Iron City & the Sword of Death

By Melvin Karew

The final chapter. Ariadne, refugee princess, has completed the quests to gain knowledge, power and protection. She can now face Grimlindus, the general, necromancer and suave lord of evil, who wields the all-powerful Sword of Death. But Grimlindus has raised his armies and is preparing to invade the west. Their first mission is to conquer the Esengater, the Iron City, held by the female knights of the Order of the Dragon Slayer. Ariadnes companions travel to the corners of the Westland to raise the forces to stop him. They are in a race against Grimlinduss demons, sorcerers and assassins, who are trying to stop the west from mobilising. Meanwhile, Ariadne travels to the Mystic Isles to forge the weapon that she will use in the final battle: Sword of Life. Because, in the end, it will be a duel between the Sword of Life and the Sword of Death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479784165

Melvin Karew

Melvin Karew was born in 1969 in the outer suburbs of Sydney, Australia. He describes himself as a balding, middle aged, mildly overweight office worker. He lives in Sydney with his two sons and his Labrador. His writings explain who he really is.

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Copyright © 2013 by Melvin Karew.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4797-8415-8

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4797-8416-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

BOOK IX:

IRON CITY

BOOK X:

THE SWORD OF DEATH

APPENDIX

INDEX OF CHARACTERS

Dedication

for Nick the Bear, for his invaluable support and assistance

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BOOK IX:

IRON CITY

IRON CITY

It is the second week of summer and the heat settles down onto the city of Esengater.

The city sits on an isolated hill of the Westland, two days hard ride from the River Cribbe. To its east lies a broad open plain, dotted with a couple of hillocks but otherwise flat. Its views to the west are filled with a tangle of tree-covered hills and gullies, with broken tracks and brush-covered ground. To the north and south the land transitions from the open, peasant-cultivated plain of the east to the broken forest of the west, with thinly wooded forests utilized by the peasants for hunting, the raising of pigs and the gathering of mushrooms.

The city is built on three circles that surround a huge, multi-storeyed keep. The first circle is surrounded by a massive wall, one hundred feet tall and twelve feet deep, that circles the hill halfway up its height. Eight towers, each topped with a circular spike rooftop, line this wall, and wooden embrasures cover the top of the huge wall. A walled barbican sits in front of the only gateway to this wall. The entire wall, except for the barbican, is surrounded by a huge ditch, which is filled with heavily thorned bushes.

The second wall is both shorter and slightly thinner. It is surrounded by a murky moat of slimy, scum-filled water, which can only be crossed by a single drawbridge. The top of this wall is covered with giant catapults, ready to fire in support of the front wall. The buildings between the first and the second wall are all wooden garrisons, the homes of the female knights of the order of the Dragon Slayers. This part of the city has narrow cobbled streets and small training courtyards, a tight sector designed for training and worship.

Behind the second wall, the houses are more tightly packed, being only accessible on foot or by donkey. These houses are for the artisans, the blacksmiths, the armourers and the fletchers. There is a huge building in this section of the city, a large stone hospital. The streets are narrow and winding, difficult to navigate for the uninitiated.

The third wall is shorter than the second, but is still very thick, built of huge stone blocks. It is accessed via three gates, each barely taller than a man. The gates are made of solid steel. Behind each gate, huge stone blocks hang from chains, designed to drop down and block the doorway should the need arise. Behind this third wall there are low, squat buildings with earthen-covered roofs, all being warehouses filled with grain, corn, dried fruits and salted meats. There are a few courtyards, each centred around a well that reaches down into the hill to an underground stone water tank.

The keep itself is several storeys high, peaked with the pointed tower roofs and dotted with slim windows. It is filled with small sleeping cells, the homes of the inner circle of the Order of the Dragon Slayers. Unlike the keeps of petty lords, there are no large banquet or church halls. Instead, there are only a few dining rooms or chapels.

Outside of the outer walls to the city, covering the lower half of large hill on which the city sits, there are usually many houses and other dwellings—the homes and shops of the peasants that work the fields to the east. Instead, it is covered in fire and black smoke, with all the peasants’ huts burned to the ground. Being the second week of summer, the peasants would ordinarily be trekking into the fields to feed their livestock or inspect their crops, while the knights would be training in the city, preparing to move indoors when the sun rises too high. Instead, the peasants are huddled inside the city, housed between the second and third walls, while their livestock has all been moved into the first part of the city, amongst the soldiers’ barracks, where the streets have been blocked off by wooden planks, turning them into makeshift corrals. The black and silver armoured knights stand on the outer wall, surveying Grimlindus’s army that spreads out across the field. Amongst the knights there are other soldiers, tall men with brown hair and beards, all dressed in chainmail or thick leather hauberks, and armed with crossbows, pikes and broadswords.

Morlindus the sorcerer prince, Matthui the viscount knight, Behrtygha the steppe warrior, Krenulf the spymaster and two others stand on the outer wall, just near the barbican. All but Morlindus are wearing helmets and also thick hauberks covered with pieces of plate. Matthui is in his traditional plate mail, carries a broadsword in his right hand and a huge face covering helm under his left armpit. Morlindus carries his shining staff; Behrtygha carries his eastern bow and has a heavy scimitar sheathed on his belt. Krenulf carries a spatha broadsword, wears an open-faced helmet and has a small wrist-crossbow strapped to his forearm. One of the two others is a dark haired woman, dressed in silver armour as heavy as Matthui’s, and also carries a helm. The second person is a large, heavyset man with a thick beard. He carries a huge crossbow and wears a broadsword on his hip.

