Vardille walked down the street. The Crownguard on the bench spotted him, she followed his steps along with her gaze. When the man got closer, the woman finally recognised him, and she sprang to her feet.
‘Captain!’
Jelyn flew into his captain’s arms. Their hug was tight, strong, but quick. Jelyn stepped away, her face shone with relief and joy.
‘It’s good to see you, Jelyn.’
‘It’s fucking good to see you, Captain!’ Jelyn exclaimed, then blushed immediately. ‘Pardon me for my language.’
Vardille laughed wholeheartedly. ‘You’re excused.’
Jelyn lowered her voice. ‘And the King?’
‘Can we talk somewhere?’
Jelyn, second captain of the Crownguard, nodded and turned around to lead Vardille inside the house.
Before stepping through the threshold, Vardille took a glance back at the square. He watched helplessly as a tall, auburn haired woman in plain clothes stormed across the square, heading to the gate, a sheathed sword in hand.
Had there been enough time for self-reflection, he would have tried to examine what he felt. Lacking that, he could only swallow as the storm of clinging feelings gripped his soul.
The Pebbles household looked compact, tidy, cozy. The main room he got into apparently functioned as a hall, living room, and kitchen at the same time. Shelves were stuffed with spices and vegetables, the long wooden table against the opposite wall were settling under the many pots, bowls, and dishes. Above the firepit in the middle, fish was frying on skewers. Hides covered the floor, small stools stood scattered across the room. It did not look like a household that had been abandoned a day before.
Jelyn kicked her boots off and pulled a stool closer for Vardille. She dropped down on the hides, legs crossed, when two Crownguard stepped into the room from a side opening, covered by thick curtains.
‘Captain!’
Vardille bowed his head. Analyn and Gradhe, both extremely smart and reliable Crownguard. The captain waited a moment longer before mumbling, ‘Is this … are you … where are the others?’
Jelyn shook her head slowly.
‘Marcya, Unghar, Pilla, and Dyan are lost. We presume them dead. Tried to look for them, but our efforts were in vain. The others died inside the mountain.’
Vardille nodded again in acknowledgement. The nature of his profession demanded not to be friends with his subordinates, but each name evoked pain in his chest. He knew each and every Crownguard of the Royal Castle. It felt like losing family members.
Don’t fool yourself. It’s much worse than that.
He cleared his throat. ‘King Bryne is alive. He is unconscious, has been since that dreadful night.’
‘Where’s he?’
‘In good hands,’ he said, hoping his voice remained calm and smooth. ‘We managed to find a Velardhari band not so far from—’
‘A what?’ Analyn hissed. ‘Captain, you left the king at the mercy of Velardhari dogs?’
‘Listen to me,’ Vardille lifted his hand. ‘They are forthright people. We have no reason to think they are here on the rebels’ bidding.’
‘I don’t give a—’ Analyn started, fists clenched, but Jelyn interrupted.
‘Do they … know it’s Bryne?’
‘No.’ Vardille felt guilty when Jelyn’s face also displayed faint traces of discontent. He had expected the rebuke from Analyn, her being from Northern Andoriel meant she had faced the Velardhari many times before she came to Amrith. ‘I’m not a fool. I tried to cover as much of our stories as I could. But they are not fools either.’
‘Are they holding you hostage?’ Gradhe asked, his brow furrowed. ‘What do they want here? Why are they here?’
‘Their chief told me they are envoys and want to speak with the king.’ To prevent Analyn’s next outburst, the captain quickly continued. ‘Whose name they do not know, nor where he is. Trust me. We are helping each other. One of them aided me with healing Bryne.’
‘Helping each other?’ Analyn spat. ‘How do we hope to help these barbarous rats? By letting them into our homes, our land, beckoning them to raid our villages, kill our brothers and rape our sisters?’
‘They are not a conquering force. Their numbers count less than fifty. I intend to lead them to Grospan, where they can have an official audition with the king. I’m no madman. I won’t reveal his identity until I have him surrounded by allies.’
‘You are Captain of the Crownguard,’ stated Gradhe, serious. ‘You did not get the title out of whims. I trust your reason, and hence will follow you anywhere.’
‘As will I,’ hurried Jelyn to join his companion. Analyn was torn, her face distorted by anger and despair.
‘I understand your hesitance, Ana,’ Vardille leant towards her. ‘I truly do. But these people are nothing like what they say about the Velardhari.’
‘You’ve been with them for two days, three, perhaps,’ Analyn whispered. ‘I’ve seen what they are capable of. I saw the destruction in their wake in Andoriel.’
Several moments passed. No one disrupted Analyn’s silent struggle within herself.
‘I cannot promise anything. But if duty calls, I’ll answer. My primary aim is to save Bryne. If they leave us be, I’m not going to make a scene either.’
‘Can’t we simply leave with King Bryne?’ asked Gradhe tentatively. ‘I will carry him if need be.’
‘Believe me, I had thought of this option,’ Vardille rubbed his temples. ‘It’s safer to travel in large numbers. The four of us cannot stand a chance against Amrith’s vermin. Not with an unconscious king. Besides,’ he finally sat on the stool, ‘we do not want to let a Velardhari band roam the land unsupervised, do we?’
Analyn sceptically grunted and went to the long table to loudly fuss with the dishes.
‘I must admit I’m also nervous to see the Velardhari here,’ Jelyn said, keeping a hushed voice. ‘But I also must admit, the Roses of Andoriel caught me off guard in the cavern.’
