Authors: Jason McWhirter
***
The black tribesmen barreled into the formation line taking many Finarthian men to the ground. The line broke immediately as the power and sheer numbers overwhelmed the already tired infantry.
The fighting became disorganized and fierce. The Finarthian reserves moved in to defend their brethren against the formidable warriors.
Fil jumped over a fallen comrade, swinging his sword down and through a tribesman’s neck who was preoccupied with defending himself from another attack. Wrenching his sword free of the dead man’s spine, Fil frantically defended himself against an onslaught of attacks.
The desert warriors were everywhere and it was all Fil could do to defend himself. He would block one attack with his shield while using his short sword to deflect any other blows. He began to feel the cold clutches of fear as he glanced left and right and saw his comrades in similar states.
Suddenly he felt a jabbing pain in his right side. He had turned quickly just as a curved sword lanced through his side from behind. The pain was quick and intense but Fil was forced to ignore it as he turned toward the new attacker. The warrior’s sword was stuck in Fil’s side and Fil had turned so quickly that it had ripped the sword from the man’s hand. Fil roared with fury, swinging his sword down, cutting through the screaming man’s arm just above the elbow. Fil followed the attack with a reverse swing, slicing through the man’s unprotected abdomen.
Fil didn’t even have time to pull the sword free from his side as more tribesmen attacked him. Luckily the sword had just cut through skin and some muscle so no vital organs were damaged. But the pain was immense as Fil fought; the sword bouncing and moving around inside his flesh. He gritted his teeth and embraced the pain as he fought for his life.
Suddenly a horse barreled its way to the front of the line, its rider swatting aside enemy warriors as he went. The rider swung his long sword down with a lightning quick strike that ripped open the back of the man who was attacking Fil.
Fil glanced up at the new rider and saw a dark haired man with steel gray eyes staring back at him. The man smiled, amazing Fil with his apparent confidence that seemed to surround him like a warm blanket. The warrior’s eyes shone with a focused intensity that reflected certain death to any who faced him.
Fil gave silent thanks that this warrior was on their side as the newcomer resumed his attack on the enemy ranks. He expertly maneuvered his horse left and right, cutting down any enemy that neared him. His long sword was a blur of green magical energy as he attacked the tribesmen, while staying in the center of the line at all times.
“To me, warriors, hold the center!” the dark haired man bellowed above the sounds of war.
The remaining Finarthian infantry fought and struggled to get near the horseman and reestablish the line.
Fil sidestepped a clumsy attack by one of the tribesmen whose sword glanced off his shoulder guard. He rammed his knee hard into the tribesman’s exposed stomach and the man keeled over, gasping for breath. He then brought the pommel of his sword down on top of the man’s head and he fell to the ground unconscious.
Fil looked up from the downed man and saw the horseman ride near him just as a massive spear took the stranger’s mount in the throat. The spear was huge, made from a crudely shaped sapling.
The horse stumbled to the ground, the spear sinking several feet into its chest. Something big had thrown that spear and Fil’s nightmares were realized as he looked up and saw a huge ogre lumber through the ranks of the tribesmen to finish off the rider.
Fil yanked out the sword in his side, grimacing from the pain just as the ogre moved towards the downed horse.
The rider had jumped free and rolled across the bloody ground to come up standing with sword and dagger held before him. “Finally a challenge,” the swordsman said to himself, loud enough for Fil to hear.
Fil marveled at the warrior’s amazing agility as he stumbled in to help him. The ogre glanced toward Fil as he tried to sneak in towards its tree trunk legs. The beast was as tall as two short men and its legs were stout and thick with muscle.
Fil sliced his short sword across the ogre’s leg but the blade did little damage to the thick skin. The beast roared, swinging its thick arm down and hitting Fil squarely in the chest, the immense strength of the blow breaking his ribs. He was thrown backward like a rock from a catapult, landing fifteen paces away. Though he was able to maintain consciousness, the pain was so intense that he could barely move. He felt his broken ribs move around inside him as he struggled to get up.