They survey the field, the burnt wrecks of siege towers, the piles of dead bodies at the base of the wall and the charred remains of scaling ladders. In the distance, the catapults of Grimlindus’s army fire huge rocks at the city. Many fall inside the first wall, crushing the barracks and killing livestock. A few pass even beyond this, smashing into the second wall or beyond, where the peasants are seeking sanctuary. There are also large wooden frames placed at intervals around the wall, square planks with a single arrow slit in the centre, where goblins and northerners fire arrows up at the city.

It will not take long for those dverger to mine under the wall, the large man says glumly. We should lead an assault out onto them and try to burn them.

Perhaps tonight, says Morlindus, if those goblins do not cut us down.

Moloff and Kotaro have not returned today, says Behrtygha. Has anyone seen them?

The friends shake their heads glumly. They notice the large gathering of forces in the distance, behind the rows of catapults. A woman rushes across the wall to the group of five. She is dressed in armour similar to the woman that is amongst them.

A message arrived from the Duke d’Avienne last night? says the woman. It was fired over the western wall by one of our scouts in the woods, but only discovered half-an-hour ago.

Is Avienne coming to assist us? asks the woman that is with them. The other woman shakes her head.

No, she says. The Duke and his baronets and knights were on their way, but they were attacked by a band of horsed northmen that were patrolling to the west. After a bitter fight, they fled back to the walled town of Clon, to the west.

If Esengater falls, says Matthui, Clon will soon follow.

I am sure that the Duke will have vacated it by then, says Krenulf. Look, here they come, and the dragon is with them again.

The party watches as Grimlindus’s horde advances, under the cover of the goblins’ arrows. Even at the distance, Morlindus can make out the soldiers: giant nubian, Sauvage and Zeleian warriors armed with scimitars and war-clubs; bandit-mercenary and Neuthonic footmen with swords, halberds and poleaxe; huge blond northern barbarians with horned helmets and two-headed axes; and massive minotaurs, ogres, bugbears and hobgoblins. It is not the column of warriors that makes those on the wall gasp, but what precedes the column. The huge green dragon crawls across the field towards them. Its wings are broken, torn and burnt, filled with spears and arrows. The beautiful Arimazhian dragon rider, Rhavnhork, sits on the dragon’s head and stares up at the city.

In front of the dragon there is a huge log, twenty feet long and covered in plate armour. Six wheels, each as tall as a man, are fitted around the log’s base, turning it into a wheeled battering ram. The dragon has its nose to the back of the battering ram and pushes it along to increase its velocity. A team of armoured soldiers runs on each side of the ram, ensuring that it stays on course. The battering ram moves easily across the uneven battlefield and up the hill towards the barbican. The archers and crossbowmen on the city wall fire at the dragon and the ram, but most arrows and bolts fall harmlessly short or bounce off the dragon’s scales and the men’s plate armour.

The battering ram gathers momentum. The dragon puts it nose in on the ground, with the top of its head behind the ram. Morlindus chants. The dragon steps forward without moving its head, so that its neck coils like that of a snake. Morlindus’s staff begins to glow. The dragon flicks up its head, causing the battering ram to fly forward. The dragon follows this with a blast of its breath, spilling noxious vapours up at the defenders. Light flows from Morlindus’s staff and forms a shield in front of both the cloud and the ram. The cloud is stopped, billowing in the air, but the rams shatters the sorcerous shield and Morlindus grunts in pain. The battering ram continues its forward momentum and crashes into the doors to the barbican, smashing them completely from their hinges. It continues on through, smashing through the second set of doors and then into the city beyond, crushing a building as it does so.

The seven on the wall are screaming and running, shouting orders to the other defenders. Knights and crossbowmen rush to fill the breach. Behind the battering ram, the column of soldiers waits, milling around the feet of the dragon, as the cloud of gas dissipates, rising up and into the sky. Inside, the defenders grab lances, spears and pikes and form a defensive wall.

The dragon roars and leaps up at the wall around the barbican. Its huge claws dig into the top and it pulls its weight up behind it, scrambling its back feet as they look for purchase on top of the wall. Below, through the broken gates, the column of giant warriors charges into the spears of the desperate defenders.

*     *     *

Three months prior: It is the last week of winter and the snow has just started to melt in the Druid Wood, causing the fields to be covered in thin, cool puddles.

Good luck with your mission into Canrolinquia, says the Great Druid. His half-nymph consort stands next to him. He is speaking with Ralphius, who is dressed in heavy black and grey robes. To the druid’s left, Saddahu is bidding farewell to Coltello. He wears western clothing, with a skullcap and mail undershirt, and has his damascene blade strapped to his belt, his shiny new hook on his left hand and his patch over his left eye. The very pregnant Lorin Clearwater stands with the mare, Windspirit, behind the couple. A huge stallion stands behind Coltello, next to two other horses.

To the druid’s right, Su Tien bids farewell to Silver Hawk, who is carrying her young baby to her breast. Aflen, her breasts and stomach becoming plumper, stands behind Silver Hawk. Su Tien wears the clothing that she had stolen from Alamutia: black turban wound around her head; a grey-black robe with sleeves to cover the arms, and with slits that go up each leg; long silken gloves that cover up past her elbow; and long silken stockings that cover her feet, shins and knees, but leave the upper part of its shapely legs bare. She has an assortment of knives and curved short swords strapped around her body, her belt and her back, including Tomen’s nunchaka and two straight swords, and several of Alamutia’s three-bladed throwing weapons.

Our mission is probably the simplest, says Ralphius. The Canrolinquians will not need to be convinced of the need to fight, as the other lands will be. The main issue will be whether they have the means to fight.

Any resistance would be useful, says the Great Druid. What path will you take?

