Crawulf was knocked from his feet by a leaping wolf. He could smell the death and corruption from its snarling maw as it tried to bite through the arm of his mail. Thankfully he wore the armour of a jarl and the interlocked links held firm. He shoved the hound off, digging deep to find the strength before fumbling for the dagger at his belt. He then drove it hard into its skull. He was close enough to see the black trail of corrupted magic float free into the air and for the animal to drop lifeless to the ground.
Another thumped into him as he climbed to his knees and then another. As he fell he noted that two of his men were down, all of the others were surrounded by monstrous beasts, each man hard-pressed. Then the air began to crackle and shift as if a lightning bolt had hit the ground close by. He could sense the unnatural force around him. The beast on top of him howled in pain as it was engulfed in blue flame. Crawulf, acting on instinct, quickly crawled out from under the body and hauled himself to his feet. Rosinnio’s eyes blazed as white and blue flame shot from her fingertips, scorching the beasts even as they emerged from the darkness. All around them the demon-pack perished as the magical fire enveloped them.
Power Crawulf did not understand flowed from his woman’s hands, cleansing the clearing of the beasts, ceasing as abruptly as it came. Rosinnio stood at the centre of the clearing, her eyes open wide, staring at her outstretched hands.
“What…” Crawulf began.
“I don’t know,” Rosinnio answered before he’d finished the question.
The jarl took a step back. “What manner of power do you possess?”
Rosinnio continued shaking her head.
“Have you used this before?” he asked, awe and confusion filling his words.
“Once,” she answered hesitantly, glancing at Rothgar, “but not like this.”
Crawulf swung around to the big warrior. “You knew she could do this?”
He nodded his head slowly. “Aye, but like she says, not like this.”
“The horn,” Crawulf said, pointing at the bone horn of Galen. It was glowing white in her hand.
Duke Normand – Tomas: Hidden valley
A green wave rushed across the valley floor as the people of the mountain charged towards the warriors assembled in ranks facing them. Moving like a dark shadow from the far end of the gorge, were the black-robed tribesmen. Archers fired arrows at the rolling horde from behind the protection of the rows of warriors.
“There’s only one way out, back the way we came,” Malachi said as Normand surveyed the battlefield, his warrior’s mind assessing the situation. “We could make a run for it.”
“And get slaughtered,” the duke answered. “I will not run from peasants.”
“Those are not peasants.” Malachi pointed towards the advancing tribesmen.
“No,” Normand agreed. He was more than confident that his trained men would easily hold against the wild mountain-men, charging towards his flanks, but the warriors approaching from the front were a different matter. He had lined the bulk of his force to face that threat, but the numbers of mountain-men emerging, as if from thin air, was a worry.
Djangra Roe meanwhile was still on his knees, mumbling incoherently before the ring of stones as wisps of mist circled the floor of the cairn, growing steadily thicker. “Get him up! I need him,” Normand bellowed at two warriors standing over the mage, as lightning bolts struck three of his men at random.
Though used to holding a line against any odds, men suddenly began to fidget uneasily as the crackle of magic hummed over them.
“We can’t stay here,” Malachi, normally a level-headed and calm commander of men, said, his words tinged with fear.
“We have no choice.”
The first line of mountain-men reached his warriors as the clash of weapons and the cries of dying men filled the air. Normand watched, fighting a battle within to keep calm, the dark shadow of cloaked tribesmen smearing across the valley floor. Pain-filled screams of hate and rage sung out around him as his warriors held their line against the massed assault of the untrained mountain-men who threw themselves onto the naked blades arrayed against them. If only they were all we fought today, Normand thought bitterly. Dying an inglorious death in an anonymous valley had not been part of his plan that morning.
