The Cavalier

Eleven

The Mission



Jonas awoke slowly as several voices gradually brought him from a deep sleep. As his eyes adjusted to the light he could see Taleen and Fil standing before him. He was lying in a bed of soft furs in the tent that King Gavinsteal had arranged for them.

Then it all came back to him in a flood of memories. The king was dead, slain by his own son who had sold his soul to the Forsworn. But as he recalled the terrible battle with the prince and the severe injuries he had sustained, his heart lifted with joy as he realized that he was seeing the world from his own eyes.

Jonas slowly reached up and touched his face for any sign of scarring. Taleen leaned in close to him as she sat on the edge of the bed. Her red hair seemed to outshine her gleaming silver armor. Jonas was again overwhelmed by her beauty, and the vision was such a contrast to the terrible images of his recent memories.

“There are no scars, Jonas. I healed you but you were so exhausted that you’ve slept for over a day. I’m glad I was there or you surely would have perished within moments of sustaining those horrible wounds.” Taleen smiled warmly as his hands moved to his scalp and his eyes widened in surprise. “You don’t look so bad bald, Jonas. I’m sorry, your hair was so badly burned that we just shaved it clean. But you’ll never guess what was left behind.”

Fil moved closer and smiled reassuringly at Jonas as he sat on the other end of the bed. Jonas’s senses finally came back to him as he looked at his two friends.

“You should see it, Jonas. It is amazing,” Fil said with open admiration.

“What are you talking about?” Jonas asked, bewildered.

“I think you pleased Shyann, Jonas. She left you a gift,” Taleen said as she brought a mirror to his face.

Jonas lifted himself up in bed and looked into the mirror. It took him a second to get used to the bald headed face reflected there, but he had to admit that he didn’t look half bad. Then he saw the mark, the gift that they were talking about. His heart swelled with pride as he rubbed his hand over the symbol on his forehead. It was a scar, but no ordinary scar. Burned into the skin was the shape of a great oak tree, the symbol of Shyann. It was as if someone had branded his forehead with the symbol and then stained it blue. The mark did not have the jagged edges you might expect from a normal scar, they were raised and smooth, perfect in every way. Jonas stared at it for several seconds.

“It is beautiful,” he said quietly.

“So what happened in there, Jonas?” Taleen asked. “We tried to get into the tent but the walls had been magically turned to stone.”

Jonas sat up in bed, feeling much better and rested. “When I ran into the tent I saw Prince Nelstrom kill the king. And then he transformed into this powerful demon, spawned by the power of the Forsworn.” Jonas shuddered at the memory. “I thought he had killed me.”

“He nearly did. We ran in as soon as we could and saw the remains of the spiders and the pile of ashes that must have been him. His armor was piled up near you,” Taleen said. “Jonas, I was so scared. You should have seen yourself. I was not sure I could heal you.”

The tent flap opened and everyone looked over to see Kiln approach them with purpose. He was wearing full battle armor and covered with the grime of battle.

“Jonas, good, you are awake. You had us worried for a while.”

Jonas looked at Kiln solemnly. “Kiln, I’m sorry about the prince. He had been corrupted; his heart was black and was beyond help.”

Kiln put up his hand to silence him. “Jonas, he was my son in blood only. I never knew him.” Kiln turned to both Fil and Taleen who stood staring with their mouths open. Neither of them was privy of the fact that Prince Nelstrom was Kiln’s son, or the details about Kiln and the scandal between Cassandra and King Gavinsteal. “I know neither of you knew this. We have kept it a secret for a reason and even though he is dead I’d like the secret to remain. Can I count on you both to stay silent?”

“Of course,” Taleen answered.

“I will say nothing,” Fil said.

“I’m sorry Kiln. In my exhaustion I had forgotten that they did not

know,” Jonas apologized.

“It is okay. Do not fret Jonas, about your actions or your words,” Kiln continued. “Who knows what cracks were formed in his heart to let that evil in,” Kiln sighed and shook his head sadly. “I wish I could have known him. Maybe my presence would have changed things.” He then appeared to force those thoughts from his mind and as he lifted up his head, smiled broadly. “I’m just glad you are alive. You did what you had to do. It is unfortunate you did not arrive earlier or maybe the king would be alive. The kingdom of Finarth is without a ruler now, and at a time when a strong ruler is most needed.”

“Can you assume that role until a solution is found?” asked Jonas.

“Aye, I will, and gladly. The commanders voted me to act as regent until we find Prince Baylin.”

“And if we don’t?” Taleen asked.

“We will solve that problem when we come to it. I am a man of war, not politics. I would like to hear what happened in that tent, Jonas. It pained me severely to know that we could not enter to help you. We had no idea what was happening and feared the worst.”

Jonas looked at them all as they gazed back at him, eager to learn what happened in the tent. So Jonas told them, not skipping a single thing, including what the demon prince had told him about his family and about what Shyann had instructed him to do. They listened raptly and when he finished Fil spoke up first.

“Jonas, I can’t believe that your family has been a target for that long. Do you believe what he said?”

“I don’t know, Fil. Just the idea of it makes me boil with rage. And if it is true then what happened to my father? I need to find out. I will find out,” Jonas said adamantly.

