BlackThorn's Doom (21 page)

He caught a glimpse of Sur’kar wreathed in emerald fire driving the Morne onto their feet with blasts of power. At his side stood the fuming Ma’ul, the demon watching their passage with mild interest.

Something hissed through the air just missing his left ear. Connell flinched and huddled low across his horse’s neck. The Morne were recovering and a few were now firing arrows at them.

Another black shaft thumped into his saddle just missing his thigh. The iron tipped shaft easily piercing the leather and plunging deep into his horse’s back.

The Animal kicked high and Connell was thrown off its back. Maddened in pain the horse bucked in circles seeking to free itself of the arrow.

Connell hit the ground hard, the air rushing from his lungs. He watched in dazed amazement as Yoladt’s racing steed leapt over him. He rolled onto his side and was nearly trampled by Turlock’s mount as it passed.

Less than a hundred yards separated him from the battered Morne. The dark warriors were drawing their blades and rushing for him.

Connell grabbed his fallen blade and raced for the safety of the keep. He ran as he had never run before. His lungs burned and his back ached. He could see that Turlock and Ild had made it through the rubble of the keeps wall.

Yoladt waited until the men were beyond the opening, with a harsh yank upon his reins he hauled his horse about and galloped back towards Connell.

Up the steep slope the Prince of Kesh dashed, until he came to a leaning wooden post. From the rough timber hung a body, preserved from corruption by the biting cold.

Connell slid to a stop and fell to his knees struck by both intense grief and anger. He shook with fury staring up into the dead eyes of his father.

The deceased King’s body was battered and peppered with at least a hundred arrows. No blood stained the shafts; his father had been shot after his death.

The disorganized charge came to an abrupt halt, the Morne lowering their weapons and hastily stepping aside as a towering warrior strode forth.

He was encased in ebon plate, an imposing figure with fire burning within his helms visor. Although great strength seemed to flow from him, his armor yet bore the damage of combat. The right horn upon his helm was severed near the base and upon his thigh a smoking rent marred the ornate steel.

Yoladt reined his horse in beside Connell. “Come,” He said holding out his hand. “You cannot hope to win this battle.”

Connell ignored him and cut the bindings holding his father to the post. With great care he lifted his body from the hard earth and laid him across Yoladt’s saddle.

“Take my sire from this place.” He said to the Mahjie.

Yoladt nodded sadly. “You will die here.” He said looking into the man’s eyes. What he saw there caused him to shiver, a cold burning anger. He knew any argument he could make would fall upon deaf ears. Connell’s eyes were filled with rage; no Mahjie would ever deny him his vengeance, for honor and justice were the right of every man.

Connell reached up and grasped the Mahjie’s forearm. “We all die,” He said simply. “It’s just a matter of when.”

Yoladt bowed his head and galloped back to the broken keep. He had no words to answer Connell and knew that should their places be reversed he would do the same. “Fight well my friend,” He said looking over his shoulder at the lone man standing before tens of thousands of Morne.

Connell turned his attention to the advancing warrior. He swung his father’s sword through the air a few times to loosen his tense muscles.

“You have taken my trophy.” The dark warriors voice hissed. “Your body will take the foolish Kings place as payment.” From a scabbard across his back the warrior drew forth a broadsword whose blade burned with an eldritch light of many colors.

“Wolhan was my sire fiend.” Connell said in a soft voice filled with loathing. The calm of battle had settled over him and tempered his rage. “I smell your taint and I know what you are, Balhain.” He spat the word as if merely speaking it disgusted him. “I watched your brother pass beyond this world, and so shall I send you into oblivion to join him.”

The Balhain laughed at his impudence. “Brave words, foolish man. Even were you twice the warrior as was your father you would still fail.”

Connell advanced and circled about the Balhain studying his opponent for any sign of weakness. Doubt flickered weakly in his heart. King Wolhan had been the greatest swordsman the world had ever known, and yet he had failed to best this creature. How could he hope to succeed where his father could not?

Moving faster than Connell had ever seen any man before. The Balhain’s sword clove the air seeking to remove his head.

Connell parried the blow upward, redirecting the cut. The blade passed over his head, missing him by a fraction of an inch. Connell completed the parry by bringing his sword low in a vicious slice across the Balhain’s chest.

Sparks flew from the dark armor and a thin line glowed white hot where Connell’s sword had struck.

The Balhain staggered backwards clutching at the mark with his free hand. “Impossible!” He shouted in disbelief.

“Tis the sword of my ancestors, the blade of Bel’Vir.” Connell said with renewed confidence. The Balhain could be killed and he held in his hand the weapon for the task.

Connell attacked with a vengeance, the king’s sword glowing white hot as he hammered at his opponent.

The Balhain was driven back towards the keep away from the Morne onlookers. Try as he might he could not counter fast enough to strike the warrior before him, nor could he prevent all of Connell’s blows from reaching their mark. A dozen white-hot cuts marred his armor and helm.

Connell’s father had been an extremely adept swordsman but he was nothing compared to the skills his son possessed.

In desperation the Balhain struck the ground with his blade. A wave of force flowed outward knocking anyone nearby from their feet. The Stone groaned in protest and several massive slabs of rock fell from above crushing Morne and Troll alike.

Connell saw the attack and leapt upward, landing as the wave passed beneath. He brought his blade downward with all the strength he possessed.

The Balhain’s sword shattered into a hundred pieces. A flash of uncontained power lit the night as if a new sun had suddenly erupted from the earth at Connell’s feet.

