe against his shield jarred his entire body as the blow was redirected. However the momentum forced Dredrik to spin around smashing his shield into Hadrenn knocking the man on his backside. Quickly Dredrik regained his footing just in time to parry a second blow with his long sword. The hulking warrior swung the great axe with a speed and agility of a man possessed. It took the effort of both shield and blade to fend off the flurry of attacks the unknown assailant delivered.
Finally he managed to deflect a powerfully delivered glancing blow with his shield allowing him to spin to the side. As the over powered strike carried the warrior off balance Dredrik reversed the grip on his sword driving the blade through the unarmored gap beneath his attackers left arm pit forcing his blade through ribs into his opponents heart.
Even as the first warrior fell Dredrik found himself facing another wearing chain mail wielding a short sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Before the man could strike a ball of white hot energy struck him in the back. The man screamed then collapsed to the ground mid stride. Dredrik nodded thanks to Eertu while scanning for another target.
A slight figure wearing a tattered kilt, no top, a necklace of bone, head shaven faced him hands aglow with magical energies took aim at Dredrik. Dredrik looked for cover but none existed. Magical energies leapt from the shaman’s hands striking Dredrik full in the chest. Pain encompassed all as he felt himself lifted and thrown back to the ground with a bone crushing jolt.
Eertu summoned his next spell, his own energies building up for release. The shaman faced Eertu and opened his mouth wide. Eertu’s head spun out of control, dizziness and nausea gripping him as it had in King Argile’s camp as a blood curdling noise bellowed forth followed by a flash of light similar to the one observed the night before which emanated from the casters eyes.
Eertu found himself paralyzed by the sensations running through his body. Dredrik lay unmoving on the ground. Hadrenn was back on his feet yet too far away to deal with the shaman. Eertu knew he had to fight through for the sake of them all but was then hit with a feeling of despair then thoughts of turning his powers against his comrades began to force their way into his mind. Desperately he fought these feelings, his resistance eroding quickly when from the corner of his eye he saw a blur of motion.
Wikkid had heard Hadrenn’s call and abandoned his own search to lend aid. As he drew near Dredrik’s warcry rang out, the familiar sound of steel upon steel echoed through the smoke. Franticly he raced toward the battle unslinging his axe, legs carrying him as quickly as they could. After what felt like an eternity he was close enough to see through the haze. Dredrik was down, Eertu on his knees, Hadrenn up but wobbly. Two more warriors appeared from the smoke, these clad in a mix of fur and leather. Both men were larger than even Hadrenn bearing large war hammers. Those Wikkid ignored, the shaman was the more immediate threat.
Fixing his gaze upon the shaman he could see the magic wielder was taking aim on Hadrenn. Tendrils of energy began to stream from the shamans hands as weaved the intricate hand gestures needed for casting. Desperately h
e closed the gap in one huge leap swinging his axe down from high above his head. The shaman’s head split like a melon as the axe drove deep into the man’s torso.
He glanced around in time to see Hadrenn, claymore in hand, putting all his might into a wide swing parrying a deadly war hammer strike. Hadrenn used the momentum of his powerful swing to carry his mighty weapon around into a counter attack which caught his assailant at the waist separating torso from hips in a spray of blood and gore.
Eertu’s entire body shivered. Whatever power that had come over him was now gone. His senses returned the foreign thoughts that had forced their way into his mind now pushed aside. Released from his torment he looked for somebody to take his anger out on. One remaining warrior stood over Dredrik. The hulking man swung his hammer in a powerful downward stroke. Somehow Dredrik was able to bring his shield up just in time to deflect the deadly blow.
Eertu knew he had to act fast as he began chanting and making patterns in the air with his hands. Bolts of pure energy shot from Eertu’s fingertips fueled by hate, anger, and frustration striking the warrior in mid swing. There was a primal howl of pain as the warrior’s flesh disintegrated from existence. The warriors clothing hung in the air for a split second then fell as gravity took over, the massive hammer bouncing harmlessly off the ground near Dredrik’s head.
Dredrik screamed, his chest felt like it was on fire. He glanced at his chest to find the chest plate glowing red hot were the blunt of the shaman’s attack had struck. Franticly he cast his shield aside and began grasping for the buckles but his gauntleted hands unable to find purchase. The pain was becoming unbearable, his mind close to panic.
Wikkid raced to Dredrik’s side. “Hold still,” he said releasing the straps then removing the steel cuirass and tossing the front piece away. Wikkid used his dagger to cut open Dredrik’s jerkin then pealed it open.
Dredrik groaned through clenched teeth as skin pulled away with the leather in the most burned area of his chest.