To Orphoigne first, responds Ralphius, where ‘Captain’ Coltello can meet with the Margrave and advise of the situation. Then we will go through the edges of the Savagelands, to speak with the Bordermen and the Landgrave of Thurgia. We will leave the Margrave of Gurboghialand to the end.

Let us hope that the Guboghian Margrave does not again try to play politics, says the druid. I am still curious that you did not go to Esengater, to assist in its defences.

Ralphius sighs. I am just a shadow of my former self. The many months without form changed that. My skills would be better served outside the battlefield that within, as would Su Tien’s.

I trust that they will, says the Great Druid. May the Earthmother protect you.

Ralphius nods and turns from the druid and his wife, to the three horses that are waiting for them. He slips up onto the horse. Coltello kisses Saddahu passionately on the lips, allowing his good hand to slide around her and massage her buttocks. She is sobbing as he pushes away from her; he then slips up onto the horse’s back. He bends down again to kiss the woman on the lips.

Take care, my husband, she whispers.

And to you, he responds. I will return to you.

And I will be here.

He pulls the horse’s rein back and turns it around, to trot over to Ralphius.

Su Tien has kissed Silver Hawk’s baby on the forehead. The girl looks up at the oriental assassin with knowing eyes. Su Tien smiles and kisses Silver Hawk on the cheek and turns to leave. She half catches Aflen’s eye as she turns. The elfin former thief makes a step forward, with her arms half up as though about to walk over to embrace the leaving assassin. Su Tien nods to the elf without smiling and then strides off to the waiting horse.

The three riders make one last salute to the druid, the mothers and the sobbing wife, and turn their horses to leave.

So that is it, says the druid’s wife as they watch the trio depart, the last group to leave on its mission. Let’s hope that they all succeed. I wonder how the others are doing.

*     *     *

You have hardly touched your ale, Pharos, says Riothamis. Why are you so glum?

He has women troubles, Riothamis, interjects Yveiette. Leave him alone.

The three companions are sitting around a table in an inn. The room is lighted only from one fire, which causes shadows to play over its interior. Yveiette wears a long, blue dress and has her hair tied up behind her in a long plait that winds down her back. Riothamis and Pharos wear their heavy armour, covered with thick travelling cloaks—Riothamis’s armour had been acquired after his return to Pranseille, while Pharos’s is a mismatch of a Grimlindian hauberk covered with Akkaian cuirass and other pieces. Their helmets are with their packs.

Pharos is hunched over and staring at a mug of ale.

I think that the Lady Yveiette has a very good imagination, Pharos says without looking up from the ale.

Do not be coy, says Yveiette with a smile. It is not the women troubles that are the mystery, it is which woman is troubling you at this moment?

Really? says Riothamis. Do you have multiple women troubles, my friend?

What are you talking about? says Pharos, his eyes darting to the dragon-lady. She catches his gaze and smiles.

I am wondering whether you are unhappy that Lady Avylin, your wife and, by some accounts, your recent lover, chose to accompany Hank Hammerfist on his mission into Aetolia. Or are you distressed that Astartu, my sister, did not choose you to accompany her into the Pasturelands?

Astartu? says Pharos with a raised eyebrow.

She mentioned that you and she flirted much when you travelled out of the Elfinlands, and also when she travelled with you to Pranseille.

Well, sisters will talk, says Pharos, and women, whether they be young humans or much older dragons, will entertain egocentric fantasies about the impact that their beauty has on a man.

So it is Avylin, says Riothamis.

I think that he is protesting too much about my sister, says Yveiette.

I think that we should talk more on the mission at hand, says Pharos. How can we get Thauria turned around to our side?

Who runs the country? says Riothamis. Who are the powerful lords?

It is an absolute monarchy, says Yveiette.

More like a feudal oligarchy, says Pharos. The King is the formal owner of all the lands in Thauria, but much of it is held by his barons, who are his primary tenants. The barons owe him allegiance for this privilege, but the knights owe allegiance to the barons, not the King.

Except for the King’s personal household knights, corrects Yveiette. In any event, the current King is very popular amongst the barons. That is not the problem that I perceive. I am not sure that the Thaurians will want to fight beside the Aetolians.

Their war happened a long time ago, Yveiette, says Pharos.

What are you talking about? says Riothamis.

Aetolia used to rule Thauria, says Pharos. "The Thaurians were knights of the Order of Aetoile that had been assigned to the land as castellans of the Order’s castles. However, Aetolia was suffering after a plague swept through it. It therefore appointed a Dux, a general, by the name of Rumpold, to oversee their lands west of the River. This Dux claimed that he had been granted ownership of all of this land by a charter from the Aetolians, but the Aetolians claim that it is technically impossible for the Order to relinquish any land and that all he received was trusteeship of the lands for the benefit of the Order.

A generation later, Thauria was invaded by Paflagonians. These savages used to dwell in the Westland but were forced out by the Kelts there, and so travelled north. The Thaurians fought them off without assistance from Aetolia and the local castellans became angry at the lack of support. The new Dux, the son of the first Dux, resigned from the Order of Aetoile and claimed the lands as his own under the charter granted to his father. He then proceeded to grant the land to any of the existing castellans that also resigned from the Order and swore their allegiance to him. Aetolia and Thauria went to war, ending in a stalemate and the death of many knights. They have technically been at war ever since.

So, not only do we have to convince this King to support us, says Riothamis, by outmanoeuvring the politicking of Grimlindus’s agents, but we have to convince him to fight side-by-side with the Aetolians.

That is correct, says Yveiette. It will not be an easy task, by any means.