Vardille grew careworn in an instant.
‘They are a mystery for another day, I’m afraid. I don’t want to consider the meaning of Andoriel siding with the rebels, plotting against us.’
‘Sooner or later—’
‘I’d be most glad if it was sooner. But now, our primary aim, as Analyn pointed out, is to save Bryne and accompany him to the capital.’
‘What’s the plan then?’ Gradhe asked.
‘We stay for the night with the band. Tomorrow, we march with anyone who would like to join us and leave Greenfall. That mountain is unpredictable.’
‘Tell us about this band,’ Jelyn said.
‘There isn’t much to tell, really. Talking about looks, they are the typical northern warriors you’d imagine. Their skin is pale, their hair mostly blonde or red.’ Vardille paused for a moment. ‘Will you join us? Bryne and me?’
‘We will. That’s what we’ve just told you. We are Crownguard, it’s our obligation not to let down our king.’
‘Very well. Then there are three names you might want to remember. Draggan is something like Jelyn, a second captain or chief to them. A tall, bearded, redhead man, he strikes me as a true soldier, be it Velardhari, Andorieli, or any other ethnicity. It might be wise to … avoid him. Idamin is their sorcerer. They call her Herald, but she really is a sorcerer.’
‘She can use gemstones, then.’
‘Yes. She can be oblivious at times, but don’t let that deceive you! She is extremely clever and wise.’
‘And the third?’
‘Mjelgralah. She’s—’
‘Bless you, captain.’
Vardille grinned. ‘That’s her name. Mjelgralah. She’s the chief of this band. Defiant, stubborn, but has a strong spirit. Don’t cross her ways! She can be … a bit temperamental.’
‘Don’t cross any of them lest you get an axe between your eyes,’ Analyn said gloomily, bringing a plate and some cups. ‘Tea.’
‘Thank you, Ana. Hey … I assure you, no Velardhari will trespass our law here in Amrith, not under my watch. Do you believe me?’
‘I believe you will do whatever you can, captain. I only pray it would be enough.’
‘What happened inside the mountain?’
Vardille took a cup, then dwelt deep into his thoughts, not paying attention to the low chatter of the three Crownguard.
Mjelgralah left the town. He clung to the hope that she only went for the band, to take them inside. He was glad beyond words that he found the remaining Crownguard well and alive, and at the same time, he felt great sorrow for losing the others.
He started to think about possible ways to explain Mjelgralah his connection with the Crownguard.
Perhaps I shall start with explaining my connection to the Order.
The thought came to his mind uninvited, posing a dark cloud on his mind.
Perhaps she did not check the sword.
A futile attempt to calm the storm within him. He knew why Mjelgralah left the inn in a haste. He could only hope that he piqued the young woman’s interest enough so that she would return with the others.
With Bryne.
A sudden urge to laugh washed over him. He left the King of Amrith at the mercy of a notoriously barbaric warlike group of strangers. It may be that Bryne was not the only one losing his mind.
He took a sip from the cup, then joined the conversation, silently struggling to smother the growing cloud of doubt in his soul.
----------------------------------------
Vardille spent the better part of the day in the Pebbles household. When dusk approached, he stood and embraced all his companions tightly.
‘Why are you leaving?’ Jelyn asked. ‘You could bring Bryne here. We don’t have much space, but—’
‘Please. I am staying in the inn with them. I still need to explain them somehow that we are to have the support of the Crownguard.’
‘We shouldn’t call you captain in front of them, should we?’ grinned Gradhe.
‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t. We leave Greenfall tomorrow. Be at the square an hour after dawn breaks.’
‘Aye, captain.’
Vardille quickly left the building and headed to the inn. He did not regret spending the whole day with his companions, but now fear froze his soul. Bryne’s condition had still been dire.
He could not explain why he chose to be with the band. Mjelgralah would probably have approved him and Bryne sleeping at the Crownguard. Ana was right, he had spent only two days with them, they were not bound by companionship, not anything.
He shook his head. He had been overthinking too much as of late. In three Moons he would turn thirty, he struggled in great ordeals throughout his years and always came out victorious, and yet, such a trifling matter would keep him at the edge. With a resigning sigh, he blamed the quick series of unfortunate events, peaking with the confrontation of Anru Stormwalker.
As sunset was drawing near, more and more people turned up at the inn. The porch was crawling with customers—many locals sat around the tables, but several Velardhari were there, too. Vardille let out a sigh of relief. The locals seemed unbothered by the northerners’ presence, though some of them was glancing at them warily when they burst out in laughter.
When he saw that neither Mjelgralah nor Idamin sat among the northerners, Vardille went inside.
The clamour of cheerful shouts and tankards hitting the tables rushed over Vardille. Someone was playing the flute, but whatever song they attempted to play, the crowd clearly failed to recognise; their singing was completely off-key and did not follow the rhythm. Vardille caught a glimpse of the innkeeper, smiling wildly, willingly nodding to three Velardhari who asked for another round. Farther away, several town guards were playing cards at a small table, occasionally looking around, but never stood to interrupt the northerners.
Vardille blinked and scanned the crowd for Mjelgralah and Idamin. He immediately felt uneasy, discomfort flooded him with familiar intensity. He had always avoided balls, gatherings, and celebrations for he had never liked crowds. He decided he would withdraw to his room right after he spoke with the chief.
Mjelgralah sat by a table alone in one of the corners. A couple of her companions lingered around there, but they were standing, singing, with one hand on their friend’s shoulders and tankard in the other. Vardille slowly walked up to the bench and slid next to the girl.