Eertu joined them, took one look at Dredrik’s burns and began rummaging through his pouch until he pulled out a glass container. Dredrik could feel the pain subsiding as Eertu applied the ointment. “This will help until we can get you to a healer, until then there is not much I can do. I know that spell, and you should be dead.”
“Death would hurt far less,” Dredrik said as he reached his hand toward Eertu. “Help me up.” Eertu grasped his wrist and pulled him to his feet. Despite himself Dredrik moaned again. “We’ve got to get out of here, out of this smoke. Hadrenn, is that survivor still alive?”
“Yes, was about to bandage her up when I got jumped.”
“Her?” both Eertu and Dredrik questioned. It was not uncommon for women to serve as soldiers in the tribes, but in the major armies it was usually not allowed. However there were always exceptions.
“It will have to wait till we are clear of here,” Dredrik said. “Somebody will come looking for these five soon.”
Quickly and quietly the party built a makeshift stretcher. Wikkid and Hadrenn bore the stretcher while Eertu stuck close to Dredrik carrying his shield and sword expecting him to collapse at any moment. Stubbornly Dredrik drug his charred and abused cuirass by the buckles refusing to leave behind any part of the armor that had once belonged to his father.
After some time they made it back to their horses, set up the stretcher to pull behind Eertu’s horse then made their way to the top of a hillside a couple of miles away that overlooked the valley which Duke Harriman’s last stronghold sat just as dusk was setting in. What they saw none of them had expected. The mighty fortress city was under siege on all sides. It was hard to make out any real details in the low light but the size of the host pressing toward the walls was great.
“I wonder what they are waiting for,” Hadrenn thought out loud. “They are just standing there.”
“I do not see any siege engines,” Wikkid added. Even with those numbers those stone walls will be impenetrable.”
“Eertu,” Dredrik said as he sat down leaning back against a tall oak. “Think you can get a better look?”
“Maybe,” Eertu replied, “if they are not using wards against such magic.”
Eertu sat on the ground legs crossed and began chanting quietly. He reached out, first touching the minds of lower orders jumping in and out of the minds of common troops seeing what there was to see from each individual’s eyes until he made contact with a mind close to a raised platform set up directly in line with the fortress’s main gate. There were no walls, only four support pillars and a cloth roof under which stood a sorcerer of incredible power in elaborate robes, a silver staff held tightly in his right hand. Eertu was sure this man was the source of the great presence he had felt the other night. Around the sorcerer stood four shaman garbed similarly to the one they had fought earlier.
Directly behind the platform was a tent. A strong consciousness emanated from the tent as if many minds were linked as one. Eertu wanted to explore further but mindsight required visual contact. He could jump from a mind into the tent, but he could not control an individual into moving to a better vantage point.
In front of the covered platform stood two imposing warriors, the first was a large man in solid black plate elaborately decorated with glyphs of silver that Eertu did not recognize. Judging by the warrior’s aura he was not a man to be trifled with. The second warrior wore shining mail armor. When he spoke others around him reacted immediately.
Taking one last look through the eyes of his host the number of magic wielders hit him. In this one army was more magically gifted souls than existed in all Eebrook. Also a second revelation hit him, one of great importance. Starting to feel his hold over the current mind fade returned to his own.
“There are many people of note down there,” Eertu said. “I sensed a lot of magic and powerful auras. There could be as many as a hundred casters.”
“That’s not good,” Wikkid said, “a handful can take out an army, hundreds would be nearly invincible.”
“There is one more disturbing note. Many of the soldiers in the sieging army bore the emblems of service to Duke Harriman. I could not tell if there was any controlling presence driving them, but in our encounter earlier the shaman had managed to place suggestions into my mind bidding me to turn against you all. But there being so many, I cannot imagine enough directed magic to keep such numbers under control.”
Wikkid pulled out a chunk of dried meat from his pack and tore off a good bite with his teeth. “Fits with what we’ve found in the camp, soldiers falling upon each other. If this is some of the tings Argile saw in his visions, then it’s no wonder he started sending troops away.”
A barely audible chant began in the distance, words no one in the party could understand. The chant grew in volume and vigor, slowly at first then at a much greater pace until the sky turned to a glowing green above the fortress. With the sound of rolling thunder fiery balls of light fell from the sky raining down upon the fortress. Walls exploded, gates shattered, roofs collapsed. The chant exploded into a loud cheer.
Even from their vantage point nearly a mile away they could see the gaping holes punched into the once impregnable walls. Dredrik was just about to suggest they leave when the banners of King Argile crested the western ridge. The last rays of daylights glistened off of Argile’s cavalry as darkness closed in.