*     *     *

The campfire blazes in the night, sending up shards of fire into the night sky. Ærnwulf, Rhaecyl, Hank, Avylin and Astartu sit around the fire. Two small cloth tents are pitched against the cold of early spring, one behind Hank and Avylin and the other behind Rhaecyl. Hank’s suit of plate armour lies on the ground in front of him like the shed skin of a snake. Avylin wears soft leather armour. Lympna sits on Astartu’s lap. Rhaecyl wears a black surcoat with silver stars sewn into it, over a suit of silver chainmail. A small war club leans on the log next to her. Lympna, Rhaecyl and Avylin stare into the flames, but the other three keep their eyes in the darkness around them, looking for signs of danger. Four horses watch them from the darkness.

We shall separate tomorrow, says Astartu. Ærnwulf, Lympna and I need to move fast to head off into the north if we are to make it into the Pasturelands in time. You three will need to head northwest to Noïon.

With that, she gets up and strides off into the darkness, with the fluttering Lympna close behind. Ærnwulf watches her roll out a bedroll equidistant from the two tents and from the fire. She lies down onto it and pulls a blanket over her. Lympna disappears under the blanket to snuggle up close to her companion. When Ærnwulf turns back to the fire, Hank and Avylin have already slipped off into the tent behind them and have tied up the ropes at the opening.

You look troubled, Ærnwulf, says Rhaecyl as she stands up, walks around the fire and sits down next to him. What is it?

Nothing, he grunts. On the other side of the fire, they hear a small sigh escape from Astartu.

There is a shuffling inside of the tent as Hank and Avylin move together in the darkness. If he could see through tent’s wall, the barbarian would notice that the huge knight and the slight elf are both almost naked, with only thin slips of clothes around them.

How are you going to survive with those two? Ærnwulf whispers, so softly that only Rhaecyl can hear.

Much better than they will survive with themselves, responds Rhaecyl equally as softly. Both look at each other with love, but then turn away with guilt. It will be good for them to finally be away from the source of their guilt.

Pharos? says Ærnwulf a little two loudly. He notices that the tent has gone quiet, as Avylin looks up from her lover. Her eyes and ears concentrate, but she hears nothing more. After a few moments, she lets her lips drop back down to Hank.

Hank’s guilt is beyond the mixed up feelings of his friend, says Ærnwulf after a while. He still has to live with the deaths that he caused. As for Avylin, I will warrant that what she feels is not guilt for Pharos; her issues are more sympathy for Hank’s own guilt.

She may also feel some guilt for what happened with Behrtygha, whispers Rhaecyl.

Behrtygha? says Ærnwulf again, a little louder. This time, there is no reaction from the couple lying in the tent. What was that?

I should not have said, whispers Rhaecyl quickly. It was something I saw in the stars and then questioned Avylin of. They were overcome by the magic of a nereid.

Really? he says. I was wondering why Silver Hawk was so cold with him.

You have an edge to your voice.

Do not try to analyse me, he says coldly.

I thought that you were unhappy because Ariadne took Bæornthor with her; or because you and Su Tien were separated. But it looks like your feelings have moved back to Silver Hawk.

You are looking too deeply at things that you do not fully understand, he says impatiently. What happened between Ariadne and I was a long time ago. We have both moved on, taken other lovers since then. As for her and Bæornthor, that is plainly ridiculous, as the man is already betrothed.

And Su Tien?

Su Tien fell into my arms out of the arms of another. She did so to enable Melphore to marry Aflen. Now that Aflen is impregnated with a minotaur’s child, that would seem to be impossible, and Su Tien needs to re-evaluate her decision. Our feelings for one another are more supportive than love.

Was Silver Hawk not once you betrothed? the star-witch presses. Perhaps Su Tien accepted the separation because you seem to be more attracted to your former fiancée.

I cannot remember that time, he says with a grimace. I feel protective of her, because I know that she is my cousin and is a link to my unremembered past.

Do not get angry, Ærnwulf. I am sorry for nosing into your affairs. I just worried of your sadness as we travelled.

You have been as equally as sad in the saddle. Do you miss Matthui?

Please do not ever mention that man’s name to me, breathes Rhaecyl. She gets up from the log, walks away and slips into the tent. She rolls out a bedroll and sits down upon it. Ærnwulf watches her as she ties up the front of her tent without getting up from her sitting position. He shrugs and turns away, to go to his own bedroll. Being a barbarian from the Apaharo Plains, he is used to sleeping in the cold outdoors and does not worry about a tent. He lies down and looks up into the cool spring sky, at the stars above him.

He does not sleep, not initially. His thoughts are on Rhaecyl’s words, her questions. His mind floats from Ariadne, to Su Tien, to Silver Hawk. Even though he does not sleep, he does not move; unlike a city-bred man, he does not toss and turn fitfully, but instead lets his thoughts wander.

In less than half-an-hour, as sleep is just about to overtake him, he begins to hear the sighs—not from Hank’s and Avylin’s tent, for they are already spent. It is from across the fire in the darkness. Astartu is lying on her back on top of her bedroll. Her leather shirt has been pulled open and back, to reveal her heavy, pointed breasts. Her belt is undone and her breeches are pulled open, to allow access to her groin. Lympna is naked and fluttering above Astartu’s breasts. The small sprite’s breasts are pointed and her body is tiny. She rubs her naked body and lips over the ranger’s hardended nipples. As the barbarian watches, the small sprite moves from Astartu’s breasts, to her hard stomach, to inside of her breeches.

And I was worried about whether Rhaecyl could cope with her two companion lovers, he thinks.

He closes his eyes and rolls over, allowing sleep to finally come to him. His mind returns to a vision that he had before being interrupted: it is of a young plainswoman, her face covered in sweat and her hair plastered to her forehead, cuddling a newborn baby to her bosom. As he drifts into sleep, the vision changes, and he sees the woman much younger, with feathers tied in her hair, running across the flower-covered plains, laughing and dancing under the stars.