‘I see trade’s been successful,’ he said quietly. Mjelgralah did not even look at him, her eyes were fixed on her tankard. It seemed untouched.
‘Didn’t have much to trade. But turns out, silver pays here just as much as thousands of miles up north.’
‘I presume there were no difficulties in getting everyone here?’
‘You presumed right.’
‘Where’s my companion? Sallan?’
‘In your room. Upper floor. Left corridor, second door from the stairs, next to ours.’
‘What about Idamin?’
‘Dancing. What do you care?’
Vardille pressed his lips in bitterness. ‘I see you are not in the mood to talk.’
‘How so perceptive of you. What of the bodyguards? Your friends?’
‘They will join us tomorrow. I—’
‘Good. The more the merrier.’
Mjelgralah’s voice sounded plain, monotonous, devoid of feelings.
‘I shall look for my room,’ Vardille sighed and rose from the bench.
‘You shall.’ She reached into her pocket and pulled a single key. She handed it to Vardille without a word.
‘May I … ask about the sword?’
Mjelgralah’s head snapped, her eyes narrowed.
‘You mean your sword?’
‘Will you give it back?’
The girl answered without hesitation.
‘No, vinedresser. That sword is invaluable. It’s fortunate that you gave it to me because there are people in the world who would murder to have it. It would only bring you misfortune.’
She glared at him askance. Vardille put up his mask of indifference, trying to extinguish his sense of guilt. He refused to engage in the fight Mjelgralah was setting up.
‘I understand.’ That was all he said, then turned away to leave. At the other side of the table, he stopped for a moment, whispering ‘I’m sorry.’ He could not be sure whether Mjelgralah heard the words; she continued to stare at her tankard. Vardille left the hall, looked for the staircase, and went to the upper floor, turned left, and stopped at the second door. He unlocked it and quietly stepped inside.
It was small and narrow; he could reach the window across the room with three long steps. Below the sill an unadorned table lay, and against the walls two beds opposite each other, like berths on a ship. One of them was occupied by the unconscious Bryne Khryssalan.
Vardille breathed in and slumped onto his bed. A small package in a linen satchel bag waited for him on the pillows. He pried it open, only to see a white shirt and a pair of pants inside. He was grateful to whomever who had placed it there, yet looking at his armour, he knew he would not take it off for the night. Too many straps.
He put the bag under the bed and glimpsed through the window. Darkness crept inside Greenfall. Town guards were lighting a handful of torches along the street, while muffled sounds of a joyous racket seeped into the room from the porch below.
Time seemed to stand still for a moment.
‘I envy them,’ he said quietly. Whether he talked to Bryne or to himself, he would not know. ‘I envy their innocence. Their buoyancy. That they are unfettered, that the chains of their past don’t restrain them from reaching their future.’
Funny how we admit our fears to the tranquil silence of darkness knowing it won’t judge, yearning for its condolence.
He locked these thoughts to the recess of his mind, then lay onto the bed, and closed his eyes, hoping for a dreamless, unconscious sleep.
----------------------------------------
It was an urge. A nagging little feeling in the back of his head. Like a myriad times before, his body woke him up, signalled the wrongness that were lurking somewhere. Close.
Vardille opened his eyes. He lay in the same position he fell asleep, but immediately sat up when the silvery light of the moon fell to Bryne, sitting, leaning towards the window.
‘Sire!’ Bryne flicked her eyes to the guard captain but remained silent. ‘How do you feel?’
‘I will survive,’ Bryne whispered. His eyes glinted normally; no sinister colours dwelt there. He stroked his white beard and grunted thoughtfully. ‘But there are more urgent matters now. Where are the girls?’
‘The girls?’ Vardille asked, puzzled.
‘You wouldn’t believe how much I heard while I was lying unconsciously. Where are they?’
‘I believe somewhere close by.’
‘We will continue to play our parts for now. You will tell me everything once we are on the move. Where are we?’
‘In Greenfall, it’s still in the vicinity of the Ghatra.’ On the move?
‘Too close, still too close,’ Bryne muttered ominously.
‘What’s wrong, Sire?’
‘Stop this sire-shit and call me by my name if there’s no one here. Damn you, we’ve been through a lot together!’
Vardille coughed politely.
‘Speaking of which, by what name did you introduce me?’
‘Sallan.’
‘You have no imagination, Vardille,’ the king shook his head, then grew careworn. ‘Trouble is on its way. We ought to wake the others.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I feel her, my friend. For some twisted reason, we feel each other.’
‘Whom?’
Bryne looked him in the eye in the dim light.
‘Amrith.’
A shriek shook the walls, followed by the clamour of confused hollering outside. Vardille jumped to his feet. Looking out the window, he saw orange light glowing in the direction of the gate.
‘And so we are late,’ Bryne whispered.
Vardille left the room, stepped to the door next to it, and was going to knock without hesitation when it flew off and a fully dressed, slightly annoyed Mjelgralah appeared in the doorway.
‘Did you hear it?’ she lifted a brow.
‘I did.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Trouble.’
Other doors opened through the hallway, and befuddled weary northerners peeked into their direction.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Mjel snapped at them. The muffled screams and low rumble crept their way into the inn from somewhere distant. ‘Dress and head to the square!’
‘By when?’ a drowsy voice asked.
‘Gods fuck you, by yesterday!’
‘You must be Mjelgralah.’ Bryne followed Vardille to the hallway, nodding to the tall girl.