“That is how Naz-reen works. She weaves her webs slowly until she

snares her victims,” Taleen muttered. She looked at Jonas seriously. “Jonas, if you do find your father you must be prepared for the worst.”

Jonas looked away in thought. “I have thought about that. But I need to know.” After a few seconds of silence Kiln addressed Jonas directly.

“Jonas, it will hurt us that you will not be fighting with us. We have been slowly retreating back to Finarth but Lord Moredin has been attacking us with hit and run tactics the entire time. We do not know if he is being directed by Malbeck himself, one of his minions, or if he just decided to fight us on his own. Nevertheless, Lord Moredin is not making our retreat back to Finarth easy.” Kiln glanced at Fil and Taleen. “But your mission to save King Kromm and bring him back is sanctioned by Shyann and I will not interfere with it. When will you three leave?”

“You mean I get to go with them?” Fil asked enthusiastically.

“Yes, Fil. You heard Jonas. Shyann wants you with him. I relieve you from your duties here and expect you to watch over him.”

“With my life,” Fil said seriously. Jonas smiled at his friend. It warmed his heart that Fil would be coming with him. Jonas had a feeling that his friendship and his spear would very much be needed on this mission.

“And I will be accompanying you as well. I have received no other calling, which means that Shyann’s wishes are in league with Bandris’s.”

“That is good. Jonas, I have one favor to ask of you before you leave,” Kiln asked.

Jonas did not hesitate in his response. “Of course, anything, Kiln. I owe you much”.

“I am going on a mission tonight, and I would like you by my side.”

“I will be there. What kind of mission?”

“Let us discuss it in more detail later. I must return to my men. Meet me in the king’s tent at dusk.”

“I will be there,” Jonas said.

“Good, I will see you soon.” Kiln smiled one more time. “I am proud of you, Jonas. You suffered a mortal wound in that fight and yet you persevered and managed to defeat that demon. It fills my heart with pride that Shyann has rewarded your courage and skill with another mark. There is no doubt that you are something special.” With a smile Kiln added, “I would not want to face you myself.”

“Yes, but you are over fifty winters old,” Jonas laughed.

Kiln smiled wryly. “I’ll see you soon.” He turned and walked from the tent.

Fil watched him leave before he turned and spoke to Jonas. “There is something about him, like a volcano ready to explode. I would not want to fight him, even if he is over fifty winters old.”

“Nor I, Fil. He is utterly fearless, and I cannot imagine someone skilled enough to best him. Now go get ready. We have a meeting very soon.”

Fil’s smile took up his entire face as he stood up and walked from the room, eager to begin the mission.

Kiln sat at the heavy wood table in the king’s tent looking over several maps when Jonas, Taleen, and Fil entered. Sitting with him were several commanders, third lance Lathrin, fourth lance Dagrinal, and three others that Jonas had not yet met. The first warrior, Gandarin, was a second rank general of five akrons. The tall lean man, sporting a graying beard and mustache, and still wearing his dirt and blood encrusted platemail, stood as the trio entered. Jonas immediately perceived an aura of strength and power in this man, a man obviously accustomed to commanding others.

The other two men were also second ranking generals and they looked equally disheveled. General Kuarin and General Ruthalis wore similar armor but that is where the similarity ended. General Kuarin was short and thick around the waist, a powerful muscular man. His chin was covered with a gray braided goatee and his head was completely shaven. General Ruthalis was of medium height and build with a thin waist and a handsome, tanned face. His shoulders were wide and his exposed arms were muscular.

Each of the generals wore a gold colored cape to mark their rank. Kiln introduced Jonas and Taleen to the three men. They all looked tired, their eyes red and puffy from lack of sleep.

Also sitting at the table was Alerion, the wizard. He sat, silently staring at the three, stroking his pointy beard in thought.

Jonas, Taleen, and Fil stood before them. The two cavaliers were attired in their full battle gear, the armor and clothes perfect and clean. Everything from their breast plates down to their buckles and belts shone and sparkled with brilliance.

Fil stood next to them wearing his infantry chain mail under a gray tunic. He carried a stout spear in one hand and he wore a short infantry sword at his waist. He shifted uneasily as he looked around the room at all the important men. He was part of an audience with two cavaliers standing before Kiln, the legend, and Finarthian generals discussing an important mission of which he would be a part. He smiled openly but then quickly masked his smile, replacing it with a more serious demeanor, one more typical of a warrior standing before his commanders.

“Jonas, thank you for coming, we have something important to discuss,” Kiln announced.

General Gandarin then spoke. “Cavalier, I am glad that you are well and I would like to thank you for your efforts in trying to rescue my king from the treachery that has befallen him.” His powerful voice loudly resonated in the large tent.

“Thank you, General. I just wish I could have arrived sooner. I am sorry that I could not save him. And I am also sorry for the treachery that has befallen the kingdom.”

General Gandarin waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “You did your best, young cavalier. I am glad that you slew King Gavinsteal’s murderer. I’ve known something was wrong with Prince Nelstrom for years. I think the Forsworn have been working on him for a long time and finally his heart and soul could not fight them anymore. What you killed in that tent was not my prince, but a shell of his former self. You killed a demon that used to be Prince Nelstrom,” he said sadly.