*     *     *

Where is Kotaro? asks Matthui, viscount of Orphoigne. Why does he never join us?

He does not drink, says Morlindus in slurred speech. He just sits up in his room and meditates the night away.

The two men are sitting at a table in an empty roadside inn. Two empty mugs sit on the table in front of them; each holds a further mug and puts it to his lips.

I wish that I could do that, says Matthui. It might make me forget. She did not even speak with me, did not say goodbye. It was not my fault. I was enchanted by a witch.

By a witch? I thought it was she who enchanted you?

Who? The Widow Feld? No, I was talking about Lady Rhaecyl. She is still angry because I attacked her. But it was not me, it was the witch.

The Widow Feld attacked her? says the slurred sorcerer. Was that because you are married to her but are in love with Rhaecyl?

"In love? Married? What are you talking about? No, I attacked Rhaecyl, but it was because the witch had me enchanted and I thought that I had been making love with Lady Rhaecyl."

Now I am confused, says Morlindus. You are married to the witch but thought that you were married to Rhaecyl.

"I am not married to the witch. Not really, anyway. Ariadne had me sign a contract, a promise to marry the witch, to legitimise her, my, child. Nothing more."

Alright, I think that I understand this. But you want to be married to Rhaecyl?

What? No, not really. Well, I probably do. I made love with her, thought I did, many times, so I want to marry her, I think. A bit like you and Lady Yveiette.

The difference is that Lady Yveiette and I never made love, in real or in an ill… , an illus… , in a dream. I thought that we might, after I rescued her. She told me that she had been ordered to mate with a great man and bear him children. I thought, ‘By Suria, I could be that man’, but no, not even a sideways glance. What more could she want? I am a prince of Neuthonia, a powerful sorcerer and, at the time, was the leader of a resistance movement of the Fre-zens.

I think that the two of you have had enough, says a voice near them. They look up to see the monk, Kotaro, standing at the table.

Where is everyone? says Morlindus.

They went to their rooms several hours ago, responds the oriental monk. The landlord asked me to ensure that the two of you do not damage anything.

Kotaro, says Matthui, you are a lucky man. You do not have to worry about women and the way that they react to you.

Really, responds the monk.

Do not you believe it, says Morlindus. "The man is married to a dryad that has run off with a Borderman. And he is in love with that little oriental assassin, Su Tien."

You sly old fox, Kotaro, says Matthui.

Morlindus is very imaginative, says Kotaro as he puts his hands under Morlindus’s armpits and lifts the young sorcerer to his feet. And, as a sorcerer, he should not drink.

I do not, protests Morlindus. Not usually, that is.

I can see, says Kotaro as he notices that each man has only emptied one-and-a-half mugs. Neither do you, Matthui.

Never touch the stuff, says the knight, before letting his head fall forward to the table. After a moment of not moving, he begins to snore.

I might leave him there for the night, says Kotaro. You can come with me. He picks up Morlindus’s staff, which has been leaning against the table, and guides the sorcerer through the tables to the door.

*     *     *

The light rain of spring falls out of the sky, to splatter on the light fields and fall off the trees. The panther lies on the grass; its dark eyes look over its paws and across the road to the small inn squatted on the other side of the road. The great cat is oblivious to the water and the cool air.

How is Behrtygha? asks Moloff as Diarmuid walks into the room. Firebinder, Krenulf and the highlander hunter are sitting on the floor of a tiny furniture-free cell in a room built into the roof of the small inn. Diarmuid wears Lailoken’s bones around his neck and wrists, and has the old necromancer’s staff in his hand. Five sheathed swords line the walls: two bronze Akkaian shortswords, a western broadsword (one of two that had been acquired by Pharos from Grimlindian knights), a spatha broadsword from Kangolia and a heavy-bladed scimitar—which Ærnwulf had brought with him from the desert. A small wrist-crossbow, which Kazpr had made for Ariadne several seasons previously, also sits against the wall.

Are you asking about his physical, emotional or spiritual state? responds Diarmuid as he looks around the room, finds a small patch of floorboards near the wall, and sits down.

All three, actually, says Moloff.

Physically, he is fine, says Diarmuid, better than fine, in fact. The wound in his chest is completely healed, with no scar whatsoever. Emotionally, he is distraught, wracked with guilt and almost dying inside. Silver Hawk’s rejection of him after watching his daughter get born has left a dangerous scar. I have given him some herbs and he appears to be sleeping; that is the best we can do at the moment. As for spiritually, well, time will tell as to what happens with the wolf inside of him.

The elfling healer is silent. His three companions stay the same, contemplating their own thoughts. After a while, Krenulf speaks.

Why are we on these missions anyway? he moans. They are pointless, useless.

The Highlands will send help, says Moloff. That is why you, myself and Behrtygha are headed there. As for Terramereau, someone needed to give the letter to them, and Firebinder and Diarmuid both know Silvernius.

But we do not need all of us on this mission, says Krenulf. We could easily have done it with you and with Diarmuid. My time would be better served in the West, where I have contacts, and Firebinder and Behrtygha should be in Esengater, to assist with its defences.

I will not actually be going to Terramereau, says Diarmuid. Krenulf looks at him sharply. I am going to the land of the Northern Fre-zens, to the city of the Muskia. Yveiette gave me a mission, as part of the cost of her being sent back here by the god Kronious. I am to find Lailoken’s necromantic book and then take it to the city of the Muskia and read it. I am to be his successor.

But, says Krenulf, that is not the plan. Did you both know about this? Moloff and Firebinder both nod. And Ariadne? Diarmuid nods. But how are you to get there by yourself?

