The Lich War Trilogy

By KD Nielson

A once respected holy warrior of the elven kingdom, Devron, is enslaved by a demon. Corrupted, he sets out to steal the Swords of Power from the three elven nations, in order to access a wish spell to change history, and return his empire before it was destroyed in a catastrophic accident. He uses necromancy to gain an undead army to further his plans.

Bolinor, scarred by recent battles, with a strong sense of justice and his own brand of heroism, sets out to form his own mercenary company. With his beloved wife, Cassandra, a powerful mage in her own right, Bolinor, his friends and some curious allies must stand together in order to stem the tide of impending doom washing over the land of Mennel Fenn.

Biding time while stealthily enacting his plans, Devron runs afoul of Bolinor. Aided by griffin-riding cat people, an unturned vampire, and squabbling elves of every nation, our heroes must try to decipher a mysterious book, and gather an ancient artifact in order to stop and kill Devron once and for all.

A story of power and corruption; love and romance; honor and duty, The Lich War Series is a sweeping saga where the heroic battle for good and evil transcends the realm of mortals; where friendship and love is all that bind the heroes together in the final dark battle of the Lich Wars when all hope seems lost.

The race is on between the living and the undead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KD Nielson
• Release date: Apr 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310897979

KD Nielson

Fantasy Writer Hi all, this is K.D. Nielson ... and welcome to my .... mind. I am a full time writer in search of a publisher, so I have to work at my day job to pay the bills. I have been writing and telling stories now for over 30 years. Since the 11,000+ earthquakes here in Christchurch, I have been free to indulge in my greatest passion, telling stories, while the city starts to get back on its feet. I have drawn on my experiences these past months (seems like years) of awful earthquakes, the years serving as a prison officer, and my time in the US Navy as part of Operation Deep Freeze, making seven deployments to Antarctica. Yes, in spite of everything, I am still sane. I have drawn on my daily experiences in these jobs and the different facets of everyday life, as material for my books. I have a wealth of intrigue, love, betrayal, war and heroic deeds just waiting for an avid reader. I have finished several books in the world I have created. They are just waiting to be discovered by that right someone, hopefully a publisher. All my books are available on Amazon through Kindle, and Createspace's print on demand. I am married to a lovely English girl, a schoolteacher, and we have three sons, one which seems to keep coming back, kind of cramps my style. My wife has donated (sometimes gang pressed might be more like it) hours of her valuable time helping me with editing and reading manuscripts, and being very patient with all my questions, some of them might be, well ... dumb. I have also been working with a like-minded friend who is a fantasy fan and a very good writer in her own right. She is also a renowned artist and in conjunction with another project connected to my books, she is working on sketches of the characters and creatures of my world. For more information on my books go to http://www.theworldsofkdnielson.com Thank you for bearing with me while I rabbit on ... I challenge you, step into my mind ....you might like it so much ... you may not want to leave. KD Nielson

Book preview

Copyright KD Nielson, 2008

Cassandra of Cr' Mere

Copyright KD Nielson, 15 July 2008

A Line in the Sand

Copyright K. D. Nielson, 2012

* * *

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my loving and long suffering wife, Anita. The countless hours I drafted her into helping me are truly appreciated.

Also I would like to thank Debs, a kindred spirit who untiringly read the many versions, and lovingly designed the cover.

I would also like to thank Ruth, for the long and arduous task of editing my work.

Another person that deserves to be here is my good friend Wendy, or Max to her family.

Without all the help this book would not have made it.

The last person I would like to thank is Dale Caroline Russell for her input to my books and for writing the back cover write-up.

* * *

Other books by KD Nielson

The Lich War Series

Amberwine

Cassandra of Cr' Mere

A Line in the Sand

Tales of Menel Fenn

Osey

Fool's Quest

The Confederation Kingdoms of Bree

Mage's Mistake

Ghost Dancer

DSMR Series

Through The Portal

* * *

Amberwine

Book One of the Lich War trilogy

KD Nielson

* * *

CONTENTS

Prologue

The Company

The Adventure

Justine

Revelation

Koldor

The Queen

Rebuilding

Telora

Blackwell

Coal Haven

Invasion

The Swords

The Wedding

The Brotherhood

Dun Lyn

The Widow Makers

The Rescue

Aftermath

About the Author

* * *

Prologue

Midnight, the time in which men lived and died. A shrouded full moon, hanging low in the sky, reflected the fires from the fiercely burning fortress. The dense clinging smoke from the inferno, and the smoldering burnt out defense works, drifted aimlessly, so thick men could taste it, eyes watered relentlessly. Everywhere fiery embers floated like black and red snowflakes singeing bare skin. The cries of the lost, the fearful, and dying echoed eerily off the stonewalls, in hostile obscurity, like the souls of the damned. In the acrid smoke blanketed ruins, men hunted each other; some dying quickly, others so grievously wounded they lay quiet, dying alone.

A man moved carefully in the drifting choking smoke, for to be seen would mean his death, as every shadow harbored a potential enemy. The mercenary company he had been attached to was gone; destroyed, as was the prince’s army. The man moved awkwardly, favoring his shoulder; a crude sling supporting the broken arm. The collapse of a dry riverbed bank had cost him his horse, his only means of escape. Breaking his arm in the fall, his sword had clattered off in the darkness from his suddenly useless hand. Unable to take the time to locate it, he scrambled for cover, cradling his injury. The pungent tainted air made him terribly thirsty. He knew there was a tiny spring near the embankment where his company had been dug in. Now, in the threatening sinister shadows, he tried to find this same place.