Kiln balanced himself on the balls of his feet as the ogre lumbered toward him. The ogre looked down at him as it attempted to kick him with its massive leather boot. The beast’s foot was as big as a small boulder. Kiln leaped to the side and sent his blades into motion. His weapons sliced into the ogre’s foot and calf twice before the ogre could even register the pain. His magical blades sliced through the thick skin easily, furrows of red appearing on the beast’s legs as Kiln danced around the slow behemoth.
The ogre roared in pain as it set its foot down and tried to reach out with its hands to crush the little human. But Kiln was a blur of razor sharp steel and he lunged under the hands, slicing his long sword across the beast’s abdomen simultaneously ramming his dagger into the left thigh of the ogre. The dagger sunk in deep and the ogre roared in pain as it reached down to yank out the weapon. Kiln dove between the ogre's legs, coming up in a roll just behind the huge creature. His long sword sliced left and right, cutting through the tendons located on the back of the beast’s knees. Again, the ogre howled in agony, dropping to the ground, while Kiln, simultaneously leaped into the air, driving the point of his sword down and through the ogre’s back, penetrating its lungs and heart. The warrior left his sword in the beast, landing lightly on his feet.
Fil held his body still and watched the swordsman carve the large ogre into meat. He didn’t want to move because of the pain and he was afraid an enemy warrior would see him and attack. Fil knew that in his state he would be hard pressed to defend himself.
The dead ogre fell face first onto the bloody ground with Kiln’s long sword jutting from its back, quivering in the air.
Kiln spun around toward the enemy warriors and yelled again. “Men of Finarth, hold the line!”
The soldiers responded with renewed courage and strength and they began to fight their way to the swordsman. Fil watched in amazement as the line began to reform and move towards the dark haired warrior. But the pain was too much and his vision began to blur. The ogre’s fist had done tremendous damage and it was difficult to breath. He fought to stay conscious but it was no use. His head sank to the ground and his body lay sprawled among the dead as he finally succumbed to the darkness.
Rorum, a young infantry soldier, felt a sharp sting to his thigh as he pivoted his body away from the curved blade of the attacking tribesman. The tribesman had swung hard, the momentum of his swing pushing him off balance as Rorum spun by him. He then sliced his short sword down and across the tribesman’s sword arm. The cut was deep and the enemy warrior screamed, staggering to his left where another Finarthian warrior finished him off.
The young soldier, and several other infantry soldiers, had fought their way to the dark haired stranger who had rallied the men and strengthened the line. More Finarthian warriors found the strength and courage to fight their way to this man, and they now stood before him exhausted but determined. They had formed a break in the enemy’s ranks but the fighting still continued all around them.
Kiln reached down and ripped out his sword from the back of the dead ogre. He glanced back and saw the men behind him, looking at him with uncertainty.
“Who are you?” asked Rorum through deep panting breaths.
Kiln glanced at the young warrior as he turned around to face the men. “I am Kiln!”
Then he looked forward and saw enemy soldiers converge on them screaming their battle cries. He grabbed his bloody dagger from the ground and focused his attention on the rapidly approaching tribesmen. He swung his sword from side to side. “If they want death!” he yelled, lifting his sword into the air. “Let them come!”
The men behind him yelled in unison, raising their crimson swords in defiance. Kiln smiled and ran forward to meet the enemy.
***
Jonas and Taleen sat high on their mounts scanning the battlefield below. They had followed the sounds of the battle and had ridden over the crest of a nearby hill. Below them, accompanied by the sounds of blasting horns and pounding war drums, raged a huge battle. The enemy riders had just attacked the flanks of the Finarthian cavalry.