The panther will accompany me, the part-human elf responds. She has communicated that to Ariadne, who then told me. That is why Firebinder is to travel to Terramereau alone; he knows Silvernius and Aurelius, has been there many times, and his magic will keep him safe.

As for our mission into the Highlands, Moloff says, my father and uncle, and all of the lairds, are preparing for war. As Grimlindus intends to ignore them completely, we need to convince them that it is worth their while to send their soldiers out of the mountains.

And you will also need to convince the Lowland lairds to fight alongside the highlanders, says Diarmuid. It will not be an easy task and your diplomatic and espionage skills will be useful. They will be more useful in the Highlands and the Lowlands, than wasted on petty, western lords.

*     *     *

How is your arm, Kazpr? asks Brother Pietro.

I still cannot use it, says the gnome gruffly. I think that I will be stuck with using a knife only.

Do not worry, says Wynddstiip, I can reload your crossbow for you.

Not for long, says Melphore. We depart a few leagues up ahead.

Melphore and Kazpr are sitting on Gruncha’s broad muscular back. Melphore wears studded leather armour and still carries the re-curved Sauvage bow that he acquired across the Middle Sea. He has a number of the Sauvage curved knives on his belt. Kazpr still carries his crossbow and is armed with various daggers. He has acquired a suit of leather armour—a splinted leather hauberk and hardened leather skullcap.

The huge centaur wears a scalemail shirt and has a large war-sword and a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. He carries his long centaur great bow, which is thick, wooden, double-curved and asymmetric. His face is covered with a thick beard and his hair has grown long, to join with the thick hair on his back.

Alamutia rides a palfrey and Pietro and Wynddstiip both ride a large draft horse, big enough to quickly carry both Pietro’s large weight and the additional smaller weight of the four-foot tall elfkin. Both the Amazonian sword-spear and a quiver of short javelins are strapped to the back of the large horse’s saddle. Alamutia has her leg slung across the pommel, so that she rides side-saddled. Her legs are still covered with her silken boots and her arms with her leather guards, but she has a long, black tunic covering her torso and also wears her hood and cloak.

Yes, says Pietro, it is interesting that Ariadne has sent us three to deliver a letter to the Duke d’Avienne, as none of us three have met the man.

That will be of no consequence, says Melphore, the Duke needs little convincing to come and assist. It is your knowledge of the Pyrple Mountains, Kangolia and the south-west that she wants.

But should not one of you three come with us, says Alamutia, at least to introduce us to the Duke?

We are more needed in the west, says Kazpr, Melphore particularly, but I know the Grand Duke of the Gnome Hills. But in order to complete the other missions on the way, visiting the Knightly Orders, the Mwydden Duchies and the Kelts, we will need to ride hard, harder than those horses that you are riding could take us. The only one who can get us there quickly enough is Gruncha.

Notwithstanding that the centaur might not be welcome when you get there, says Wynddstiip. They centaur, elf, gnome and assassin look at the little man sharply. You know, after what happened last time, with your marital habits and all.

We have thought of that, says Melphore, that is why he has the beard, and we actually will not take him into the Dukes’ residences.

Besides, says Gruncha, it was my spouses and their pregnant bellies, not me personally, that the people of the Mwydden disliked. And it was the work of Daemon and his witches that caused the problem.

Let’s hope that you are correct, says Pietro. But I would not let the death of Daemon and the witches make you too confident. Remember that traveller at the last inn. He mentioned that there have been a huge number of dark elves and minor demons around this area.

Do not worry about dark elves, says Kazpr. "We can deal with them. As for the demons, Melphore still has his faygem."

Yes, says Wynddstiip. It was lucky that Ærnwulf found it in Dark One’s lab. Come to think of it, luck probably had nothing to do with it.

Dark elves would not turn the populous against us, like Daemon and the witches, says Melphore. They would be more direct in their attacks. You should be more worried of yourselves on that matter.

I agree, says Pietro. Let us hope that they focus their attentions further north than where the three of us are travelling.

*     *     *

Ravnhork, the beautiful Arimazhian dragon-rider, lies on a table in the dining room of Grimlindus’s palace. She is naked but for the green dragon amulet between her round breasts, for the open-toed boots with the dragon-toothed stiletto heels and the fingerless gauntlets with the dragon spike on the back. Her yellowy-brown skin glows in the early morning sun and her hard, muscular body is taught with passion; her almond shaped eyes are closed and her straight dark brown hair is fluttering all around her face. Her legs are stretched out to the side, held at forty-five degrees, straight and completely rigid.

Grimlindus steps backwards from her and slumps to his knees. His vision is blurred after a fast, exhaustive climax. His breath comes in short gasps. But for the ring on his left hand, the gauntlet on his right and the serpent crown, he is naked. Ravnhork’s groin is dripping, with a concoction of his sticky whiteness and her honey-juices. Ravnhork slowly brings her legs together, lifting them up so that they are perpendicular to her body. She does not use her hands and he is amazed at her core strength.

He shakes his head to clear it and, after a few moments, sees her standing at the edge of the table. She is already strapping on her armoured corset, which has green-crimson scales, spikes running down her back and huge, claw-like breast-supports.

That was amazing, he manages to gasp. She smiles at him, throws her swirling, torn cape around her shoulders and picks up her helmet, which is shaped like the upper part of a dragon’s helmet.

I must go, she says in her native Arimazhian as he gets to his feet. My army awaits me on the road to Esengater.

He kisses her on the lips and she runs from the room. He begins to strap his dwarf-forged red-black chainmail suit and his black, dark-elf boots. He is already dressed and throwing his black cape around his shoulders when he hears the beating of the wings. He straps on his sword-belt and walks to the window. Outside, the green dragon lifts up into the sky, taking Ravnhork off towards Esengater and the west.