Sounds were all around, and he hugged the bank. His head cocked sideways, eyes bloodshot and stinging, he stared hard, trying to pierce the gloom; hoping to identify any threatening noise amongst the myriad assortment of sounds echoing about. He pushed up against the bank trying to blend into the darkness, making himself invisible. It was then he found the water he sought. Wearily dropping to his knees, he plunged his face through the floating ash and dirt to gulp warm brackish water. The snorting of a horse made him jump. Unable to tell if the rider was friend or foe, he frantically looked for a way to escape, but there was none. The wounded soldier dived for the hole the spring flowed from. He painfully squirmed on his stomach through the wet, grimy muck, and found himself in narrow tunnel. The claustrophobic crawlway tightened threateningly about him, and twice his body became firmly wedged. The injured man fought down the panic that hovered, ready to consume him. He fumbled awkwardly at his belt, his questing fingers grasping the dagger that hung there. His rapidly pounding heart skipping a beat as his arm lodged against his chest, stuck. Frantically working to free the trapped limb in the confining space, he whimpered when the strap on his haversack broke, quite unintentionally cut by the moving blade. He lay still, forehead in the grime as he steadied his breathing, waiting for his racing heart to steady and slow, then, he attacked the soft earth with the desperately won bit of metal. However, elation swiftly turned to despair when the dagger clinked on a hidden stone, shattering. His clawed fingers, digging frantically made headway. His breathing was harsh in the confined space; he could feel his blood pounding in his ears. Small rocks trickled onto him, and bits of earth wafted gently down. He blinked his rapidly tearing eyes to clear the grime that stuck there.

After wiping his face with a quick brush, from his torn and bloody sleeve and with an almost child-like sob he cried, Please God, help me!

Again, he attacked the debris holding him from freedom. He peered at the overhead, inches from his up turned face, and involuntarily thought of all the hundreds, or even thousands of feet of rock and earth that towered menacingly above him. Panic again threatened to rear its ugly head, and he had to ruthlessly fight down the terror of being buried alive, deep in the womb of the uncaring mountain; which would surely kill him, as quickly as any enemy’s sword.

After a fierce titanic struggle, he broke through into the bigger watercourse, falling into a torrent of rushing water. He gasped at the sudden coldness. The icy water quickly numbed his bruises, his torn bleeding fingers with shredded nails, and his broken arm. Gulping in great breaths of ‘fresh’ air, he lay, letting the soothing water wash over him. Suddenly gratefully to be alive he started laughing. The laugher started building, soon the hysterical noise echoed alarmingly off the stone tunnel. He rolled onto his stomach, eyes streaming tears from the fit he seemed unable to stop. Suddenly off balance, he toppled sideways, his injury smacking cruelly against the stone. Instantly blinding pain, shooting through every fiber of his body sobered him, allowing him to now to rein in the hysteria. After drinking his fill, the man stood awkwardly under the low ceiling, leaning against the uneven wall, supporting his injured arm. He stumbled off; it was time to make his way out of the hellish blackness. The man soon lost all sense of time or direction, but he kept moving. To quit now, would be to die, and the man had a strong desire to live.

Suddenly, rock began to shake and rumble. Dirt and other debris fell, accompanied by an ominous grinding noise from all around him. Without any warning, the stone gave way underneath him and he plunged down. His cry of surprise soon became one of pain. The thundering, crashing rocks and roaring, rushing water inundated his senses. The falling mass booming all around him drove out any fear in the need to survive. Battered and bruised, he desperately fought his way clear, then sank to the cold unyielding rock, and let darkness claim him.

Time had lost any meaning when he regained consciousness. The only thing that had any significance was pain. His body was racked with it. Everything he either touched or moved hurt, but the pain meant he was alive, for which he was grateful and gave silent thanks. Weakly he sat up. The water had drained away to form a small stream nearby. The man was thankful, for now at least his uniform had started to dry. He coughed in the cool air, blinking as sunlight probed his sensitive eyes. He glanced up at the light streaming in from a crack in the rock high above. From here it looked far too small for him to get out. He looked around. Seeing the cavern disappearing into the dark, the man dug into his bag and awkwardly pulled out a small candle, then the flint and steel. After a frustrating, agonizing few minutes, he succeeded in generating a comforting light to explore his new surroundings with. He followed the tunnel upwards, till he came to a pile of bones. From the look of them, they had been humanoid. The armor was now rotted and decayed, the weapons rusted. The man squatted on his heels and poked through the remains. He saw a glint in the flickering candlelight, so he moved closer, and putting the candle on the ground, picked up a crown. It was elaborately worked in the graceful flowing shape and design that the elves were noted for. It was a bit tarnished, but the rubies appeared flawless. He recovered the rapidly disappearing light source, now just a ball of wax. He found some half rotted torches in the pile of rubbish, and soon had the torches lit. The soldier, quickly casting around, found two more crowns of the same design; one with a black pearl and the third with a diamond. These looked to be extremely valuable. He took all three with him.

What attracted the man now, was the huge winged skeleton; it must have been close to thirty feet long where it disappeared under tons of rock. An ancient cave-in must have killed the dragon during the fight along with the hunters. The soldier idly wondered what titanic forces had been used. Maybe the combatants themselves had caused the collapse. But one thing was clear, the tunnel was blocked for good and there would be no way out. Despairing, the man turned and headed in the opposite direction. The tunnel opened into a massive cavern. Light poured from an oval hole in the roof, big enough for the dragon to fly through. This must be the crater of the silent giant that dominated the skyline near Marcastle Keep. It was this sleeping volcano that was responsible for the earthquakes in the area. That must be why the dragon had made its lair here, trusting that men would be afraid of an eruption.

Sun glittered off thousands of coins, some in chests, some in barrels and much, much more just scattered over the ground. The solider could see a couple wagons and even the remains of a mastless ship. The hoard also had armor, weapons of every sort from longbows to bastard swords. And what made the man’s heart leap; there was no rust that he could see. That could only mean one thing; they were magic. This dragon hoard would make any king give up his kingdom. The man sank to the ground, stunned by the enormity of what he had found. The sputtering torch started to singe his fingers, making him yelp in pain and surprise. He had enough money to buy and sell many of the kingdoms in the known world. Now, he could be the man he had always wanted to be.

Raiders had plundered his family’s coastal estate years ago. They had slaughtered most of the workers and his friends, taken his sisters and other girls captive, the same ones who had made him a slave for those many years. Things would change; someone would pay.