‘I see your companion’s woken,’ Mjelgralah murmured.
‘She means we are glad to see you alive,’ grinned Idamin and slipped out beside her chief.
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‘And you must be Idamin,’ Bryne bowed his head again. ‘I’m glad to be alive. Thank you for keeping me that way while I was … resting.’
Idamin briefly nodded and turned to her chief.
‘Someone’s meddling with the essence.’
Vardille snapped his head at that, Bryne was listening with curiosity.
‘Anything to say, vinedresser?’ Mjelgralah asked, squinting at the captain.
‘What? I’m right here! How could I—’
Sounds of metallic bells resounded through the town. The band’s warriors soon got out to the hallway one by one and headed downstairs. Mjelgralah quickly stepped into their room, then returned with a sword in her hand.
‘You said trouble. What kind?’
‘The worst,’ Bryne answered morosely. ‘Fleeing could have been an option, fighting never was.’
‘The North has borne us, don’t you fret. It’s yours, vinedresser.’ The girl handed the sword to Vardille. ‘I expect you can use it.’
Bryne quietly snorted. Vardille immediately buckled up the swordbelt, nodded, then followed Mjelgralah downstairs.
‘What was that scream?’ she asked.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Vardille shook his head. ‘I haven’t heard any beast shrieking like that before.’
‘You couldn’t, for there has been no beasts like that before.’ Bryne turned to the chief. ‘May I ask for a weapon of some sort?’
‘Are you a vinedresser, too?’
‘A marquis, in fact.’
‘Damn you both,’ Mjelgralah sighed. ‘Find Draggan, he’ll provide you with something. Shouldn’t you rest, though? Spare yourself from the fight?’
‘I have been resting for long days, Chief. I must answer the call.’
‘So be it. Vinedresser, find those guard-friends of yours. They need to aid us in … whatever the frozen twilight is happening.’
Panic reigned in the dining hall. Locals were shivering all over the place, cluttered the room in small groups, helplessness evident in their gestures, in their incoherent racket. Mjelgralah elbowed her way through, but before stepping out of the front door, Bryne put a hand on Vardille’s arms.
‘There’s no way we can fight our way through this,’ he said in a hushed voice.
‘We don’t even know what this is,’ the captain argued.
‘Go there, buy me time, and I’ll get the townsfolk out of here.’
‘Judging by the sounds, fight has already broken out. You can’t escort everyone to safety. Even if you could, how do you expect to keep them that way? If an army is coming at us, we can’t stop them with a handful of northerners. Go alone, the kingdom needs you. We will slow these down.’
‘And die in the process, protecting what?’
‘If need be, yes! Amrith needs you! The kingdom needs its king!’
‘Amrith needs many things but I’m not one of them,’ Bryne frowned. ‘As King I’m responsible for my subjects, I won’t let them down. Do what you can, and then follow us!’
‘You are responsible for the kingdom! Save thousands, not dozens!’
‘Your trust has ever been strong. Why is it waning right now?’
Vardille took a deep breath.
‘Do what you see fit. I can’t promise anything.’
‘Don’t you dare die.’
Vardille dashed to the square, down from the porch with one great leap, leaving Bryne with the masses. The square was crawling with the Velardhari, along with several town guards and many citizens. Vardille watched as the alderman tried to mollify the crowd without much effect. He raced to him, past Mjelgralah and her suspiciously indifferent gaze.
‘Sir,’ Vardille began. The stocky man immediately turned to him.
‘It’s rather curious to me, my friend, that a band of northerners come to my city and then chaos breaks lose the same evening.’
‘You know your assumption is wrong, you only want someone to blame. That’s fine, blame me if you need to, but get these people out of here in an instant, because I fear, as you yourself put it, chaos is soon to break lose.’
‘Do you know what’s happening?’
‘Nothing good, man. Get to the inn, look for a tall man with white beard. He’s going to help you get your people to safety.’
‘And you?’
‘We’ll manage.’
Time dragged painfully slow as the alderman struggled to get the people’s attention to then lead them to the inn. Bryne walked out of the building in front of the mass, quickly shepherding the townsfolk down the road, behind the dwelling. They exchanged a couple of words with the alderman, then Bryne swiftly ran up to Idamin.
‘Why exactly are we not joining them?’ whispered Mjelgralah to Vardille. The man did not even realise she walked up to him, but the captain was denied the chance to answer when a cry for battle resounded across the square and several soldiers, clad in red scale armour, charged towards them from the eastern street.
‘We are to, once we can!’ Vardille shouted as his sword flew to his hand, and he rushed to the shieldwall the Velardhari immediately formed upon seeing the enemy. Mjelgralah kept her pace up, grabbing her monumental war hammer with both hands.
The northerners’ strategy impressed Vardille, even though it was remarkably simple. The road leading to the square was of six people wide, which attribute the Velardhari exploited instantly. Forming a six-warrior wide and three-warrior deep shieldwall with pikes in the second line and bows or hatchets in the third, they became an imposing group of ferocious warriors, standing in the enemy’s way.
The red soldiers crashed into the Velardhari but soon fell, only to give way for the next of their waves, roughly thirty people strong. Vardille craned his neck behind the northerners to look through the street—dozens of soldiers were approaching even farther, many of them already left for alleys and sidecuts. Vardille poked Mjelgralah and pointed at the different web of streets that led to their brittle rampart. She nodded without hesitation and shouted something in a language Vardille did not understand.