*     *     *

Less than an hour later, Grimlindus strides into Ezmerelda’s torture chamber. He carries three huge scroll cases and a small talisman in his left hand.

There is a heavily muscled man strapped by his ankles and wrists to a diagonal cross on the wall. Ezmerelda is dressed only in a white silken tunic that leaves her dark shoulders bare and which stops just below her groin. Metal clips, tied with thin silver chains, clasp the man’s nipples. Ezemerelda holds the other end of the chain and pulls the chains taut. She leans back against it, pulling the nipples out painfully as she does so. The man gasps in pain. In her other hand—her right hand—Ezmerelda holds a steel ring, which is less than an inch in diameter.

Do you know where I am going to slip this? she says as she releases the chain. He gasps and looks down at his genitals. Yes, she continues and she drops her hands to him. The man can only moan in pain as the ring slides up him, to the very base. Ezmerelda’s tiny hands begin to stroke the man.

The feeling will be excruciating for you, she says, for you will not be able to climax. She bends over at the hips as she says this and her dark lips kiss the man’s expanding hardness.

Ahh, the man can only say. From his vantage point at the door, Grimlindus can see Ezmerelda’s bare, black buttocks and her white pubic hair. Notwithstanding his recent encounter with Ravnhork, he can feel his groin again aroused. He quietly puts down the scroll cases and talisman and walks up to her; the magic of the elfin boots means that he makes no sound. The man can only see a dark shadow drift up behind his petite torturess.

Grimlindus’s right, leather gauntleted hand slips up between Ezmerelda’s legs from behind and he slips a leathered finger into her wetness. Her mouth comes up slowly from the man, although her hands remain clasped around the saliva-covered groin. I thought that I heard you, my serpent, Ezmerelda says. With his left hand, Grimlindus unbuckles his sword-belt and lets his chainmail breeches fall down around his knees. He slips up Ezmerelda’s tunic, to halfway up her back, and grabs hold of her hips. The dark elf lowers her lips back onto the man chained to the wall.

Grimlindus thrusts into her; the elf almost gags. He rocks his hips back and forth, thrusting into her with wild passion. With his left hand, he massages her slim back, while with his right he grabs the chains that are clasped to the man on the wall. The man screams in pain as the evil warlord pulls on the chains.

Ezmerelda’s body begins to shake but Grimlindus keeps thrusting. Tears roll down her cheeks and she bites down hard. Her knees buckle and she drops forward, slipping from her master as she does so. Grimlindus explodes, to cover her bare black shoulders and her white tunic and hair; some droplets spray the stomach and neck of the man on the wall.

What was that all about? says the dark elf as she regains her composure, gets to her feet and straightens out her tunic. Grimlindus has pulled up his breeches and is re-buckling his sword-belt.

I have a job for you, he says.

Someone else to torture? she asks excitedly.

What? he says distractedly. No? Ariadne has been sighted. One of my spies saw her and two of her companions in Kebluc on the Barbarian Sea. She boarded the ship of a pirate from D’Jeyre and headed off to sea.

So, she has fled from you? says the diminutive dark elf. Although probably not, on reconsideration. If the pirate was from D’Jeyre, in the Mystic Islands, she is probably headed there. But why?

When I was searching for the remaining Stones of Power, says Grimlindus as he turns around and walks back to the scroll-cases, I heard of only two that remained. The first was held by the dark dwarves, in the north; I subsequently used this one and hid it. The second was in the Mystic Islands, in a castle in a hidden forest in the centre of the main island.

So she intends to forge a Sword of Life, says the dark elf, with which to challenge you.

That was my thought exactly, says Grimlindus. Ravnhork just left to run the invasion, meaning that you are the only one of my mobile agents still left in this palace. I therefore need you to go the Mystic Islands and destroy the Stone of Power. I would go myself, but I need to coordinate this invasion, particularly with the rebels still holding off in Zachynskia.

But I will not get there in time, says Ezmerelda. She has several weeks start on me.

I have a wyvern and its rider waiting on the rooftop, says Grimlindus. I borrowed it from the army. Take these. He hands her the scroll cases and the talisman. They contain your instructions to get to the Mystic Islands, what we know about the location of the hidden forest and the spells to destroy the Stone of Power.

What is the talisman?

It is the Sign of Suria, he says and laughs when she drops it. Do not worry, it will not hurt you. It used to belong to Ariadne; we found it on her when we captured her in the desert. The Dark One has cast a locator spell onto it. It will draw you to her. Now, get yourself ready and go, immediately. I will clean up here.

Of course, says Ezmerelda and she runs from the room. Grimlindus watches her go and then turns back to the man. The man’s nipples are bleeding and his shaft is swollen and purple. There are small teeth-marks on his groin.

You witnessed a little too much, says Grimlindus to the torture victim and he draws the Sword of Death.

*     *     *

The King is the Grandmaster of the Order of Aetoile, Hank says, and therefore the leader of all of the Knights of Aetolia. Below the King are the Companions, the Commanders and the Castellans. The Castellans own the castles of the Order and control the surrounding shires. The Commanders are Castellans who are given control of a province of castles and oversee the Castellans in their province. The Companions are the King’s Curia Regis—his royal court and privy council. They are the most senior and respected of the Castellans and the Commanders. Only a King can elevate a Knight to the rank of Castellan, Commander or Companion. Below the Castellans are the Knights Banneret and the Knights Bachelor; there are also the Serjeants, who are knights-in-waiting or lower class cavalry.