The closer the tribesmen got the faster they began to move, until they were charging at a full run at the moment of impact. They slammed into the duke’s men who fended them off with shields and cold steel. Normand stood with his Dragon Knights—held back in reserve—the banner fluttering overhead. At the far end of the valley he could see the witches, could sense the charge in the air around him each time they sent forth a surge of power striking down two and three of his men at a time with bolts materialised from out of nowhere. No wonder the king had ordered the burning of witches throughout the land, he thought bitterly. His own mage was a useless lump of gibbering mess. He was slowly beginning to realise there was a reason the lands of witches and mages were not generally invaded.
A gap appeared in the line in front of him as the black-clad tribesmen fought like demons. Several of them poured through the opening like dark blood seeping from a wound. Normand cried out and led his Dragon Knights into battle, forgetting all about magic and desires to turn back time. This was a moment to revel in, the juxtaposed emotions of joy and terror. He slammed his sword into the chest of a tribesman, feeling the blade slice into whatever reinforced leather armour he wore beneath his robe, before tearing flesh and smashing bone. Blood sprayed across his face, falling on him like rain. The metallic taste drove him on to find another foe. Wielding his sword two-handed, Normand batted away a blow from a snarling tribesman before reversing a cut across his opponent’s neck. The man slumped to the ground and Normand moved on.
In an instant the breach was closed and the duke found himself with no enemies to kill… for now. He wiped sweat and blood from his brow and eyes and reassessed the situation. If it wasn’t for those cursed witches he would have been confident his men would easily triumph. That is until another problem presented itself – the Nortmen.
On his flanks the sheer numbers of mountain-men were threatening to overwhelm his own lines, but the trained warriors fought valiantly and bodies began to pile in a heap before them. How many losses can they take before they break and run? he wondered. How much longer before the magic buzzing in the air filled his warriors with enough fear to make them break?
“My lord.” Malachi tapped him on the shoulder and then pointed to their rear.
“What next?” Normand raised his eyes towards the sky as a small group of Nortmen rushed towards them from behind their ranks.
“It is a small enough band, no more than ten.”
“I will take half the knights myself and face them. You remain here with the others and plug any more breaches.”
“My lord.” Malachi inclined his head forward.
Normand took half a score of Dragon Knights and a handful of archers and turned to face the new threat.
***
Tomas trotted along with the Nortmen as the two score raiders with dark, dead eyes followed the giant warrior Rolfgot towards the battle. The black-robed tribesmen had already begun their attack and were pressing hard against the lines of the duke’s men. He could not help but be impressed by the resolve of those men as they faced a force much larger than their own. At first he was sure the huge numbers of mountain-men would easily overwhelm them, and if not, surely they would not hold against the added weight of the tribesmen, but hold they did, and Tomas could see the mountain-men begin to waver as a small trickle of them began to break away and return to wherever they had come from. The lightly armed and armoured men of the mountain were not suited to a pitched battle with trained warriors.
Ahead of him Tomas could see the battle between the Tribesmen and the duke’s men was fought in a boiling cauldron of ferocity, as men died and fell on both sides suffering horrendous injuries. Beyond them was the circle of stones with the strange mist swirling betw
een the huge boulders. As he got closer he could see swirling designs etched into the stone shining silver as the glint of the winter sun caught the ancient runes. Kneeling before them as if in some sort of homage was the mage – the murderer of his friend.
The Shadow Mage had instructed him to follow the Nortmen and secure the duke. It was his desire to possess the duke’s body, crushing his spirit and soul from within. The very thought sent a cold feeling down Tomas’s spine. He did not envy Duke Normand. In truth he cared little for what the Shadow Mage wanted. If he wished to become a powerful lord while wearing the body of another, then so be it, but he did not like being in the presence of the unnatural group of Nortmen. He could sense the wrongness about them oozing from them, their look, their smell. They just ignored him—yet he knew they would turn on him in an instant—everything felt of death.