The guard captain caught a glimpse of Idamin and Bryne arguing fervently, but did not think much of it, since a holler came from the northern part of the square. A handful of silhouettes were coming, running, torchlight glistened on their breastplate, making their armour looked as if it was soaked in blood.
Vardille, sword in hand, sprinted to meet the enemy. Velardhari warriors lined up behind him in a row, the night resounded their fierce battle cries. The guard captain did not take time to bypass the pond in the centre, he waded into it headlong in the same moment the first soldier reached it. Vardille examined the man for one flashing moment—slightly dark skin, insignificant features, stubbled jaw—then shoved his lance aside, slashed at his throat, and pushed the limp body out of the way with his shoulder. The soldier silently collapsed, without uttering a single groan of pain.
Vardille leapt forward, out of the pond, his sword followed his momentum and clashed with the blade of his next opponent. In the wake of this frozen moment, the captain looked into the swordsman’s eye—and his soul winced at the sight of the red glowing snake eyes. Vardille ducked, let his blade slide along the edge of the swordsman’s weapon, and brought it up immediately to deflect a halberd flying at his heart from the side. He sidestepped, evading a third soldier’s axe, turned from his hip and executed a backhanded uppercut which slit the tendon of that third soldier’s upper arm while also ripping his throat open. Guttural sputtering followed the soldier’s quick demise.
Vardille leapt backwards and dashed to the side to avoid the swordsman’s flashing blade, then boldly let his sword absorb his next hit. Numbness crept along his arm, but he quickly snatched his dagger with his left, and thrusted it below the swordsman’s extended hand, right into his armpit. Yet he could not catch his breath, for he saw the halberd piercing from the corner of his eye. Without a second thought he let go of the dagger and grabbed at his own neck …
… only to find nothing.
Fuck.
The halberd’s spike impaled his thigh deeply, tearing through tissue and muscle, acute pain exploding in Vardille’s leg. He screamed in agony as he gripped the pole of the weapon with his left and slashed with his blade as forcefully as he could—the cut had no elegance, no beauty, it was as brutal and primal as it could possibly be. The sword sank entirely into the halberdier’s neck, nearly severing his head entirely. Vardille stared into snake eyes once again and watched in perverse satisfaction as life waned from those sinister eyes.
The captain dropped to his knee, then sat helplessly, still gripping at the halberd, and quickly glanced about—red scale-armoured soldiers lay butchered, scattered across the square. The Velardhari warriors were about to regroup against the next wave of attack, forming a wall in front of the disabled guard captain, many of them studying him with newly born curiosity, nodding approvingly.
Vardille looked down at his injury. Three or so inches of the blade must have sunk into his flesh. It was pulsing, burning with searing pain. The captain spat in frustration.
I’ve relied on that shit for far too long.
Something hissed through the air and crashed into the inn, tearing down half the porch’s banister and roof. A single javelin.
----------------------------------------
Mjel swung her hammer with great exertion and groaned in relief as she heard the wet crack of breaking bones. The bastard in the red armour tumbled to the ground with her head in an absurd angle.
That bitch got hit by the girl three times and had not once displayed signs of hurt. She must have had human feelings, at least that was what Mjel inferred by her contemptuous smirk whenever that cunt seemed to get the upper hand. But she was dead now, and those repulsive reptilian eyes would not cast their gaze upon anyone anymore.
Mjel stepped back and stared at the corpse. Life drained from the woman’s body. Those wide eyes, now normal, staring at nothing, the open mouth, blood still trickling from the inside, plunged Mjel into horror.
She killed a person. She killed a woman.
She took the life of another human being.
Her body trembled.
She’s not human.
She’s not human.
She’s not human.
The clatter of battle around her snapped her back to reality. She swallowed, tensed her muscles, and took in the scene. The thick of the fight was seething at the eastern road, but the shieldwall, this massive bulwark of brainless muscle, marvellously repelled all attempts of the snake-eyed demons to break into the square. Draggan fought in the front, he was covered in blood from head to toe, and was constantly roaring, rousing the spirit of his warriors.
Mjel had never been prouder of her band before.
She defended the southern edge of the square with a handful of her companions, standing between the town hall and the barracks, but the demonfolk seemed reluctant to appear there. As opposed to the northern roads, where they charged wave after wave.
The Chief watched as Vardille fought three of them at the same time. No, that was not true. That man did not fight. He danced, glided among the flashing blades with ease, his movements seemed well-planned, not a moment of hesitation broke the synergy of his manoeuvres, as if it was part of a play already written and scripted.
Then he killed the second soldier, and the halberdier found him in a vulnerable position.
Mjel took a step forward, but there were at least a hundred yards between them. Vardille dropped his dagger and reached for his neck.
‘What the frozen hells are you—’ Mjel murmured and hissed as she watched the halberd impaling the man’s leg. Vardille’s scream was loud and painful as he grabbed the demonfolk’s weapon and slashed his sword into the soldier’s throat.
What was he thinking?
Then it dawned on her.
The onyx. We took it from him.
Fuck.
A shout broke her from her rumination.
‘Duck!’
Mjel did not waver. She crouched, and in the same instant a javelin blazed inches above her head, innocuously flying into the porch of the inn—and tearing through an outer wall in its wake.
The girl sprang to her feet, whirled about, hammer at the ready, and swallowed when her gaze fell upon a giant—the monstrosity came from the alley behind the townhouse, accompanied by a handful of other demonfolk soldiers, and towered above the others a good ten feet.
‘You’re good?’