Sitting on the small mound of debris looking at the wealth strewn all around, he knew he was rich beyond his wildest dreams. Now, he began to think about what he could do with all this money. He was suddenly conscious of the stench of death that clung to him, the odor of dried blood and the smell of soot from the fires. The smeared mess down the front of his charred tunic was his friend, already dead even as the solider pulled him from the burning breastworks. The gruesome muck now dry and hardened. He suddenly gagged and bent forward, throwing up. Sitting back on his heels, his head sagged, and he closed his eyes in sorrow as he wiped the foul mess from his lips, spitting once to clear the fetid taste from his mouth.

He thought back over the last few months, the battle in the Meadow, the massacre at the Keep. He saw in his mind’s eye all the men he knew who had died. He re-lived again the day when his cavalry had run down the fleeing Dun-lyn soldiers, hacking and stabbing in a killing frenzy till they were all sickened by what they had done. There had been far too many deaths, and in light of all the death and destruction he had either witnessed or had been a part of, revenge didn’t seem so important now. No one could ever bring back his missing family, another dead friend, or give him back the fifteen years that had been stolen from him. For the first time in his life he had the ways and means to really make a difference. He straightened his back, suddenly determined that he would.

* * *

The Company

Bolinor d’Arcy walked through the dirt covered, rubbish-strewn streets of the port city of Coal Haven. The aromatic stench, both animal and human, pervaded everything and lingered in the clothing, and even the very pores of its people. Chimneys vomited black foul smelling smoke from dozens of stacks, the soot falling on the scenery below. The man, walking with long strides that ate up the distance, wrinkled his nose in distaste. This was one of the main reasons he stayed away from cities; but hard on the heels of that thought, the man knew in a day or so it wouldn’t even be worth a comment. The tall striking figure looked nothing like the soldier that had finally managed to climb from the dragon’s cave almost two months ago. His first course of action had been to splint his arm. It had still been sore but useable when he did finally leave. It had taken weeks of searching through all the stuff in the forsaken cave to find enough serviceable equipment. He had spent hours unraveling old rope and garments, and unpicking leather items and then splicing the bits and pieces together. Most of what had been found was too rotten, but in the end he had enough to help him climb out nearly five weeks later. The iron rations scrounged from disintegrating and tattered backpacks, ensured that he didn’t starve. The slit like cave entrance near the summit must have been the same one the hunters had used when they raided the dragon’s lair. It had been a good bet that the knowledge of the dragon had died with the adventurers, or the loot would have been taken long ago. Bolinor reasoned the secret should still be safe.

Bolinor had spent some days going through the gold and magical items, and when he left, took over thirty thousand gold pieces worth in gems. He wore one of the suits of plate mail armor that was pounds lighter than a normal set weighed. The broad sword was simple in appearance, but with a few practice swings, Bolinor knew he wouldn’t find a sword better balanced for him, unless one had been specially forged.

Bolinor now set about looking for men to hire for his own company. While the attack at Marcastle and Albert’s defeat made for a fascinating tavern story, and helped build him an interesting reputation, it didn’t encourage men to hire on, especially as he had been the sole survivor of the last mercenary company he had served with. The story which grew every time it was told, showed he could keep himself alive, but what about the soldiers who worked for him. So, he would have to do the next best thing, pay them extremely well.

Bolinor’s shoulder length blond hair was dancing in the light wind, most gave way to him, some eyeing his weapons, watched him warily. The man wasn’t rude or aggressive, but many paused or stepped aside for his sheer size; he stood well over six feet, weighed over two hundred pounds with no fat on his frame. What people did notice, was the smile, and in the filthy streets, he did more than one dance with an unobservant pedestrian. Certain women would call out, striking a suggestive pose, or simply opened the unbuttoned shirt they wore, the man would pause, his piercing blue eyes noting their charms, but in the end he smiled again and with a shake of his head, he moved on. It wasn’t that he didn’t like what he saw, he did. Bolinor loved the soft smooth skin of a woman, especially her breasts and the back of her knees. But he was a man on a mission. He knew it would take resolve and commitment to get what he wanted. He needed to find a place to live, and one he was able to use as a hiring hall. But first he would have a drink, for today was his twenty seventh birthday. Bolinor turned into the inn ‘The Whispering Gypsy’ and walked to the counter.

The innkeeper came from the back room; he was middle aged, and fat. Yes, good sir? His manner was obsequious.

I require a room; the best you have.

That will be five silvers for the night. The jowls wobbled in time with the bobbing head.

Bolinor bemusedly tossed the keeper a leather pouch. The innkeeper deftly caught the small bag. He looked inside and dumped out a dozen gold coins. The man gasped in astonishment. He looked at Bolinor strangely, plucking the coins for the correct amount and idly tossed the sack back, which Bolinor caught and eyed the innkeeper. Bolinor pocketed the pouch smiled approvingly. Feeling like he had just passed some unspoken test, the innkeeper coolly appraised Bolinor. Although he had put up with the fat jokes and the snide remarks about being lazy, the man was no dummy and his innate shrewdness knew the real thing when he saw it. Bolinor immediately stood out among the other patrons that had come through the inn. He knew instinctively that Bolinor was a true leader, and he knew that he wanted to be part of whatever he might build.

"I want a bath, and the best meals. My horse is being unloaded from the Flying Falcon down at the docks. I want him brought here and cared for," Bolinor said.

Yes, my lord. Anything else?

I would like for the word put out. I want good men and women to hire with a new mercenary company. If you don’t object I would like to use this inn as a point of contact.

Women? the innkeeper asked confused.

Yes, women. They can fight as well as any man can. Tell anyone interested I will pay double wages for the first fifty men. You do a good job and there will be something for your efforts. I will be back down shortly, and then I am celebrating. Today is my birthday, Bolinor said grinning as he went up to his room.