The Nortmen pushed their way through the rows of black-clad warriors, the tribesmen parting to let them through. Those who stood their ground were pushed aside, some trampled under the heavy boots of the sea raiders. Tomas followed. By now the mountain-men had broken and run and the duke’s men were reinforcing the line facing their more deadly attackers… facing him. Once the Nortmen reached the front, the slaughter began. They pushed through the line of defenders as if they weren’t there. Warriors who had stood their ground valiantly against tribesmen, men of the mountain and even the magic bolts rained down on them from Elandrial and Aliss, crumpled under the assault of the Nortmen. Tomas saw one man deflect an axe blow on his shield and then drive his sword into the chest of a Nortman. What should have been a killing blow had no effect and the duke’s man now lay face down in the dirt, his head almost cleaved from his shoulders.
The black-robed tribesmen now flowed around the defensive line of the duke’s men as the Nortmen assaulted the front. With the mountain-men now gone, it became one massive brawl. Tomas could see the fear in the eyes of the men he faced as they realised they were facing an enemy they could not kill. They tried to keep their shape and back away in order, but with the tribesman hemming them in where once the men of the mountain were, panic crept into their hearts.
Tomas pushed past them all. He met the eyes of one of the duke’s men and saw the terror there, more than simply the fear of dying but the horror of being tainted by the demonic foes they faced. He raised his sword, prepared to cut the man down but he turned and fled. More of his companions were doing the same now. In the distance he could see the duke’s banner as he took a small force against a much smaller group of Nortmen coming from the opposite end of the valley. He had not realised there were more of the raiders from the Pirate Isles on the field other than the company he was with. He dismissed the thought from his mind as he approached the kneeling mage.
“Djangra Roe,” he said, “you sent me on a quest to track down the dream-witch. I found her and brought her here.”
Djangra Roe slowly turned towards him. Blood streamed from his eyes like crimson tears trailing down his cheeks. “Help me,” he mouthed.
“You killed the only friend I’ve ever had in this life, the one man who mattered most to me,” Tomas said, but the mage wasn’t listening. He spotted something moving out of the corner of his eye. A shape shifted in the swirling mass of mist hemmed in by the stones.
All around him the battle raged as men died beneath the swords and axes of the Nortmen. Those smart enough to get out of the way survived… only to face the tribesmen.
Suddenly the mage’s head jerked up. Tomas jumped back into a defensive position, raising his sword, as Djangra Roe slowly climbed to his feet. The Nortmen all around him pushed past, the smell of blood and death cloying in the air around them.
The mage’s face bore a haunted expression, his eyes dark and wild as blood still streamed from the corners. “Something is coming,” he said softly.
“Why did you kill Joshan? What purpose could the death of a priest serve you?” Tomas asked ignoring the mage, too caught up in his own need for vengeance.
“We have to run!” Djangra Roe’s eyes took on a fevered look as he staggered forward.
Something shifted between the stones, a dark shape seen from the corner of his eye. Tomas turned to look closer as a formless shape shimmered in the mist. His blood turned to ice as fear took a hold of his heart. “It is the priestess. She is calling to her god.”
“No. It is something else,” the mage answered, suddenly becoming lucid, fear written all over his face. “The stones, they are a gateway, the markings are enchantments meant to keep it closed… to keep whatever is behind there out.”
“It means nothing to me,” Thomas spat the words out, although he glanced anxiously over the mage’s shoulder. “You will atone for the death of an innocent priest.” He raised his sword, ready to strike a blow before the mage escaped or had time to conjure a magical defence.
“Priest?” Djangra Roe said, puzzled. Tomas took a step closer. “Wait! I know you. The priest from the monastery? You are the blacksmith. I did not kill your friend. It was the tracker. He stabbed him in the back. The priest attacked us with magic, I was powerless. I couldn’t even move my arms.”
“And you think I will believe you. You are lying to save your life.”
“It matters not. We are all dead anyway.” Djangra Roe slumped back onto his knees.
“What do you mean?” Tomas held back the killing blow.