A woman, dark-skinned, black hair tied in a bun, jogged to her, clad in silver armour, a crown and a pair of halberds engraved onto the breastplate. Mjel knew this emblem.
‘I am. Thanks. You must be Crownguard.’
‘I am,’ answered the woman slightly surprised, then lifted her tower shield and her lance, facing the giant. ‘Call me Jelyn.’
‘Pleasure. Mjelgralah.’
‘That’s a big motherfucker over there, Mjelgralah.’
‘It indeed is.’
‘Will you help me fuck him up?’
‘I think I like you.’
The giant stopped; his lifeless gaze petrified Mjel. The minions around him leapt forward, with various sorts of weapons, lances, swords, axes, maces. Mjel’s companions, those eight warriors, tentatively formed a compact shieldwall, but seeing the giant lifting a second javelin, they lost their nerves and backed away from the alley. Mjel did not resent them.
The giant threw the javelin without effort. Mjel’s warriors were quick to dodge but watching as it embedded into the ground almost entirely, pounding pebbles and dust into the air, tearing up the soil, the warriors froze. Mjel brought her hammer up and swung it at the demonfolk axeman running at her. The man ducked and slashed but missed completely. Mjel tripped him with the blunt side of her weapon, then smote down at the soldier. His head exploded as ripe pumpkin, shreds of brain and skull splashed onto Mjel’s hide armour. She retched, fighting the urge to vomit all she had eaten that day.
Then she glanced at the javelin. No way he could throw it that hard. He’s tall but slim.
The giant pulled another of his weapons, and slowly approaching, he aimed and hurled it among the Velardhari. Mjel watched in horror as the javelin pierced through one of the demons who was exchanging slashes with Thrandal. The sheer force of the giant’s weapon shoved the demon unto Thrandal, also impaling the man. Mjel stood paralyzed as her companion fell to the ground in a grotesque embrace along with the red armoured demon.
Something crashed onto her, and the next moment she was lying on the ground, face down, a heavy weight struggling on her. Gravel showered into her neck, dust covered her face and hair.
The heavy pile of something suddenly got up from Mjel, dragging her to the feet in the process. Jelyn was gasping hard as she took a quick glimpse on Mjel, her face bruised, dust coating her armour.
‘Watch out next time!’ she shouted and snatched her lance up from the ground. Mjel trembled a quick ‘Thanks,’ and she tried to get around the giant, who in the meantime reached them and now was swinging a long poleaxe at them with rabid vehemence. His lightless eyes and inexpressive face made the hair on Mjel’s neck stand on end.
She timed her attack to the same moment when Jelyn leapt to thrust at the giant—the next instant she was lying at the ground, head heavy, vision obscured. A demonfolk rushed at her, taking her an easy prey. Mjel struggled to rise, and when the red-armoured woman reached her, she simply charged into the demon, leant forward, grabbed, and lifted her at the waist, then ran into the walls of the barracks at full speed. The demon’s head knocked into the stone with a loud crash. Mjel felt her body turning limp in her grapple. She dropped the body, took the snake-eyed woman’s sword, and plunged the blade into her heart. With a sickening splash, the soldier collapsed to the ground, and Mjel leant against the stone walls to catch her breath.
It is getting easier. She felt daunted by the gravity of that thought. She held up her hands, watching them shaking uncontrollably.
She looked up at the spire of the barracks. Then to the giant. And back to the tower again.
Mjel rushed to her hammer, still dizzy from the fall, snatched it, and backed away. Jelyn and two of her companions fought the demons as they tried to evade the giant’s weapon. Mjel choked up when she saw only two of her warriors, Akijlah and Morgirr standing still. A burst of anger surged through her body.
‘Keep him occupied a bit longer!’ Mjel shouted as she ran to the wide doors of the barracks.
‘On it!’ Jelyn’s frustrated voice.
Mjel pushed the doors, but it did not budge. She quickly swung her hammer at them, the second swing flew them open. She stepped into the dim hall and stopped, stunned.
People were cowering inside, hiding among the long rows of tables. Women, children, elders.
‘Please, leave!’ said a man dressed in heavy, unadorned robes, shaking against the wall across.
Mjel quickly shut the door—what remained from it, that is—and turned to the crowd.
‘You shall leave! There’s a fight outside, you need to flee!’
‘Leave us be, please!’ the same one begged, accompanied by inaudible wailing and silent cries.
‘They will slaughter you all!’ Mjel was at the verge of screaming. She took a deep breath. I don’t have time for this shit. ‘Go!’
She did not wait to see their reaction, she sprang to the stairs and made haste. She counted four flights behind her, stopped before the fifth and swiftly kicked the shutters open in the window, adrenaline pumping in her veins.
She glanced down. She was roughly thirty feet above the ground, right above the square where the side street ran between the townhouse and the barracks. The giant was farther away, but she believed she could manage it. She had to. The distance seemed good enough. It was good enough. It must have been good enough.
She squeezed herself through the window, paused for a moment after crouching down on the outer ledge, and took a deep breath. She shunned all thoughts from her mind, tightened her grip around her war hammer, fixed her gaze on the giant below, then leapt from the ledge, slightly diagonally, towards the giant.
What am I doing?! Her mind screamed at her. Or was it herself?
Wind hissed past her ears as she fell free. The ground was threateningly drawing nearer and nearer but her focus was locked onto the giant. That monstrosity looked up at the last moment, and inexplicable hatred burst inside Mjel seeing those glossy eyes. The next moment she brought her hammer down and sank its spike deep into the giant’s head.