Early the next mooring Bolinor found his self sitting at the wooden table, it wobbled slightly, only three of the legs reached the ground as a single time. He thought a lot of the past months, cumulating with the cave in at the dragon’s lair. As so often happened, he couldn’t help thinking of the war that lead up to him sitting at this very table. Bolinor’s eye twitched at the memory. His brother had talked of the two of them joining one of the three companies being raised in Jasper to support the prince. It was like one of the grand adventures Bolinor used to play at when he was young, before the raiders came. Albert was King Harold’s brother, and the monarch had pledged his help. One thing the commander never understood, why were two royal princes of Jasper living in Blackwell? That Harold was up to something was evident, the situation stunk. But there was no one strong enough to challenge Harold, certainly not the aging king of Blackwell. Bolinor sat there lost in memory. Suddenly, a blinding flash of insight, of course, with the elderly king close to death, his queen just as frail, the rule of the land would fall to a young, slightly addled daughter. Harold was after Blackwell, and using his brother to get it. The other pressing question was, what the hell was the other brother, Hayden doing living in Blackwell as well? Bolinor thought bitterly, the king couldn’t use royal troops in Blackwell without raising suspicion, but he couldn’t leave Albert unsupported and lose the good size chunk of land he had been maneuvering to acquire. So reluctantly, he had sent mercenaries. Bolinor’s sibling had an ‘accident’, or so it had been claimed, and was unable to go to war. Later when ‘recuperating from his wounds’, Bolinor had learned his brother had lied to get him out of the way, even going so far as to releasing a pre-arranged death notice. Bolinor idly wondered if someone in the Black Lions was to make sure he didn’t return. Matthew loved the same girl Bolinor was to wed, and politics were rife in the royal court. Bolinor’s father was elderly and in poor health, and with his mind deteriorating, he was in no condition to match wits with the likes of Mathew and the king. Harold had agreed to the change of betrothal in return for the enormous support the name d’Arcy evoked. So deals were made in secret and Emily was Matthew’s prize for the taking. Bolinor had returned from the cave, too late to warn the sweet, fun loving Emily. When he found out the full extent of his brother’s treachery, through a loyal family retainer, Bolinor had renounced any claim to his family name, then took the first ship heading anywhere. The vessel’s next port of call happened to be Coal Haven in Blackwell.

Bolinor silently relived the final attack, looking for what had gone wrong. The enemy had appeared out of nowhere. They materialized inside the fortress, past field defenses. Over five hundred Black Lions died. Seventy-five of them had surrendered; they had all been callously butchered. Bolinor was the only one of the company to survive the massacre. Albert had been caught and executed and his land ruined. It wasn’t just occupied, the land itself, the stock, everything was wantonly destroyed. The only good thing that Bolinor remembered of the whole sordid affair, was that the Blackwell king wasn’t as senile as everyone thought. He had pulled off the political coupe of the year by secretly arranging for his daughter Mary to go to the Grand Duchy of Cr'Mere as the new Grand Duchess.

Late afternoon the next day found the hiring process going at a slow rate. The innkeeper, who Bolinor found to be named James, was as good as his word. It seemed every man and woman in the port came to the inn. Most were little better than thieves or beggars; they all fancied themselves good, but when Bolinor questioned them further, or asked for a demonstration, he found them sadly lacking in the skills he was looking for. Now fifty or sixty people and five tankards later, Bolinor was finishing for the day. The innkeeper had shut the door and begun to clean up the mess. He had done well on hopefuls. Some had waited hours, and they all had drunk a great deal. Bolinor turned at hearing the door open. James looked on in surprise for he had just locked the door himself.

The innkeeper recovered and quickly moved to the intruder. We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.

The newcomer was slim of build, and wore a dark green forester’s cloak that concealed the slight body.

Bolinor waved the innkeeper back as something about the stranger intrigued him. Come in, and be seated.

His curiosity was now awakened. The stranger moved like a wraith, and as he sat down he pulled the hood back. The man looked in his early twenties. When the newcomer turned to watch the seated man, long blond hair fell away from the slightly pointed ears. Bolinor felt his excitement rise. This man was a half elf. The commander offered the man a drink.

You are Bolinor d’Arcy, a noble of Jasper, sole survivor of the Black Lion Mercenary Company in defense of Prince Albert?

The comment of the fight that disastrous afternoon in the meadow made Bolinor’s attention wonder, again reliving the savage roar of the guns and the screams of the dying.

The elf’s voice snapped Bolinor out of his painful reverie. You seek men who will fight for your banner?

Bolinor nodded. That’s true. Only now I don’t go by my family name, he said, his voice bleak.

Bolinor’s thoughts strayed briefly; he never did find the name of the retainer who had come to him in the inn. The man was unknown to the commander.

Why do you raise this company? Do you have a score to settle? The man’s voice was light, like a leaf in a breeze.

Bolinor had to refocus, so he sat thinking for a minute. I did to start with. All I wanted was vengeance for my family and friends who were either killed or enslaved. I wanted revenge for what the barbarians from the north did to me, and what was taken from me as a child. But I found that after all the death the last few months, I have lost the need for revenge. There is a war coming; it will be a bloodbath with no winners. I know there are a lot of people who are going to need help, and when it is over, and the killing is done, I will seek the far unknown, to find my own place. Bolinor had leaned in the half elf’s direction, his voice, and his whole demeanor burning with conviction.

The half elf nodded. It is as I thought. I would fight for you, but hear me, if you ever betray my trust, or take money from evil, we will meet.

Bolinor reached over the table, and the two shook hands. What do I call you?

I am called Andrith. There is no one better with the bow.

Do you have a place to stay? Bolinor asked.

Andrith shook his head. It has been many a night I’ve slept in the open.

Bolinor smiled. Not tonight you won’t.

The next two days were a repeat of the first; thieves, bandits, and still more beggars all came looking for a place. Just when Bolinor began to despair of any worthy men, a man clomped in; mud caked his boots and was left behind in little soggy mounds. Dust and who knows what else flicked away whenever the man was brushed against. He didn’t seem to notice the flies that bothered the other patrons near him. He was dirty, bearded, his greasy hair was long and shaggy, and from the aroma about him, it had been a while since he had a bath. He stood shuffling from foot to foot, not quite sure what to do, but he moved with the line.

When he came to the table he said, I’ve come for hire, my lord.

Okay, what do you do? Bolinor decided to make it fast.

Me and my boys, err men, are knights, sir.

Bolinor almost laughed out loud, but a shake of Andrith’s head stopped him.

Okay, let’s see your horses, Bolinor said quickly making up his mind.

The man gaped at him, Yes, my lord.