King Argile was the first over the ridge, his body ached, thirst and hunger taking their toll but there was no time to regroup. ‘This is how it has to be,’ he thought to himself. In his visions he had seen one chance to end this nightmare before it could truly begin. The legions from his dreams were now distracted, the bulk of its forces pouring into the city leaving the leaders lightly defended. Surprise and speed were their only hope now.
Argile drew his sword raising it above his head as a signal to the host of riders. As planned the faster riders rode forward lances at the ready forming a fighting wedge, a spearhead to thrust into the enemies relatively unpro
tected flanks. He had no illusions of living through the battle but knew in his heart that this was his one true fate.
Even as the formation charged recklessly down the hillside the enemies’ rear guard began forming a defensive line. Archer’s readied their bows waiting for his cavalry to reach their kill zone.
“Mages!” one of Argile’s own mages cried out. “Many of them, we must close the distance!”
“Ride hard men!” Argile prompted as he spurred his own steed. The men responded with a war cry that started near the king and spread throughout the formation like a shockwave.
In response the enemy archers loosed their first salvo, their deadly projectiles arching across the battlefield finding targets with deadly accuracy. Men cried out falling from mounts, horses collapsed onto the frozen turf tripping others behind them. Still the charge sped along chewing up the distance between the two armies until at last the two sides collided. Cavalry lances tore into the few dozen infantrymen that had formed up to protect the ranks of archers. Archers turned and fled only to be ridden down from behind by the Kings men.
Finally Argile could see his target and hope began to swell within his chest. If they could reach the sorcerer upon the platform perhaps the doom he had foreseen could be averted. Without the powers of that one man Eebrook’s remaining forces stood on equal footing with the invaders.
Even as Argile’s thoughts steered toward victory the sky lit up once again as fire fell from the heavens. The ensuing barrage made the archers merely prelude to the destruction now wrought upon his men. Beast and man alike exploded as death rained down. Many lucky enough to avoid the impacts were set ablaze as the ground near them erupted lighting up the men as if they had been soaked in oil and set to flame.
Still they rode on, the few riders that remained now had their eyes firmly fixed upon their objective. Crossbowmen near the platform loosed their bolts into the remaining cavalry men. Only Argile himself survived. Deftly plucking a spear from his saddle holster he readied his throw guided by years of practice and hurled his weapon with all is might. The spear flew straight and true, its intended victim with no time to move. Abruptly the spear stopped midflight then fell harmlessly bouncing of the platforms wooden floor mere inches from the sorcerer.
Argile’s heart sank, his one hope lost. All his thoughts went to his family, his kingdom, and the despair they would all soon endure. But he did not give up. Sword now in hand he urged his warhorse to jump upon the platform determined to take the sorcerer’s head at all cost. As the horse reached the apex of its jump he found himself plucked into the air, the canvas roof of the platform blew off as if caught by gale force winds. His mount flew backwards off the platform as if struck by a battering ram.
Helplessly suspended midair Argile could do nothing but watch as the evil from his visions stalked toward him. His sword was still in hand but try as he might he could not move. The smug smile on the man’s face sickened him deeply on many indescribable levels.
“Your highness,” the man stated in a regal voice not at all like Argile had expected. Mockingly the sorcerer bowed then reached down and hefted Argile’s spear from the platform then pressed the tip against Argile’s face. “So close,” the man said in a condescending tone.
Argile starred back at the sorcerer wishing he could at least manage some last act of defiance but the immobility of the field robbed him of even that. The sorcerer now starred directly into his eyes causing Argile’s mind to explode with pain. He desperately wanted to cry out but no sound would come. As quickly as the intrusion came the pain subsided leaving him with a deep throbbing headache.
“Thank you,” the sorcerer simply stated. Then in one swift motion thrust Argile’s own spear through his throat. “That was all I needed.”
King Shamus Argile never fell even as he suffocated on his own blood. The field suspending the king collapsed in upon itself vanishing along with the king’s body.
Lord Ecinta Merca ignored the dying king as he walked away from the platform. The old warrior had given up all he knew to the mind probe so easily. Pity, the man had fought so hard to get within striking distance only to die by the hands of the one he had sought to destroy. The memories he had just absorbed began playing through his mind. Childhood, training, love, hate, strife, emotions always came through first. The actual memories would come in time. The sounds of fighting continued to carry out of the city but the outcome of the battle was not in doubt. Mareth and Lord General Kuzzak would see to the duke. His job in the siege had already been accomplished. For now it was time to retire to his tent and shift through his newly acquired memories for his next step.