The sudden jerk strained her shoulders, and her numb fingers slipped from her weapon. She tumbled to the ground, quickly got to her knee, and glanced up. Her hammer was dangling from the giant’s head, a river of blood gushing from the gaping wound the weapon had left. The demon took a reluctant step toward Mjel, but soon swayed, dropped to his knees, then slumped to the ground, its lifeless corpse disturbingly motionless.
Jelyn extended her hand to Mjel and helped her to her feet. Mjel hissed at the sharp pain in her ankle but pressed her lips as Jelyn stared into her face, eyes wide, lips slightly ajar.
‘That was the most absurd thing I’ve ever seen in my life! You have my utmost respects, Mjelgralah!’
The chief briefly smiled then looked at her fallen companions. Her eyes began to burn.
‘Chief Mjel!’
Harak. Dust covered his brown clothes, but otherwise he looked safe and sound. What the frozen fuck is he doing here?!
‘Chief Draggan told me to tell you that there’s a big fucking reptile above our fucking heads and we shall better get our asses moving lest that cunt get us dicked!’
‘Watch your tongue!’
‘These are Chief Draggan’s words, Chief Mjel!’
‘Why were you at the front with Draggan at all?!’
‘Herald Idamin told me to ask for rejnforcements! The bastards are crawling at the northern side!’ Then he quickly continued, ‘Herald Idamin’s words!’
Mjel trembled. She wanted Harak safe, tucked away from this demon scum. But she could not tell it to anyone. He was coming of age.
‘It’s reinforcements,’ she muttered, then quickly put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. ‘You’ve been brave today!’ The kid’s face lit up. He really tried not to look scared, but his eyes were wet, his lips pressed together hard, his fingers constantly wringing. Mjel leant towards him. ‘But I need you to do something for me. It is of great importance, and lives are at stake. Will you help me, Harak?’
‘Yes Chief!’ he shouted, far louder than it would have been necessary. Fear edged his high head-voice.
‘Good. There are people inside this building. I want you to take them to safety! Can I leave this task to you?’
‘Yes Chief!’
Mjel quickly exchanged glances with Jelyn, feeling her eye wet. The Crownguard bit her lips and turned her head to where Vardille now stood, relying on the help of two warriors. Then she nodded and turned to the barracks.
‘What about our—’ another woman, clad in similar armour to Jelyn’s, began, pointing at Vardille, but Jelyn quickly cut in.
‘He’ll manage, and there are Amrithean civilians here who need aid, Ana!’
‘I will take care of him,’ Mjel promised. Jelyn nodded in silence again and stepped inside the building. The other who she named Ana stared at Mjel with unlikely ire in her eyes. The chief blinked, and not knowing what to say, she turned from the woman to take in the battle.
Or what still lingered from it. With the fall of the giant, the southern part was now clear. The shieldwall on the eastern road seemed to disband, with many of Mjel’s companions already hurrying to the north where several demonfolk pressed her warriors hard still. The battle was soon to be over, they managed to repel the attack.
Amid the clinking metal and growls of death at north, a shrill shriek permeated the clamour of battle from above.
----------------------------------------
Looking up at the blackened night sky, Vardille knew he was still dreaming in his sleep. How else could he explain the sight of a dragon?
Tales and ballads tended to describe this creature as magical—a beast with unmatching elegance and intelligence, with glistening scales and eyes that held much wisdom of the world. The monster circling above was nothing like that: its maddening squalls resembled no elegance, its filthy greyish green scales covered its lacerated slim body as mould, and its eyes, for what the guard captain could see from that distance, were glowing in red, frenzied bloodthirst evident in its every move. In no sense was the creature large; aside from its tail and wings its size could hardly match that of a mare.
The creature flew low above the buildings, did a full circle around the square, then landed on the roof of the inn. Vardille spotted a rider on its back; they gripped the reins with both hands as the beast spread its wings and screamed once again in the night.
The warriors supporting Vardille paused and exchanged worried looks.
‘Vardille!’
Idamin dashed to them, sweat trickling on her brow, gasping. Vardille looked around. ‘Where’s Bryne?’
‘Bryne?’
‘Sallan. Sallan Bryne.’
‘Oh, he joined the townsfolk. They must be out of the town by now. But look!’
Vardille swallowed and hoped Idamin would turn a blind eye to his slip of the tongue.
The blonde girl held out a hand and opened her fist. Two gemstones lay on her palm. A sapphire and an onyx.
‘I can feel them pulsing!’ the Herald whispered, agitated. ‘They are working again!’
‘I believe we have … more urgent matters now,’ Vardille said, meaningly staring at the dragon on top of the inn.
The racket of the battle slowly died behind their backs as the Velardhari finished slaying the rest of the soldiers. From one moment unto the next, deafening silence fell upon the square, then footsteps clamoured from many directions. Vardille watched his Crownguard attempting to escort a frightened group of frantic townsfolk and sensed that warriors were gathering around him. Idamin held the onyx to him, slipping it into his hand.
‘It’s yours.’
The dragon’s scream smothered Vardille’s response. The rider let go of the reins with one hand, extended it towards the square, and their mouth started to move. Faint dark green light emanated from their closed fist.
‘Gods, someone shoot that bastard already!’ Mjelgralah snapped, arriving beside them, slightly limping, gripping her war hammer with both hands. ‘Draggan!’
‘At once, Chief!’