Bolinor had to step back as the man talked, the fetid smell was just too much. He followed the man outside. There were nine other men waiting. They looked as dirty and scruffy as their spokesman did. The flies that followed the man from the inn joined the rest of their friends outside. The men looked more like bandits; Bolinor thought he had actually heard their names about. The commander went to their horses. The first was a bay gelding; it was strong in the chest and had a glossy hide. The tack and saddle were as shoddy as the riders, but the horse was in good shape, well cared for. Bolinor moved to the other mounts. Each rider looked and smelt as bad as their leader, Bolinor thought he could actually see something crawling through the hair of at least two of the riders, but each animal, like the first, was in good shape. These men had given up a lot to look after their horses. The half elf whispered in Bolinor’s ear. The man’s eyes widened.

You are John Roland, late of Prince Albert’s army? Bolinor asked quickly, thrilled to find another survivor.

Aye, my lord, came the embarrassed reply, along with more fidgeting.

These men had fought in the same crushing defeat that Bolinor’s company had. Like the commander, these men were all that were left of Albert’s regular army. John Roland and his men were from the Household Guard. They had stood with the prince right up to his capture, even through all the blunders and mistakes the man had made. Like Bolinor, John and his men had only left when there was nothing left to stay for. Both had taken an oath of loyalty and duty, and both had almost died for it.

Bolinor dropped some coins into a small bag. All right, go to the blacksmith. I want the animal’s properly shod and buy good tack. Then, get you and your men some decent armor and clean yourselves up. You all smell awful. Understand, captain?

Roland stood for a minute looking stupidly at his new employer, and then broke into a big smile. That will be a pleasure, my lord.

Bolinor thought the High Sheriff of this area would be grateful. Roland and his men had been one of his biggest headaches. They hadn’t been very good thieves, but they had certainly been persistent and tried hard.

The two men returned to the inn. Bolinor had gone his whole life trusting his judgment of people. His first impressions were usually the ones that turned out right. Now he was going to act on another judgment call. He knew the innkeeper was a bit of a rogue, but deep down the commander knew James was the man he wanted. The commander could see something inside the man who stood before him so eager to please. He needed more confidence, and the chance to bring out the real man Bolinor knew was within the flabby frame. James would then have what Bolinor wanted to get the job done.

James! Bolinor called out.

The innkeeper came forward bobbing his head respectfully, his manner uncertain and said, Yes, my lord?

Do you want a job? the commander asked.

Me? I run this inn, he answered confused.

Do you own it?

No, sir.

Do you want to own it? Bolinor persisted.

The man looked around. The place was tidy enough but far too small. The common room had tables only for about a dozen patrons; there was room upstairs for ten guests.

James said, Not really. If I were to own a place I would get something bigger, and better quality.

Well, do you want a job or not? Bolinor asked.

I’m not very good with a sword…

Bolinor cut him off, I need a supply officer, and paymaster, an honest one.

The man thought a minute, looked around the inn then nodded. Yes, okay! I will do it.

Good, your first job is to get supplies, tents, cooking gear and food for fifty men. I want new wagons and teams. When you get them, take them to the edge of town.

Bolinor watched the fat man hurry off then turned to the half elf and said, Come on, let’s tell the serving girl she’s in charge. He roared with laughter, and Andrith couldn’t help but smile as well.

Later that evening the two men found Roland’s camp right where Andrith said it would be. As they rode up, a soldier took the horses away. The ten men looked very different. They were clean and shaven, wore good clothes and plate mail armor hung on armor trees.

Bolinor was impressed even though John said, I’m sorry my lord, there’s not much money left.

It’s all right. It’s not cheap to start from nothing, it never is.

James hadn’t arrived yet, so the three men sat around the fire, each with a mug of ale, talking about the ex-knight’s contract. It was late that night when they heard the creak of wagons arriving. The whole group turned out to watch. Six wagons pulled up. James climbed down stiffly rubbing his backside. Bolinor looked confused, and then James hastened to explain.

Sorry I’m late, my lord. I bought the tents, and food, ¬three wagons worth. I also hired a cook, and helper, and a blacksmith. I had to get teamsters as well. Did I do all right? he asked, eager to please.

Bolinor roared with laughter. I didn’t think of that side of things but you’re right, we will need them. Well, James, you’re the captain of the headquarters company now. See to their placement.

Aye, my lord, James said as he hurried off, grinning with pleasure.

He turned to Roland, I hadn’t thought of that. All I wanted was men to fight.

The next week was spent training the men. Ten guards were hired for the headquarters unit. Everyone was put in chain armor, and made to practice with swords, even the teamsters.

When they complained Bolinor replied, Who will save your necks if we’re away? The simple logic worked, and the men trained with a will. The camp had a more military look now. Bolinor’s and James had a tent each, the latter doubled as his personal office, and the other tents were designed to sleep five each. The cook set up a big tarpaulin spread out from his wagon and transportable hearths, so the men would have somewhere covered to eat. The blacksmith unloaded the portable forge and anvil.

Bolinor wanted to install a military routine, so he had John draw up a watch roster for sentries. Each night Bolinor would take one of his ‘officers’ and let him select an item from the supply of magic equipment stored in the hold of the Flying Falcon.

Like Bolinor, Roland picked plate mail armor and a broad sword, while the half elf chose a longbow and James took a suit of chain mail armor and two daggers. Late one evening, the ‘Falcon’s’ captain came to camp.

Lord Bolinor, I’ve heard of a merchant that is looking to hire guards for protection a journey. The captain of the ‘Wicked Willy’ and I were talking last night; this man arrived yesterday.

Thank you, Captain Phillips. Unload what gear you have left, and then you can start looking for a cargo.

Will do, my lord, the captain said, and then he left.

Do you own the ship? James asked as he came up.

I do. But I no longer require its use. So the captain will do what he can to get a good cargo.

Is he on commission?

Yes, if he gets a good cargo, I will get ten per cent. Come on let’s see this merchant.

The jobs over the next five weeks were like the first, merchants traveling to nearby villages and towns, usually a four to six day trip. The knights were the only unit they had, so the work fell to them with Andrith scouting. The pay was one hundred pieces of silver. The work was routine with no chance to do anything exciting.