“General, I think you are right,” Taleen agreed. “Of all the Forsworn, this incident stinks of Naz-reen. She works slowly, over many years, bending someone’s will until they break and become her puppet. I, too, believe that is what happened to the prince. Moreover, Jonas fought two Urlikes, agents of Naz-reen that take on the shape of a giant spider. There can be no doubt that Naz-reen had her claws into the young prince for many years,” she concluded.

General Gandarin shook his head sadly.

“Enough of this,” General Ruthalis interjected. “High Commander Kiln informed us that you will not be with us much longer, and that you are taking one of our warriors with you, one who is already developing a reputation among the veterans.”

Fil tried not to smile as he concentrated on maintaining his warrior appearance.

“Yes, General Ruthalis. I received my calling last night. I am to take Taleen and Fil with me to Tarsis and find King Kromm and what is left of his army and bring him back here before he is caught and killed.”

“I see. Did Shyann inform you where he was located?” General Ruthalis asked.

“No, but she told me Tulari, my steed, will guide me to him. I was informed that King Kromm’s presence will be needed here if we are to defeat the Dark One.”

“Well, I can certainly say that any presence will be helpful, especially a mighty warrior like King Kromm. I’m disappointed that we will be losing both our cavaliers but I’m sure that Shyann has her reasons for taking you from us. Jonas, Kiln has informed us that you will be accompanying him on his mission tonight. I am glad that you agreed, your presence will help ensure our success.”

“My sword is yours,” Jonas replied easily, bowing slightly.

“Jonas, we have found Prince Baylin, and he is still alive. I plan on getting him back and killing Lord Moredin in the process,” Kiln interjected.

“What happened to the messenger?” Taleen asked.

“His head was returned to us with his genitals stuffed in his mouth,” replied Kiln.

“Sounds like the work of a Dykreel agent,” Taleen muttered, openly disgusted by such barbarity. Dykreel, the third ranking Forsworn, had an affinity for the implementation of torture and his followers were experts at the craft of pain and suffering. The three generals all crossed their chests with Ulren’s four pointed star at the mention of the dark god’s name.

“Kiln, how do we know that Prince Baylin is still alive?” Jonas asked.

“Alerion has magically located him, and he is alive,” replied Kiln. “Jonas, your presence will be needed in case there are any other surprises from the Forsworn. I do not know if Prince Moredin is acting alone or if there is another Banthra with him. There may be other agents of the Forsworn with him as well. We just don’t know. But we need Lord Moredin dead to halt their attacks on us as we retreat to Finarth. We are losing too many men and the retreat is taking too long. It will be done tonight.”

“And I will be at your side,” Jonas confirmed.

“I am glad you agree to come with me,” Kiln said. “I just hope we arrive in time to find the prince alive. Alerion, will you please explain to Jonas how this will work.”

Alerion looked at Jonas and spoke for the first time. “The spell I will be using is a teleportation spell. I have enough power to teleport four people only. I will get us three inside the tent where the prince is being held. From there we will have to work fast. When Moredin is killed and the prince is freed I will teleport the four of us back.”

“Alerion, I thought that in order for a teleportation spell to work you had to have been to the location where you are going. Have you seen Lord Moredin’s tent?” asked Taleen.

“You are correct, cavalier. And no, I have not seen Lord Moredin’s tent. But I have scryed his tent and learned its location and lay out. That is how I learned that Prince Baylin is still alive and located there. The spell shouldn’t pose a problem.”

“Scryed? The word is unfamiliar to me,” Jonas said.

“Scrying is a magical means to find someone, to spy on them. It is very taxing and you need to have an article that belonged to the individual you are trying to find. The spell is very useful, but it requires a lot of energy,” answered the wizard.

“I see. What if we appear in his tent and Lord Moredin is not alone?” asked Jonas.

“Then your swords and my magic will have to be enough,” replied Alerion matter-of-factly.

“When will we do this?” asked Jonas.

“Late tonight, when he should be alone and asleep,” replied Kiln.

“Very well, I will be ready,” Jonas said.

“I will send a messenger to your tent when the time is upon us,” added Kiln. “Now go, get some rest. We have other plans to discuss and not enough time in the day to discuss them.”

Jonas, Fil, and Taleen turned and walked from the tent as the military leaders continued to discuss strategy and peruse the maps on the table.

The three comrades talked for hours around the campfire as they waited for the messenger to come. The sounds and smells of the Finarthian army blanketed the hills around them. Yesterday had been a bloody day of hardship as they tried to retreat back to Finarth. Lord Moredin’s men, including thousands of tribesmen, made constant hit and run attacks on the retreating army. Kiln was forced to stagger their retreat in groups, several akrons moved back while others stayed and protected the retreating groups. They did this all day. It was very tiring and casualties were high on both sides.

Most of the men were sleeping while the trio stayed up and discussed the adventure ahead of them.

“I wonder why it is so important to find King Kromm and bring him back?” Jonas said as he stirred the fire with a stick.

“I’m not sure. Not being from here, I am unfamiliar with who he is or the history of these lands. But Shyann must have her reason,” Taleen replied thoughtfully.