Kiln, who had viewed the dire scene with them, had immediately spotted the desperate situation forming in the center of the infantry. He explained that if the center broke, enemy soldiers would surround and destroy them. Jonas had reluctantly followed Kiln’s orders and stayed behind while Kiln urged his mount down into the melee. Kiln told them that they would be needed to combat more dangerous foes, the priests of Naz-reen or Gould, or worse, a Banthra.
So Jonas and Taleen scanned the battle before them trying to figure out how they would best fit in. It didn’t take long for the cavaliers to sense the evil that was approaching through the ranks of enemy warriors.
“Jonas, do you feel it?” asked Taleen as she scanned the enemy ranks.
“I do,” Jonas answered, gazing out over the battle looking for the source of this malevolent feeling. “There,” he said, pointing towards a group of horseman that were maneuvering toward the Finarthian cavalry.
Their steeds had already sensed the dark force before them and both animals pranced, urging their riders forward.
Taleen looked at Jonas and nocked an arrow to her long bow. “May Helikon be with you,” she said with a nod of her head.
“And may Shyann guard your back,” Jonas responded, drawing forth one of his sabers. The cavaliers raced down the hillside towards the unearthly threat, eager to confront the evil that was corrupting their land.
Prince Baylin swung his mighty axe as if it were a toy. The razor sharp axe head dealt death to every enemy who neared him. His powerful legs controlled his horse expertly as he swung his battle-axe left and right with one hand. He lost all sense of time as he methodically cut down his enemies. Though he bled from several wounds, he didn’t register the pain as his mind and body became immersed in the heat and pandemonium of battle.
The prince’s battle frenzy was interrupted, however, by a sudden cold force that seemed to weigh him down, draining the warmth and energy from his body. He glanced frantically about trying to locate the source of this oppressive feeling that had so rapidly assaulted him, chilling his very bones.
His knights, too, were enveloped in the same dark miasma, their minds and bodies imprisoned by weakness and fear. Baylin saw his knights, and enemy warriors, part to give way to a trio of dark warriors mounted on even darker steeds, drifting through the ranks like a suffocating fog. Clad in black armor, the warriors and their horses emanated such evil energy that no nearby mortal could withstand it, turning their resolve into mindless terror.
The leader of the black triad caught Prince Baylin’s eye. Like the others, he wore dark plate mail the color of charcoal and his wicked helm jutted curved horns and spikes. What really drew the prince’s attention, however, were the warrior’s glowing red orbs that bore into his own, subjugating his will and causing his body to shake with uncontrollable fear.
Elsewhere, Graggis fought with the energy of a god, his mighty axe piling up bodies around his warhorse. He roared in defiance as he cut his way toward a giant black warrior riding a chestnut warhorse. He had spotted the muscle bound warrior and knew that this man was Arg’on, Lord Moredin’s war commander, a legendary warrior who was known for his strength and ferocity.
Graggis swung his magical axe down on top of the head of a nearby horseman, creasing his helm so badly that it drove the edges of the metal into the man’s broken skull. The path to Arg’on was now open and Graggis urged his horse forward.
Arg’on carried a massive two-handed sword that he swung easily with one hand. The black tribesman yanked his sword from the breast of a knight and pivoted his horse towards the new threat.
“Well met, Arg’on,” Graggis said evenly as his horse pranced eagerly in front of the huge black warrior. All the men fighting around them seemed to sense the contest and consciously moved away to give them room.
“Are you someone I should know?” asked the tribal warrior in the common tongue. He spoke it well and his accent was barely noticeable.
“You should always know the name of the man who is going to kill you so you can buy him a drink in the afterworld,” replied Graggis, smiling broadly.
“Then stop talking and tell me your name so that I may pray for your soul after I kill you and cut out your heart,” Arg’on responded calmly.
“I am Graggis,” and without further hesitation he spurred his horse forward, swinging his mighty axe in a powerful downward stroke.
Arg’on brought his sword up to block the blow but at the last second Graggis redirected his strike expertly to hit the tribesman’s horse. It was Graggis’s immense strength that enabled him to change the momentum of the stroke so quickly.