James came to see Bolinor one evening. My lord, I suggest we leave for a bigger city. Why not go down to the border.

Bolinor winced at the title, of ‘Lord’. He’d never really got used to it.

The commander nodded. I’ve been thinking of the same thing over the last couple of days. We need more troops and bigger jobs. Now, except for the initial outfitting, this company will have to run off its earnings.

James nodded and said, There is a city near Jasper’s borders that might have more possibilities.

We’ll strike camp and head south tomorrow, Bolinor said.

When word of the move was announced, one of the teamsters came forward. M’ lord, some of the men have women and children. He stopped and started to shuffle his feet.

Yes, they can come, but they will have to pull their weight.

The teamster gave his head a little bob, Thank you M’lord, I’ll tell the others.

Tell your friends they have the night to get things organized.

For five days the company moved south. Their numbers had swelled to fifty. Late the second day when the company had stopped for the night three men approached Bolinor. The commander recognized them as the blacksmith and two teamsters. The blacksmith was a big towering man with shoulders wider than the commander’s.

M’lord, can we have a minute? His voice came deep from within.

Bolinor waved them into his tent. What can I help you with?

The man seemed uneasy and not sure what to say. One of the teamsters prodded him. The big man jumped and looked to his friends for support.

We were in the relief column that was going to Albert’s Keep when we were ambushed at Answorth Meadow. If it hadn’t been for you, and the cannon guy, we wouldn’t be here now and we know it. The man seemed embarrassed by his admission.

The other teamster spoke up, What he’s trying to say is, thank you for saving our lives, and that of our women. That’s the reason we’re here now.

The blacksmith stepped forward. We wanted you to know. Bolinor nodded, touched.

He hadn’t thought much about the battle in the last couple of months. He had found some nights hard though; the dead of that fight seemed to haunt his sleep.

Thanks, you don’t know how much this means.

More than one man brought their women folk. Some of the men were glad to get away from the life they had grown tired of.

The third night out, James approached Bolinor. Commander there are a few of the women and youngsters who want some kind of training. They want to be able to protect themselves in an emergency.

It wasn’t too unreasonable a request; most of the girls knew what fate would await them if they were taken as spoils in combat.

Good idea, we’ll see what can be done.

Shortly after that, Andrith started instructing the new arrivals in the use of the bow. Some of the teamsters wanted to learn to be soldiers and some of the younger men and women had a knack with animals, so after a job change around, they all began settle to their new duties.

The fifth night they stopped at Fort Genarth.

James went to Bolinor. This is the last town of any size. The next one is Castle Edgemont, about ten days over the border in Jasper.

How are things shaping up anyway?

The ex-innkeeper shrugged. Bolinor noticed the man had lost a lot of weight. We’ve twenty foot assigned to the headquarters unit as guards. There are fifteen of the townspeople, who with a bit more training will make good archers. The real thing we’re lacking is proper foot soldiers. Light Cavalry wouldn’t go amiss, neither would a healer.

Bolinor dismounted and looked appraisingly as the people moved around making camp.

I know! That’s a worry I’ve had as well. But we’ll just have to make do, anything else?

James said, Some of the men want a name.

The commander looked at his captain in surprise and blurted, What?

Some of the men what to know what banner they will fight under, they want a name.

The commander never really considered it before so he paused, deep in thought for a moment. If it weren’t for the dragon’s gold, none of this would be possible. He rubbed the scare near his left eye.

The Dragon Legion, he finally announced.

Okay! I’ll get the women to make some flags. Any color?

Gold dragon on a black background, Bolinor muttered, thinking of the stygian blackness of the lair and then seeing all the gold glittering in the wan light.

James then asked, How long do you want to stay? I suggest four days. I would like to check the gear, replace what’s needed. We should let the rabble here know we’re interested in hiring.

Bolinor said, I guess we could spend some time here. It’s not like we’re going anywhere in a hurry.

Despite the fact the training was going well, and the company was shaping up, they were too small and undermanned to make any kind of significant impact on the countryside as a whole. Bolinor went off to his tent; it had been a long day. James hurried to find John.

Did you get an answer? the captain asked.

The Dragon Legion, gold dragon on a black background. You have your four days. Let me know how much it will cost and I’ll…

John cut him off, No, the boys want to do it themselves. Roland hurried off calling for his sergeant.

Fort Genarth was a fort in name only. It used to be a military garrison guarding the only ford crossing of the Snake River into the Kingdom of Jasper. But relations had been peaceful now for almost fifty years. The old wooden fort was gradually taken apart and now only a ruined shell remained. A thriving town grew up around the old site. Bolinor and Andrith rode into town. By most standards it was crude and rustic, but the buildings were in good condition. The people looked healthy and well clothed and fed. What was most surprising were the streets. They were clean; they had been built slightly raised and rounded so the water ran into gutters to carry rubbish and refuse, both human and animal, away from town.

After turning their mounts over to a stable hand, they walked into the nearest tavern and sat down. A buxom serving girl with flowing red hair came over. She wore the traditional clothing of this area, her blouse was low cut and her plentiful décolletage was creamy and unblemished. Her skirt was long and wide and when she walked, it swayed and swished. Her long shapely legs were hinted at through the material of the dress where it clung to her as she moved. When she bent over to place mugs on the table, she went a little lower than needed in front of Bolinor; the two men had a glimpse of shapes exotic and tantalizing. The commander shifted in his seat. The girl gave him a ‘there could be more’ smile and left.

The half elf kicked him under the table. You’ll get yourself in trouble.

Watching her move among the crowd, the way she proudly held herself, the commander knew his friend was right. Again the commander squirmed; it had been a while now. He couldn’t help but watch her.

The barkeeper came over and asked, You Commander Bolinor?

Bolinor jerked his eyes away from the woman; he blushed in surprise and his voice cracked a bit when he answered, Yes, what can I do for you?

There are two groups waiting for you. One is upstairs and the other waits on the river bank.

Bolinor flipped the man a gold coin. His eyes lit up with unexpected delight.

Thank you, and can you spread the word that we’re hiring? Bolinor asked.

It will be a pleasure, sir. Oh, I’ve sent young Clint up for the guest.