Hank and Avylin ride side-by-side along a dusty road. Avylin has a spatha broadsword—one of those brought by the companions up from Kangolia—sheathed on her saddle behind her and also carries a short hunting bow; a quiver of arrows is attached to the left side of her belt. Rhaecyl rides a few yards behind them and looks out into the surrounding countryside, the rolling hills covered in green grass and crops. In the distance, a heavily armoured knight sits on a horse, watching the trio. The knight has a full-faced helmet and his visor is pulled down, so that his features cannot be determined. The knight’s sword is drawn and held with the point up and with the blade resting across the knight’s left shoulder.

It sounds simple, says Avylin. But I have heard mentioned of other Aetolian officers, a Dux, a Lieutenant, a Marshal and a Master.

They are rare officers with special duties, explains Hank. A Dux is a Commander that is given semi-autonomous control over a number of other Commanders; the King of Thauria was once a Dux of Aetolia. A Lieutenant is sometimes called a Castellan without a castle; many Lieutenants serve a Commander, Companion or even the King, acting as Castellan for their lord’s personal castle and allowing the lord to undertake his other duties. A Marshal is a Castellan that answers directly to the King and not to a Commander; there are only a few of those. The term ‘Master’ is actually a courtesy title given to the family of the King and the Companions.

Does the Crown Prince get a special title?

There is no crown prince. When one King dies, the Companions appoint the next King from amongst their number, in a secret conclave. Most of the King’s children would also be Companions and therefore have a say in who will be their father’s successor, but there is no automatic right of succession.

And what of yourself, Hank? the dark-haired elf asks. Are you a Knight Bachelor?

Technically, says Hank. A Knight Banneret, for I am the oldest son and entitled to bear the Hammerfist Family Crest, although I have not done so since I was knighted.

What of yourself, Lady Rhaecyl? says Avylin over her shoulder. Where do you fit in this hierarchy?

I do not fit at all, responds the star witch. I am a woman and therefore not entitled to become a knight. However, as a relative of the nobility of Cair Mwydden, a priestess of Aetoile, a cosmic mage and an Ancient Guardian, I have a special advisory role to the King and the Companions.

During the course of their constitutional discussion, they have arrived up near the waiting knight. Hank holds up his hand in front of him.

Greetings, sir knight, says Hank. A good day to you.

Do you dare greet me like that, brigand? responds the knight gruffly. The knight kicks the flanks of his horse and charges forward. A surprised Hank pushes Avylin away with his left hand and begins to draw his own sword. The knight crashes into them before Hank’s sword is half drawn. The blade of the knight’s sword crashes down to hit Hank in the shoulder and dent his armour. The force of his blow knocks Hank from his horse, while the knight’s large horse knocks Avylin’s aside with its charge, causing the elf’s steed to stumble to the left and fall over, throwing Avylin from it in the process.

The knight’s charge continues past the first two companions and onto Rhaecyl, who has lifted up her war-club and is chanting under her breath. The knight slashes his sword across before Rhaecyl can finish her spell. The sword hits the shaft of her shining war-club and the force of the blow throws her several yards from her horse, into the bushes on the side of the road.

Damn you, false knight, for attacking two women, shouts Hank. The knight wheels his horse around and sees Hank standing in the middle of the road, half turned to the right, his sword held in both hands with the blade above his head and behind him, ready for a strike.

The knight kicks the flanks of his horse again and charges, holding his sword with point down as though it were a small lance. The horse comes closer, the point aiming for Hank’s head. Hank steps forward onto his right leg at the same time as he brings his sword across to parry the blow. The strike causes him to turn and he continues his spin, bringing his left leg around and allowing the charging horse to gallop past his back as he slashes his sword up and around. The top third of his sword hits into the knight’s left side, in the floating ribs under the armpit, in a hybrid strike that is part stab and part cut. The blade slices the knight’s armour and buries into flesh, cartilage and bone.

The knight’s charge carries him past Hank. Hank is spun around and thrown backwards. He manages to keep his feet and to keep his grasp on his sword, so that it pulls out of the other knight’s body. The horse keeps galloping up the road, away from the trio, with the knight slumped over in the saddle. Blood streams from the huge open wound; it fills the fleeing knight’s cuirass, pours down his left hip and leg and drains onto the ground.

Hank watches him go. Avylin and Rhaecyl walk up to stand beside their massive comrade and watch the other knight depart.

That was not a very nice welcome to your country, says Avylin.

*     *     *

The Pasturelands are made of flat, rolling hills, perfectly suited to the horse-riding clans that dwell there. In the north they are bordered on three sides by water—the Barbarian Sea, the Sea of Ice and the diminutive strait, the ‘Kat Hole’, that separates the Pasturelands from the lands of the northmen and the valkyrie.

The King’s lodging is on the southern edge of the peninsular. It is a large longhouse, made from dry stone and roofed with earth-covered rafters. A massive, log-framed entranceway sits at one end, and smoke billows from a hole in the centre of the longhouse. The longhouse is surrounded by a number of small stone and mud cottages, through which muddy tracks run.

The riders are tall men, all with golden hair and beards, wearing long, grey hauberks, iron greaves and helmets that have a long nasal guard and wings on the side. The riders are armed with long spears and heavy war-swords. A few have longbows of the northerner variety, reinforced with steel bands and strung with golden hair. There are a dozen riders near the front of the King’s lodging when Astartu and Ærnwulf arrive, and they view the two arrivals with suspicion.

Astartu strides into the muddy tracks without a sideways glance. Ærnwulf dismounts and leads his horse to follow; he carries a spear in his right hand and his horse is one of the Grimlindian warhorses that had been acquired in Akkaia. Lympna hides underneath Astartu’s cape, clinging to her companion’s belt. The companions are only stopped when they reach the door to the King’s longhouse, by two of the riders, one a blonde woman, both carrying spears.

Astartu draws