“I have heard men talk of the king of Tarsis,” added Fil as he looked at both his companions. “He is always spoken of with respect and awe. He is known by all warriors as a warrior king, unstoppable in battle and strategy. Men speak of him as if he is a god. It is said that he can fight all day and never tire and his colossal size makes a boarg shake with fear. It is likely he will be needed here to help King Baylin.”

“If he was already defeated in Tarsis then why would his help be needed here?” Jonas asked.

“We do not know what happened in Tarsis,” Taleen answered. “There are many variables in war, Jonas. Maybe he was surprised, maybe there were spies within Tarsis, maybe he finally made a mistake, or maybe the army that faced him was just too powerful. Maybe we will need to combine all the strength of Tarsis, Finarth, and their vassals, to defeat the Dark One.”

“Why can’t Shyann just tell you why Kromm is needed? I fail to understand the games gods play,” Fil asked.

“It is easy to feel that way, Fil. Perhaps she is being ambiguous for a reason, to protect Jonas.”

“How do you mean?” Fil asked doubtfully.

“What if he, or we, are captured by agents of the Forsworn. They will do whatever they can to learn of Kromm’s importance. If we don’t know the exact reason then we cannot divulge the information, no matter what they do to us.”

Jonas stirred the hot coals with his stick as he thought about what Taleen had said. “I’m sure that this mission’s purpose will be revealed to us as she sees fit. There must be a good reason…”

Some commotion to their left interrupted them and all three turned their attention to a rider who appeared from the darkness. He was a Finarthian Knight riding a large chestnut warhorse.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, cavalier,” the man said, addressing Jonas. “The high commander is ready for you now. If you will please follow me.”

Jonas looked at his friends and stood up smoothly. Tulari, understanding that it was time, rode from the darkness to nuzzle his head on Jonas’s shoulder.

“May Bandris be with you,” Taleen said as she shook his hand in the warrior’s grip.

Jonas shook her hand and smiled warmly. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be with Kiln.”

“You’re watching his back, but who will be watching yours?” asked Fil as he, too, shook Jonas’s hand.

“Why, Shyann of course.” Jonas smiled at them both, mounted his horse, and with a soft touch of his heel, Tulari was off into the night, leaving his two friends staring into the darkness.

There were only three people in the king’s chamber, Kiln, Jonas, and the Finarthian wizard, Alerion. Alerion had explained to them the process but Jonas was a little apprehensive. Disappearing and then reappearing in an enemy tent wasn’t something that most people did. Stepping into the unknown concerned him. But he would be ready to fight next to his friend if need be.

Alerion drew the two men in close to him so he could explain the spell and what they could expect from it. “Now, we are hoping that he will be alone. I have scryed him several times at this time and he was always asleep. But I dare not scrye him again for it weakens me and I need to rest afterward. I will need my strength to cast the teleportation spell and I want to make sure I’m strong in the event that something goes wrong.” Kiln and Jonas simply looked on and waited for the wizard to continue. “When I cast the spell you will feel somewhat dizzy and a bit weightless. After several seconds of darkness, your eyes will see your new destination. It happens rather quickly and is painless, but it may take a few seconds to feel normal after the dizziness. Do you both understand?”

Jonas and Kiln nodded. Kiln was wearing black leather pants and a light chain mail shirt under his black tunic. His wrists and thighs were protected with metal and leather bands and he wore his long sword and dagger at his belt. His eyes reflected nothing but concentration on the task at hand.

Kiln looked at Jonas. “You ready?”

“I am,” replied Jonas.

“Remember, stay back and alert in case I need you. I will take care of Moredin. If there are minions of the Dark One in that room, take them out. If not, then find the prince while I kill Lord Moredin.” Kiln redirected his gaze to Alerion. “Whatever happens protect yourself. You are the only one who can get us out. If it looks like things are going badly then teleport us back, but only if Jonas and I can’t handle what we find. Do you understand?”

“I do. Are you ready?” asked Alerion.

Jonas and Kiln looked at each other as they gripped their weapons. Jonas nodded in affirmation. “We are,” answered Kiln.

Alerion began to chant. The words sounded elvish to Jonas but he wasn’t quite sure. Jonas was watching Alerion as the wizard closed his eyes and recited the words of power.

After a few moments of chanting everything got a little blurry, just as Alerion said they would. Jonas brought both his hands to his swords and whispered a silent prayer to Shyann just as everything went black. His eyes were open but he couldn’t see anything. He felt light, as if he was nothing but air. The sensation lasted for several moments.

Suddenly light came flaring back to him as his eyes adjusted to his new surroundings. His head spun a little but thankfully he regained his senses in a matter of seconds.

Then it struck him. If Moredin was sleeping in his tent, then why was there so much light in the room? As his brain quickly processed this information, he instantly dropped his mind into the state of Ty’erm.

The answer to his question was quickly revealed. The situation appeared in slow motion. He saw Kiln to his left and Alerion to his right. But standing right before them was Lord Moredin, Prince Bomballa, a huge orc, and a dark cleric of Dykreel. Jonas recognized the red spiked halo that was painted on the black breastplate that the cleric wore, the mark of Dykreel, master of torture and pain. They were standing around a table going over what looked like battle plans. The surprised looks on their faces clearly told Jonas that they were not expecting guests.