Bolinor nodded his thanks, and grateful for the interruption, bent to his mug. The men had finished their ale when two people came downstairs.

Andrith jumped up and exclaimed, Cloe. She turned out to be the half elf’s sister. The woman’s curly light brown hair was cut quite short. Her leather tunic and forester’s cloak couldn’t hide her slender nicely proportioned figure. They talked for a minute in a language unknown to the human.

Andrith turned and said, Commander, this is my little sister, Cloe. She brings news from my village.

At the mention of her home, Cloe sank down on a chair and leaned on the table. There is no village now. Raiders burned the trees months ago. The survivors were carried off. Manera was the only one to escape.

The other person pulled the hood from her face. Andrith and Bolinor gasped. Manera was petite, and at just over five feet, shorter than her companion. Her whole demeanor radiated elegance and gracefulness. The pointed ears of a true elf showed through her silky, waist length, silvery blond hair. The Elven woman wore a pale green dress made of gossamer with long trailing skirts, a pleated bodice, and large flowing sleeves with scalloped edges. At her tiny waist was a girdle of silver threads twisted together to make a striking belt. The neckline formed a gentle curve downward and was decorated with hand sewn small delicate flowers of a darker green. A cloak, which gently brushed the floor, was trimmed in ermine, and seemed to change color whenever she was near another object; it was fastened in front by a simple gold brooch.

Cloe looked up glumly and said, I was assigned to help her gather herbs; when we saw the smoke.

Her last words, ‘we saw the smoke’ had said it all. There was nothing more devastating than for an Elven village to be wiped out, and the people taken into slavery, but to have the trees burned as well was adding insult to injury. Her voice caught, and tears seeped from her hazel eyes.

I’m sorry, I would have thought over the past couple of weeks there would be no tears left, Cloe sniffed.

We have heard of a mercenary company with a half elf scout headed this way, so we thought we could wait and ask, Manera added. Her voice was light and musical, and like the woman herself, delicate.

Bolinor stood and bowed slightly. Mistress, you are welcome to our little group. If you are who I think you are, you are doubly welcome, as we need a healer.

She closed her eyes and nodded her thanks with a tilt of her head.

Cloe is my apprentice, she said.

You are both welcome. Andrith will see you to the camp. I have something else I must attend to.

Manera said, I must thank you again. The weeks here have been a torment of uncertainty. My people are a proud, stiff-necked race, commander, and more often than not have refused to help the humans. Our village was one of three settled by my kin that wanted to change how our people are seen. As a result of our past, the people of this town do not like the Elven race much. And at times I have feared for our safety.

Well, you have nothing to fear now, Bolinor said reassuringly.

The river was a short distance away, and when he rode up Bolinor sat in speechless surprise. He could see field cannons, like the ones he had seen at the royal castle in Jasper.

It’s about time you got here, you horse thief, boomed the giant figure of a man, standing up from a log in front of a fire.

Bolinor swung down grinning broadly. Donald DeMonfort, where did you come from?

The man was as tall as Bolinor, but had bright red hair and a full beard. His deep-set eyes under thick bushy eyebrows made him look truly evil, till he smiled. Like the men around him he was dressed in a pullover woolen tunic, leather breeches and knee high hard black boots.

What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since the battle of Answorth. Bolinor clasped the other man’s arm.

Bloody good time we had, even if we did lose that one. It seems Albert wanted these new toys but found he couldn’t wait for us to get them into position. The bloody bastard’s rotting in hell now, but then you know that. Since he was dead, the guns have become mine by right of possession. I have them and none of the other cheap bastards want them. When I heard you were coming, I thought I would wait and take a chance with you. The last sentence was almost a question, asked a bit slowly. He shook his head slightly.

Bolinor didn’t know what the hell he would do with two field guns, but instead asked, What have you got?

Donald’s face lit up and he replied, Two guns, two wagons to tow them, two powder and shot wagons and ten men for crews, five per gun.

All right, Bolinor sighed, we’re camped over by the cut off. We’ll be there for four days. Get your gear over sometime tomorrow. He reached out to grasp Donald’s out stretched hand, I’m glad you made it, the commander replied solemnly.

Donald nodded and said, We have a lot to catch up on. I’ll see you soon.

Bolinor remounted and rode back to camp. Great, he thought. His company was the size of most villages. They now had a healer and two bloody big guns, but no bloody foot yet. He shook his head angrily and spurring the horse, picked up the pace.

Late that evening as the camp slept around him, Bolinor sat by the fire, a mug of ale in his hand and thought of Donald. He had met the man when after two weeks of fighting, reinforcements were to be sent to Albert from Jasper. Donald had been in command of four field guns and a detachment of archers. Bolinor had command of the forty strong cavalry screen. They had camped in the Answorth Meadow for the night. Near dusk, one of the cavalry patrols had come thundering into camp. The riders stopped their horses so quickly most reared in protest. The army of Dun-lyn had sent a column through the pass to hit Albert from behind. The four officers present took hasty stock of the situation. There were almost two hundred women and children with the baggage detail, fifty heavy foot, twenty archers, the four cannons and Bolinor's cavalry. There were three thousand men in the attacking force. Preparations were quickly made to get the baggage train moving. But if they were to escape, the enemy would have to be slowed down.

The Colonel in command of the relief column wanted to abandon the others and save the soldiers, including himself. The other three officers quickly shouted him down. It was decided that Donald would deploy one battery hidden in the hills and the other on the open meadow with the archers. The spearman would form up behind the guns and the cavalry would hide in the forest almost directly across from the hidden battery. It was late afternoon when the head of the attacking force arrived. There was no fanfare, or ‘do you surrender’, they quickly formed up and charged. Bolinor shook his head, even now he could still remember the nerve shattering noise the guns made; how it echoed off the hills. At long range, the metal shot bounced once before the advancing soldiers and then turned the neat ranks of proud men into harvested chaff. Dozens were torn to pieces. With a crimson spray, limbs and equipment were thrown in a dozen different directions. The enemy charged on and soon the archers opened fire.