The robust warrior looked as if he had bathed in blood. He snatched a bow from one of his companions, put an arrow on the string, drew it back to his shoulder, aimed, and shot.
The beast agilely leapt aside from the arrow, sounding another one of its unsettling shrieks. The rider snapped their head in a resentful grimace but did not pull their hand back.
‘Is that an emerald?’ Idamin asked worriedly.
A dead red-clad soldier twitched on the ground. Another followed not too far from it. Then the one Vardille slashed in the throat flinched, and slowly turned his head toward the captain in a gruesomely absurd angle.
‘Something far worse,’ the captain whispered and tightened his grip on the gemstone. Its familiar touch somewhat comforted him, but the horror of the rising dead seized him, its claws hooked unto him, cold shook his body.
The rest of the band was no less daunted by the scene. Terror visibly distorting their faces, all northerners backed away, some clumsily, others briskly, half-heartedly lifting their weapons, but clearly at a loss.
Mjelgralah grunted in disbelief.
‘What is this …?’
The first of the living dead were already on all fours, and head high, they gracelessly crept after the warriors. Some of them rose right beside and among the band—and hence the first screams began to fill the air once again.
Draggan cried out and he sent arrow after arrow at the winged beast and its rider, without much effect. The monster evaded the first few ones, then flew off the rooftop, its scream grotesquely harmonising with the low and continuous growling of the dead demon horde.
Vardille called forth the power of the gemstone. He endured the sudden numbness, gritted his teeth, then sent a shadow to defend Draggan against the approaching abominations. Mjelgralah quickly shouted something in her language, then the two warriors supporting the guard captain let him go, reached for their weapons, and tentatively slashed out at the nearby monsters. That did little other than irking those abhorrent anomalies.
Mjelgralah got under Vardille’s arm and tried to help the man get away from the centre of the terror but hissed as she weighed on her right leg.
‘You are hurt!’ Vardille paused and tried not to lean on the young woman too much.
‘No,’ the chief hissed through gritted teeth, ‘I’m Mjel. Come on!’
Vardille laughed loudly. Insanity may have finally reached his mind.
‘You have terrible humour.’
‘I have terrific humour. Watch out!’
A half-armed demon woman crawled to Vardille’s feet, ready to sink its unnervingly human teeth into his ankle. The captain acted instinctively; tentacles of shadows latched out from the dark spots of the demolished porch, jerking back the freak among the splintered timber, tearing it apart in less than a blink of an eye.
‘Nice one, vinedresser,’ Mjelgralah swallowed audibly and dragged Vardille after herself. ‘If you may keep your toys from me, please … there, splendid! Another one! Aight … Careful, that one is comi— oh no, that’s torn apart too. Your gemstone gives you credence, o’ worker of vines!’
‘Are you anxious?’
‘Of course I am! How could you find out, I wonder?’
‘You’re talkative again,’ gasped Vardille, ignoring the evident sarcasm in Mjelgralah’s voice. ‘I was waiting for you to praise the weather, though.’
Despite the dire circumstances, Mjelgralah’s lips drew into a smile which soon faded when she glanced at the captain’s face.
‘You’re dead-pale!’
‘Please, that’s the worst you can say to me now.’ Truth be told, Vardille lost too much blood, the makeshift bandage one of the northerners put on his thigh did not prove effective and was already soaking in blood. On top of that, the onyx greatly exerted his body and spirit.
Idamin rushed by them, deftly dashed among the dead, held her sapphire in her fist, and fixed her gaze on the dragon circling above. Gusts of wind assailed the beast, caught its wretched body, and tossed it aside from all directions. The beast struggled to shrug the power of the sapphire off, to no avail—after a series of gales, its rider fell from its back, and although Vardille could not hear the crack of their neck, he could see the broken body sprawling out on the stone, head under their body.
Despite the guard captain’s expectations, the horde of the dead did not come to a halt.
‘Get the hell away from here!’ screamed Mjelgralah into the night, then began to stumble towards the western road, hanging on each other’s arms with Vardille.
Led by Draggan, the remaining Velardhari regrouped and stood between the dead and their chief, aided by Idamin and her sapphire. Alas, the unfortunate, poor souls who could not get away from the demons were wailing through the night; bloodcurdling screams and growls of death faded behind their backs as the group advanced through the narrow street. Vardille glanced at Mjelgralah; the young woman pressed her lips, stared forward, her face trembling.
Passing by the western gates, two Crownguard, Jelyn and Gradhe approached; further down the road hushed noises signalled the passing of townsfolk. Too close.
‘We are fleeing, but we are slow!’ Jelyn stepped closer, her hands already on their way to salute to her captain, but she woke in time. Her eyes quickly met Mjelgralah’s gaze.
‘So are they, but time is not with us,’ said Idamin, glancing back at the town. The clumsy freaks were crawling through the street with terrifying slowness.
Mjelgralah looked at her warriors after slipping out from Vardille’s arm. Gradhe immediately took her place and put his captain’s arm across his shoulder. The chief slowly shook her head, tears brimming her eyes.
‘Less than twenty … all the others …’
Vardille felt something snapping in his chest. No one dared utter a single sound; the low grumble of the dead mocked their serene silence of grief. Jelyn and Gradhe seemed at a loss, but the northerners shared a common pain; their faces distorted into grimaces of sorrow. Idamin kept her head low; Draggan gripped his axe and held it against his blood-covered chest.
And Mjelgralah seemed broken.
Though invisible, the dragon’s shriek resounded in the air long after they left Greenfall behind.