Kiln and Jonas exploded into action, launching forward like striking adders, their blades leaping into their hands. A part of Jonas’s mind heard Alerion muttering behind him, preparing another spell, but it was a distant sound as he concentrated on the task at hand.

Lord Moredin’s eyes opened widely in surprise as he frantically jumped back from the table while trying to draw his long sword. He screamed for help at the top of his lungs. “Guards! Help! We’re under attack!”

Prince Bomballa, wearing his typical garish outfit of teal and purple, reacted with lightning speed, his thin rapier materializing in his hand as he jumped backwards to create more space between him and his attackers.

The gigantic orc was slower, the surprise of the appearance of three men in the tent still registering in his tiny brain. But he was Ongesett, chief of the orcs, and he was a warrior tried in many battles. He stumbled backwards and reached for his heavy morning star that was leaning against the table near him.

Kiln assessed the three men quickly and perceived Prince Bomballa as the most serious threat. In a blur of motion his arm flashed to the side, hurling his dagger at the flashy clothed warrior. Simultaneously he leaped onto a nearby chair with his left foot, jumped onto the table with his right, launching into the air directly toward the stumbling Lord Moredin. Kiln’s long sword arced through the air, leaving a trailing path of green light as his blade sought its target.

As Kiln and Jonas sprung into action, Alerion heard commotion behind him as Lord Moredin yelled for help. He had two choices, abandon the mission and teleport them back, or somehow seal off the tent so that Jonas and Kiln could do their job without guards storming in and overwhelming them all.

Thinking of his prince, he chose the latter. Alerion concentrated on a spell until he remembered the necessary words of power to bring forth the magic that he needed. He began to chant, focusing on saying the words exactly, and after a few seconds he released the energy of the spell with a wave of both hands and the final word, “Fulstarris”, the word for fire.

Lord Moredin’s eyes went wide with terror as he tried to get his blade up to deflect the impossibly fast warrior that was flying through the air at him. All he could do was trace the arc of green light with his eyes as he felt a tight, hot pressure, and then a release at his throat. Lord Moredin’s head flung backwards, tenuously hanging on by pieces of skin and flesh, his life blood showering the legendary swordsman as he landed lightly on his feet.

Jonas moved with liquid grace, leaping at the surprised cleric, both swords spinning their dance of death. The cleric unsheathed a coal black blade with a wickedly curved edge. He got the blade up just in time to block Jonas’s first strike. Sparks flew as the two magic blades clashed. Jonas knew that the cleric’s blade had been forged with dark magic and that the slightest cut would cause damage and pain to him, but be deadly to others. The dark cleric was not wearing his helm but he was protected by his cursed armor. Everything he wore had sharp edges and spikes, any of which could be used as a weapon. His gauntlets were covered with spikes as were his wrists, shins, and greaves. His skin was pale and his eyes burned with madness. He looked almost skeletal except for the straggly black hair that draped his scalp. But he was a powerful cleric and a warrior of Dykreel. He would not be defeated easily.

Jonas’s second blade just missed the cleric’s head as the dark warrior ducked under the deadly sword. The cleric then punched his spiked gauntlet at Jonas’s exposed stomach.

Jonas had been moving forward on the offensive as the unexpected punch flew out. But few were as quick and agile as Jonas. At the last second, he pivoted his body at a seemingly impossible angle and the cleric’s fist glanced off his cuirass. Jonas, trained by Kiln, moved instinctively with little thought of his next move. Kiln had taught him that for every action there is a reaction, and for every reaction there is an action. Every move has a counter and every counter has another counter. Jonas had trained daily so that his body would react appropriately to all situations.

His training paid off as his body moved without thought. He stepped forward, past the punch, and rammed his elbow into the face of the stunned cleric. The man’s head snapped back violently as his nose shattered under a spray of dark blood. Jonas was just about to finish him off with a reverse swing of his lead blade when the cleric bellowed a word of power.

“Kularc!” he screamed as he fell backwards. Instantly a wall of energy struck Jonas like a hammer and he flew backward landing on his back. But Jonas went with his momentum, rolling backward and coming up lightly on his feet. The wind was knocked from him and he took a couple of seconds to catch his breath.

As Alerion finished his spell, a huge wall of fire erupted at the entrance to the tent. The wall was four paces high and five paces wide. Alerion used his hands to control the fire, continuing the magical wall of flame all the way around the perimeter of the tent. He kept the flames just beyond the reach of the thick canvas that made up the tent. The last thing he wanted was for the tent to burn and drop on top of them. There was no way any guard could reach them as long as the flames stayed intact, a relatively easy task for the powerful wizard. And Alerion knew that they would not risk firing arrows into the flames because of the risk of hitting their lord.

Alerion turned around quickly to see how he might continue to help the two warriors. His eyes widened with fear as he gazed upon a huge orc running toward him swinging a spiked ball on a chain.

Kiln felt an object hit his back followed by a sharp pain just as Lord Moredin’s lifeless body hit the floor. He spun around to see Prince Bomballa standing behind him.