The battery in the meadow was able to get off one more shot that tore more ragged and gruesome gaping holes in the ranks. Just as the charging mass was about to break on the defenders, like the sea on a rocky shore, the hidden battery opened up with canister shot. If the steel balls were deadly, canister was horrible. Thousands of little lead projectiles devastated the close packed mass of humanity. Hundreds were cut asunder. The charge wavered, and then Bolinor's cavalry smashed in from the other flank. The attackers broke, routing back the way they had come, throwing weapons away to flee faster; the horsemen hard on their heels, hacking and stabbing in frenzied motion. In the end, the slaughter was so horrible that Bolinor's men were sickened by it.

The cavalry slowed and stopped in the middle of the meadow. The spent horses were blowing hard as the riders gazed in morbid stupefaction at the carnage. Over two thousand men and dozens of horses lay shredded and maimed. Only a very few moved and not many cried out. Bolinor could hear a rhythmic pounding and looked to see mounted men funneling into the valley, and fanning out, moving up both sides. Their cavalry had arrived. Bolinor stood in his stirrups for a quick look and could see the baggage train gone, and the surviving guns hitched up. Bolinor wheeled his command and trotted up to the spearman. He found the cowardly Colonel had fled with about thirty of the infantry. The commander ordered the senior officer, a Lieutenant Sinclair, to withdraw with what was left of his men. Bolinor's cavalry covered the retreating infantry and field guns. They came across the remains of the spineless Colonel and his men. Another wing of the enemy cavalry had caught them as they ran for safety. There had been no effort made to maintain order and discipline, they had run like frightened children. That mistake cost every man his life.

The three officers finally caught up with the baggage train. They just stood near each other gathering what strength they could. Bolinor shook the two men’s hands and ordered Lieutenant Sinclair to escort the women and supplies to the nearest town, Coal Haven. Donald would continue to Albert’s Keep, as would Bolinor. As it turned out, Donald never arrived in time. They found what was left of the prince’s army two day later, or rather what was left after the crows and other predators had had their fill.

Bolinor wiped a tear from his face. He would never forget what had happened that day, even if he lived to be a hundred. The final battle hadn’t been so bad. At least that attack, and the dreadful result, had been hidden under the cover of darkness, and not laid out in stark relief under the warm shining sun. He could still hear the bees buzzing around the tall sun flowers growing in such abundance in the fertile ground. Bolinor rapidly stood and angrily tossed the remaining ale into the fire with a hiss and a brief roar that shot flames three feet high. He stalked off to his tent suddenly needing to be alone. The sentries could only watch and wonder.

Late the next morning brought a bit of excitement with the arrival of Donald’s cannons. The rest of the Legion turned out to stare or make rude comments. The field gun was a strange weapon. No one really trusted them, as a lot of the time they simply blew up, or as often as not, they just carved big chunks out of the earth. More important to the front line troops, the shot often fell short. When they did work, the big metal ball left a swathe of destruction cutting through the enemy troops. Donald used to try and explain that using the guns required an art or ‘gift’ as he called it. He tried to reassure people that these weapons were different; Dwarven armorers had built them and the Dwarven Master Gunners had trained his men. But now, he just said nothing. And if anyone did anything to his toys, they would find ten angry men descending on them. Whenever they camped the two pieces were unhitched, just in case. The big redhead had devised a form of block and tackle mounted in the rear of each tow wagon to help with the handling of the heavy cannon. Donald bragged his men, could unlimber the gun and get the first shot off within ten minutes. People scoffed and jeered, but he only smiled quietly. The stay stretched into five days due to an ‘accident’ with one of the wagons.

That evening six barbarians rode into camp. Their leader, a bare chested young man, had his head shaved except for a long ponytail. His cheeks had bolts of lightning tattooed, and he carried lightning in the form of ritualistic scaring on each side of his chest. The other five were dressed as the leader, except they had no face markings. They rode with a strange kind of dignity. All moved with a fluid grace that spoke of years in the saddle. They stopped in front of Bolinor’s tent. The leader dismounted as the commander emerged.

The barbarian spoke, Greetings and well met. I am Hawk, son of Little Eagle, Chief of the Nastasa.

He stopped as if that explained everything. Bolinor was impressed. Everyone knew of the Nastasa. It would be safe to say they were the finest horsemen there were.

Come in, Hawk.

The nomad followed the commander into his tent. Hawk didn’t bath often that was for sure.

We work for you, Bolinor of the Dragon Legion.

Gladly, but why? Your people are the proudest, the mightiest horsemen around. I thought you worked for no man.

Hawk drew himself up. You have Isualdy here, mighty healer. You must be a man of great honor to protect one such as her. Hawk of the Nastasa owes a great debt to Isualdy. I, too, am a man of honor. Again the statement was all that needed to be said.

You and your men are welcome. You can camp any place you wish.

I see you. Then Hawk left.

Bolinor turned to Andrith. What was that all about?

The Nastasa name for the Elves is Isualdy. One of them in the past must have saved Hawk’s life. Now that Mistress Manera is here, he thinks protecting her will repay that debt.

Just after the evening meal the knights returned. Bolinor stared. Each rider had a short heavy lance; they all carried an oval shield with a black background and a gold dragon. Each wore a black surcoat with the same gold dragon and one trooper carried a large flag with the now familiar black background, and the gold dragon rampant flapping in the breeze. Bolinor felt a knot in his throat.

James came forward. There was a last minute problem, or the shields would have been ready yesterday. The boys wanted to do it. They paid for the shield device and the surcoat. Everyone chipped in for this. James handed the commander a cloth bundle. Some men hurried forward to unfold it. The flag was four foot by six foot; this time the gold dragon wore a helm and held a long sword.

He looked at one of the men holding the spread flag. Marath, find a pole for the flag.

The man’s face lit up. We’ve already have one.

It took but a minute to attach the flag to the pole; it was raised above the company while everyone cheered.

At such an important milestone, Bolinor had to clear his throat several times in order to speak. Thank you, he said sincerely.

I’ve hired some more people. I’ve got a standard bearer and the woman who did the sewing for the flag will come along. I also hired a tailor, a leather worker and carpenter. They’ll be here later today or tomorrow.

The next morning, they slipped into the old routine of being up before dawn; the men were fed and wagons loaded, and the field