“Can you not feel the magic swirling in the air all around us, dark, dark magic? Someone is trying to break the seals of the gate. When they do they will unleash something that does not belong in this world.”
“Harren Suilomon,” Tomas answered. “He is aiding the priestess to call upon her god. She told me herself.”
“No, he is not. And if the dream-witch believes that the goddess Eor is going to walk from those stones then she has been duped too.”
Suddenly the mage cried out, regained his feet and lurched forward. Tomas flung up his sword, misinterpreting Djangra’s movement and the mage walked straight into the blade. Tomas stared, wide-eyed, as Djangra Roe slid from his sword. Vengeance was his, yet somehow it did not feel that way.
He turned then and ran in the opposite direction, back to where Aliss stood with Elandrial, the Witch-Queen, High Priestess of Eor.
Lady Rosinnio – Tomas: Hidden valley
Rosinnio led the small group of Nortmen down a forest trail. Crawulf had tried to persuade her to return to the ship after the attack of the wolves, but she refused. “It’s becoming too dangerous,” he had said. But they were close now. She could feel it in every part of her. The Shadow Mage knew where to find her and now that he had scented blood he would not stop. He would send more assassins, more beasts in the night. There was only one way to stop him; to face him and kill him.
She led the men through the mountain and to the crest of the valley, guided by some force she did not understand. Crawulf wondered why the gods of the north would speak to her. In truth she wondered that herself, but something had led her to the horn and now to this mountain at the opposite end of the Duchies, far away from the isles of Nortland, farther still from Sunsai.
The sound of battle carried on the wind towards them. Crawulf was shaking his head when it was reported by the man he sent to investigate. “I’ll not take you into a battle,” he said.
“But that is exactly where we must go,” she answered. “You have shown such faith in me, trusted me to take you this far, followed me when I had no right to ask. Please do not turn aside at the moment we have reached the end.”
“Men are dying down there. We all could join them if we go down.”
“Yes, we might die, but it is what we must do.”
“I’m marching towards certain death on the basis of a foolish girl’s dreams and the ravings of a mad hermit who lives in a cave.” Crawulf looked skyward. “Can you give me naught but mysticism and talk of dark magic, in order to do this?” Rosinnio just shook her head. “We’ll take a look, but that is all,” he said then.
When the
y reached the edge of the valley they looked down from their vantage point. The screams of men dying carried towards them along with the smell of blood and war. The warriors of the Duchies fought in defensive lines repelling a much larger force attacking their flanks. In the centre they were assaulted by black-robed warriors.
“Sukes,” Rosinnio gasped, recognising the garb of a nomadic tribe who roamed the plains and deserts of the southern empire.
“There! Do you see?” One of Crawulf’s men pointed towards the far end of the valley. Rosinnio looked and saw a group of Nortmen heading towards the battle.
“Is that…” Crawulf began.
“Aye – Rolfgot,” the man answered. “I recognise a few others down there too.”
Rosinnio looked mystified at them both until the man explained. “They are members of Jarl Crawulf’s brother’s crew. They disappeared many years ago and were thought lost. The big one at the front is Rolfgot, Wulfgar’s chosen man.”
“They’re alive,” Crawulf whispered in awe.
Rosinnio put a hand on his arm then and said quietly, “No, they are not alive.”
He turned towards her. “You mean they are like the wolves?”
“No, the wolves were beasts. These are… were men. Now they are soulless shades who cannot be killed by mortal weapons.” She dipped her head and continued. “Now I know why I have been drawn to this place.”
Crawulf led the way down the steep path while Rothgar helped her down the treacherous trail. Their presence was noted almost straight away as a group of red-cloaked warriors broke away from the Duchies army to face them. They formed a line while several archers made their way out. The jarl barked an order to stop and raise shields as a flight of arrows whistled through the air, they thumped into wooden shields and speared the ground around them, but none, thankfully, found a mark.
“Hold! We are not here to fight you,” Crawulf roared across the divide. He was answered with another volley of arrows.