“I thought I’d give you your dagger back,” the black man said with a smirk.

Kiln reached back over his left shoulder and felt a knife embedded there. It was a shallow wound for his chain mail shirt had deflected most of the power. The prince must have deflected the blade, or even caught it. This warrior would be no easy kill thought Kiln as he reached back and pulled the blade out, showing no sign of pain.

“I appreciate your concern. I’d hate to lose my favorite knife,” Kiln replied, his face still and cold.

“You are Kiln,” Bomballa said, “thought to be the best swordsman ever to walk Kraawn.”

“You are about to find out the truth of those words,” Kiln replied smoothly. Bomballa smiled in retort and attacked the swordsman with his thin rapier. The man was lightning fast, and his light sword enabled him to move even faster. Kiln spun both his blades, creating a whirling wall of razor sharp steel. Their swords met again and again, neither warrior able to score a hit.

Jonas had moved to attack the dazed cleric when he saw the massive orc out of the corner of his eye. The beast was bearing down on the weaponless wizard, its huge morning star spinning, making a loud whirling noise that could be heard above the burning flames.

Jonas had to quickly slow the orc and then dispatch the cleric. He concentrated on the energy in front of the orc, creating an invisible wall. The orc’s morning star hit the wall first, bounced back, and smacked the creature in the chest. The beast stumbled backwards, a look of utter confusion on his face.

Alerion had already begun his own spell right as the orc’s morning star hit the invisible wall and bashed him in his own chest. He didn’t wait to ponder his luck as he unleashed the spell at the confused orc.

“Zithara Um Toric!” he screamed as he directed a crackling bolt of lighting from his fingers into the chest of the astonished orc. The sizzling bolt struck the giant orc solidly in the chest, arcing back and forth across its metal armor. The power of the bolt sent the orc stumbling backwards where it tripped and fell hard on its back. The smell of burnt flesh and hair permeated the tent as the chief of orcs cooked inside his armor.

Jonas turned back to the dark cleric just as the warrior of Dykreel regained his footing. Jonas wanted to end this fight quickly so he called upon Shyann to bring forth his God Fire. The energy built up quickly within him until it felt like he would explode. He pointed his right sword at the cleric and unleashed the power, directing a cone of blue flame that completely engulfed the cleric.

The cleric must have simultaneously called on the power of Dykreel, for the flames parted around him as he held his sword in front of him like a shield. Jonas stopped the flames and the man stood before him, unharmed and smiling wickedly.

“You will need more than that to stop the might of Dykreel,” he muttered, his voice low and dark.

“I don’t need magic to stop you. My swords will suffice.” Jonas spun his blades in unison and attacked the cleric. The cleric brought up his blade defensively and fought hard to keep Jonas’s deadly blades away from him, but Jonas was relentless in his attack.

He flicked his left blade across the pale cheek of the cleric opening up a shallow cut, the red blood from the wound standing out sharply against the pale skin. The cleric grimaced and jabbed his sword forward, toward Jonas’s groin. Jonas turned, stepping back and reversing his right sword to block the stroke. As Jonas deflected the blade, he flicked his left sword across the other cheek of the enraged cleric, opening up another thin cut.

The cleric growled in anger, lifted his sword, and started a powerful downward stroke. But the attack never finished. Jonas quickly lanced his left sword forward into the exposed part of the cleric’s armpit, where his shoulder plate fastened to his chest plate. The thick wool under the cleric’s armor provided no protection against Jonas’s sword.

Jonas drove the sword in deep, right through his lungs and heart. The cleric’s eyes widened in surprise and pain, his sword held high above his head. Jonas withdrew the razor sharp steel quickly just as the evil cleric dropped his sword behind him. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the perfect narrow slit under his arm, and then he fell to the ground.

Kiln fought furiously to keep the razor sharp sword away from his flesh. The man was a master swordsman; there was no doubt. Bomballa had backed Kiln up next to the flames and Kiln grimaced as he felt the heat from the magic fire singe his back.

Alerion had brought forth the fire to keep the guards at bay, but unfortunately it was becoming a problem for Kiln as well. But Kiln concentrated on every move that the man made, trying to find his weakness. When two master swordsmen meet in battle, there are many things that can decide the outcome of the fight. The variables are endless, conditioning, similarity of styles, and ability to control one’s emotion to name just a few.

Kiln was an expert swordsman, but his real skill came in reading his opponent. In the state of Ty’erm, emotion never controlled him. He could focus on every move and every counter. Kiln also knew that no one had better stamina then he. Years of training gave him complete confidence in his abilities to defeat another master swordsman.

After several minutes of trading blow for blow, Kiln began to notice Bomballa’s weakness. He favored his right hand and he signaled a left flank attack by slightly raising his left hand. It was very subtle and most people would never have noticed it.

Kiln smiled inwardly as he waited for the signal and his opening. It wasn’t long before it came. Bomballa’s left arm lifted up slightly and Kiln moved in fast. It was a dangerous maneuver because if he was wrong he would be lining himself up for a forward thrust and the wound would be fatal.