The blade of Bel’Vir hummed with power and glowed with its own golden light.

“Dawn Singer…” The Balhain muttered in disbelief. He knew the bite of Lo’Wyren, sword of Na’Boal. One of the lesser swords of power forged long ago. A weapon, which could kill even a being as powerful as the Balhain.

Connell struck severing the remaining horn from the black helm. The Balhain fell onto his back, the golden light from Lo’Wyren blinding him.

Horns trumpeted in the dark. From the ruined keep two thousand horses charged. The horse lords of Kesh sallied forth to the aid of their prince, their long lances shining in the gloom.

A stir passed through the Morne ranks as the ground trembled from the hoof beats of the horses.

Connell was oblivious to the approaching charge. His eyes were locked onto the visage of his fallen enemy. He stabbed forward driving the golden blade through the Balhain’s breastplate. The air was rent by a terrible screeching sound and sparks showered around the two combatants. The Balhain died, his wordless cry of agony echoing from the cold stonewalls of the comb.

The light of Connell’s blade faded as he wrenched the weapon free. He spun about as the charging warriors rushed past. Their lances driving deep into the confused Morne, in a loud clash of steel and flesh.

Both men and Morne died in that charge. Lances broke and shields were shattered. Wounded horses rushed about kicking any who drew near. Connell watched as men were pulled from their mounts, their bodies hacked apart by hundreds of swords.

“My liege!” One of the riders shouted to Connell. He tossed the reins of a horse to him. “We must make haste, even now the Morne rally!”

Connell swung up into the saddle, his sword still in hand.

The rider raised a bronze horn to his lips and sounded two sharp blasts. The call to retreat was heeded and the surviving men turned their mounts as one and charged out of the chaotic mass of Morne.

They raced for the keep leaving behind more than half their number. The Morne took another twenty-three with arrows before the warriors reached the foundations of the rent wall.

The Morne would no longer be restrained, they charged and were driven back by a sleeting rain of arrows from the keeps defenders.

Beyond the ranks of dying Morne the Ma’ul roared and a blast of fear drove the men to their knees. Horses reared and many riders were unseated ere they gained the keep.

Even the Morne were affected and many fell to the ground their weapons all but forgotten.

Connell fought to control his steed and with great effort he set aside his own terror and forced the mount through the breach.

The remaining riders and soldiers afoot assembled into a mob in the ruined bailey. Gaelan rode his frightened horse to his cousin’s side. With him came Yoladt, leading a spare horse bearing the body of Wolhan. The old king was now wrapped in a cloak of scarlet and securely tied across the saddle.

Connell was shocked by the changes in his cousin. He was lean, his cheeks were sunken and his eyes bore the haunted look of a man who had seen too much death.

“Look around you!” Gaelan shouted back, anger turning his ashen face scarlet. “Timosh is lost, I have not the men to save it!” Gaelan looked over his shoulder to the fleeing warriors. “I lost most of the men who came here. Brave warriors all, they fought heroically and yet died.” His eyes narrowed in anger. “Do not dare judge them to be cowards. No one can withstand the might Sur’kar has brought. Can you slay the Ma’ul?” Gaelan paused allowing the question to sink in. “It is the people of Trondhiem I’m sworn to defend not some ruined fortress of stone.”

D’Yana kissed him soundly. “I had prayed many a night to see you once more my love.” She said with tears of joy blurring her eyes.

Beyond the walls drums began to sound.

“My lord!” A lookout perched upon the pile of rubble shouted. “The Giants come!”

Gaelan and Connell rode to the breach and watched as a thousand shield bearing Trolls marched forth. Behind them came rank after rank of Morne, their golden eyes shining with the knowledge of the slaughter to come. Too long these men had held them at bay and now they would pay the price for their folly.

Gaelan looked to the tunnel and could see that only a few men were left in the bailey. He looked back upon the advancing Trolls. “We must secure the tunnel gates before the Morne reach the bailey.” He started his mount towards the looming tunnel mouth. “We will hold the passage as long as possible, but I fear that won’t be long.”

“If Sur’kar sends the Ma’ul all is lost.” D’Yana stated riding beside Connell.

“He called the beast back when victory was assured.” Gaelan said. “He has a reason for restraining the demon, let us hope it holds.”

“Probably to prolong our suffering.” D’Yana said gloomily.

They passed into the torch lit darkness of the tunnel. The normally quiet passage was filled with the sounds of thousands of booted feet rushing along its length.

Chapter Twenty

Burcott watched in helpless anger as the Trolls and Morne poured through the wreckage of Timosh’s wall. The Ma’ul had severely damaged the keep. Nearly razing the entire structure in its first attack.

“The Gods be merciful.” The Sahri muttered looking upon the destruction. “Who can stand before such a thing?”

“A demon of old.” Jehnom said nodding in agreement. “Even the immortals could not easily defeat them.”

“The Ma’ul is not our greatest concern.” Burcott said surprising both of the men. He rubbed his chin as a plan formed in his mind.

“How does an army travel?” He asked the two warriors standing at his side.

“By horse or foot.” The Sahri answered. “Or ship, if by sea.” He quickly added.

Burcott shook his head. “There is an old saying in my lands. An army travels on its stomach.” He turned and pointed to the hundreds of wagons visible in the flickering light. “There lies our enemies stomach, virtually unguarded.”

Jehnom smiled in understanding. “We destroy their supplies and the Morne must forage or starve.”