But he wasn’t wrong. Bomballa lifted his left hand and simultaneously swung his blade toward Kiln’s left flank. Kiln read the move ahead of time and stepped aside and toward the surprised warrior, ramming his dagger deep into Bomballa’s unprotected stomach as his thin rapier hung uselessly over Kiln’s right shoulder. Kiln was close to Bomballa’s ear as he twisted his long dagger. Bomballa grunted in pain as his eyes opened wide in shock.

“Sorry to ruin your expensive silk,” Kiln whispered into the dying man’s ear. Kiln pulled his blade from Bomballa’s stomach and he fell to the ground with a thud.

He looked up to see Jonas move toward him, his blades red with blood. They both scanned the room as Alerion quickly ran to them, his long robes billowing at his feet.

“Where is the prince?” yelled Kiln over the sound of the roaring flames that surrounded them.

“There,” answered Alerion as he pointed to a corner of the tent blocked off by a hanging crimson tapestry. “We must hurry; the tent is starting to catch on fire.”

Sure enough the flames creating the magic barrier were starting to spread up the tall sides of the tent. All three ran over to the tapestry and flipped it open. Lying on a wooden table was Prince Baylin, completely naked and tied down with thick leather straps. His eyes were closed and he was not moving. He was covered with cuts, bruises, and blood, but it was not those wounds that caused the men to stop in horror and gaze in mute shock, but the grisly wound at his crotch, or at least where his crotch should have been. His manhood was completely cut off, leaving behind a bloody wound.

“In Ulren’s name, look what they did to him,” muttered Alerion.

“Is he still alive?” asked Jonas in horror.

“I don’t know. But it’s time to go, the fire will consume the tent soon and I don’t want to be here when that happens,” the wizard replied.

Kiln quickly cut the straps holding the prince to the table and lifted him over his shoulder. “Get us out of here wizard,” ordered Kiln.

His words went unheard for Alerion was already beginning his spell. Jonas heard the words clearly but then everything became a blur as his head spun. The world went black and they all disappeared from the tent leaving nothing behind but four dead bodies.

***

Malbeck the Dark One sat casually on the Tarsinian throne. The magnificent chair was made of white stone that looked to be carved from one piece of rock. It was simple, large, and powerful, a fitting chair for the king of Tarsis, a warrior king of tremendous size and strength.

But King Kromm was somewhere in the Tundrens, running for his life, and Malbeck, the destroyer of Tarsis, sat on the white throne; the darkness of his very presence was in stark contrast to the white marble.

Malbeck, too, was a large man, over eight feet tall, but thin and muscular, with short, glossy black hair that draped a hard chiseled face. His eyes were pure white, which made it difficult to gaze at him without looking away. His lips had a bluish tinge to them, like the rest of his body, as if he were perpetually cold, and his teeth came to sharp points. He wore tight black breeches made from the skin of a black dragon. The black thick leather boots he wore were plated with dark steel. His muscled chest and arms were bare and he wore a black cloak that framed his huge shoulders and fanned out to cover most of the throne.

He was a demonoid, part man and part demon, twisted by the magic of the Forsworn. In his right hand he held the Spear of Gould, a powerful weapon given to him by his master, Gould the Tormentor. The shaft was made from light steel, polished black. The tip was a sharp silver point about as long as a man’s forearm. At the base of the spear tip was a round disk the size of a large fist, and engraved in the middle of this disk was the white eye of Gould.

In Malbeck’s left hand he held a small book bound with old worn leather, the Shan Cemar, the ancient elven text that held the secrets for tapping into the energy of the Ru’Ach. Whoever held the book held vast amounts of power, power that Malbeck planned to use as he spread the Forsworn’s darkness across Kraawn.

Leaning against the white throne of Tarsis was Malbeck’s battle-axe. The twin blades each curved to deadly points, and carved into the flat blades were depictions of demons and other denizens of the lower planes. The handle, made from the same light steel, was wrapped with the tough scaled skin of a black dragon.

Malbeck shifted slightly as the large double doors to the throne room opened. Gullanin, Malbeck’s follower and a powerful wizard in his own right, entered the throne room and prostrated himself before his master. The man was old and frail, and he wore a silver skullcap engraved with Gould’s white eye.

Behind him were three high priests to the Forsworn, Janrick, high priest to Gould, Cuthare, high priest to Dykreel, and Kane, high priest to Naz’reen. They, too, bowed before their master.

“What is your report?” asked Malbeck, his low voice deep and resonant.

“My Lord, Tarsis is in ruin and the Tarsinian army is destroyed,” replied Gullanin.

“What of Kromm?” interjected Malbeck.

“He escaped with a small group, but we know he is near, he can’t have gotten far,” Gullanin replied quickly.

“We must find him and kill him.” Malbeck turned his milky white eyes toward the high priests. “Are you ready to serve me in this task?”

Janrick stepped forward and bowed his head. “Of course, my Lord, what would you have us do?”

Malbeck smiled wickedly and stood up from the throne. His form was impressive, strong arms, chest, and shoulders, tapered to a thin waist surrounded by rippling muscle. “Hunt him down and rip his heart out.”

Janrick shifted uneasily and looked sideways at Gullanin who stepped back away from him, as if to distance himself from something diseased.

“How would you like us to do this?” Janrick asked.

“With your own teeth and claws of course,” Malbeck replied, taking one big step toward them.

Cuthare and Kane stepped back from their lord, unsure of what was happening, his words making no sense. Janrick held his ground but looked about nervously.

“My Lord, I’m not sure what you mean,” said Janrick.

“You will serve the Forsworn in the ultimate way, by giving up your life to their service.”

Janrick, Cuthare, and Kane started to back away slowly, their eyes going wide with fear and surprise.

“But my Lord, we brought you back, we have served you well…” stammered Kane.

“You did not bring me back, Gullanin did. And yes, you have served me well, which is why I am giving you this reward. You will become the Hounds of Gould, and serve him in this task.” Malbeck approached the trio slowly as he whispered a few words of power. The priests were backing away from Malbeck when they froze in mid-step, unable to move.

“Gullanin, please cut their throats,” whispered Malbeck as he began another spell. His words whispered around the trio as they struggled to free themselves from the powerful spell. Their eyes widened with fright at the Dark One’s words.

Gullanin unsheathed a razor sharp blade and approached Janrick from behind. He did not hesitate as he brought the sharp edge across the immobilized priest’s throat. Janrick’s blood squirted from the deep cut and splattered onto the stone floor. Malbeck’s spell held Janrick’s body upright as his blood continued to pool at his feet. Cuthare and Kane suffered the same fate and then Gullanin stepped back from the dying trio.

Malbeck continued to chant.

The words were not familiar to Gullanin, probably ancient words from the Shan Cemar. He tried to concentrate on the words, tried to remember them, but they seemed to waft around the room and then disappear from his mind.

Malbeck’s staff was glowing brightly as he came to the end of his spell, his voice a crescendo of power. Suddenly the tip of the staff flared brightly and three beams of light shot forth to strike the pools of blood that had formed at the feet of the dying priests. Almost immediatly the light disappeared, leaving behind three pools of blood, sizzling and boiling.

All three of the bodies fell to the floor with a dull thud as the blood began to boil and froth even more. Gullanin stepped back and watched the transformation as the three pools expanded and boiled more violently. As he watched, the boiling blood began to take form, growing from the ground, emerging from the crimson pools. The three forms pulsed with life, growing slowly into a writhing rust colored mass that grew to the size of a small horse. Four clawed legs began to push from the flesh, as a head that resembled a dog strained forward, stretching the translucent skin.

Gullanin retreated farther away as the beasts took on a more defined shape.

“Have no fear, Gullanin. You have served me well and they will not harm you,” Malbeck said as he moved closer to the writhing shapes.

Gullanin stopped and looked at the beasts more closely. Their glistening skin had transformed into a more solidified look, huge and muscular, their skin rough like stone but the color of rusted steel. They were shaped like a large cat crossed with a bull, with strong powerful legs that tapered to padded feet tipped with black claws the size of knives. Their heads were dog-like, but much larger, with thick powerful jaws lined with black teeth. Their red eyes were sunk into a knobby forehead that was covered with a ridge of sharp spikes that went all the way down their spine. The spikes on their heads were as long as a man’s forearm, tapering down in size the farther down the spine they went.

The three beasts stretched and opened their mouths, emitting low, deep growls. They pivoted their red eyes toward Gullanin, causing him to step backwards even more. Malbeck approached them, reaching out with his left hand. One of the beasts moved toward him, its black claws clicking on the hard stone. Its chest puffed out as it growled, sniffing Malbeck’s hand. The beast curled its lips exposing sharp teeth dripping saliva. Malbeck stroked the beast’s head as the other two gathered around him. They sat on their haunches and then began to whine as if they were pets seeking attention from their master.

“The Hounds of Gould, Gullanin. Do you like them?”

“They are magnificent, my Lord,” replied the wizard uneasily.

“Do you have the article that I requested?”

“I do, my Lord.” Gullanin reached into his robe and pulled forth a gold crown glittering with jewels. “The crown of Tarsis.”

“Good. Bring it forth,” ordered Malbeck.

Gullanin approached the Dark One cautiously, the Hounds of Gould eyeing him hungrily. As he walked by them he detected a strange smell, like burnt hair. The beast’s red eyes bored into him. Gullanin shivered slightly as he handed the crown to Malbeck, then shuffled away from the hounds.

“Now, my beasts, smell the crown and get his stench.” Malbeck brought the crown to each beast and held it to their noses. They sniffed the metal and licked it with their rough tongues. “Hunt him down and kill him, and then return to me. Gullanin?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“How many Gould-Irin orcs do you have?”

“One hundred, my Lord.”

“Good. I want you to lead fifty of them into the Tundrens. Use this amulet to follow the Hounds of Gould. Make sure that Kromm and what is left of his followers are slain.” Malbeck handed Gullanin a red stone hanging from a black chain. “The amulet will give you control of the beasts and allow you to track them. Make sure that King Kromm and everyone with him is killed.”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

***



As soon as they had materialized back in the king’s tent, Kiln, with the injured and incapacitated prince on his shoulder, ran to the soft bed in the corner of the room. He gently laid the naked and bloody prince down and looked to Jonas for help.

“Jonas, can you help him?” he asked with concern.

Jonas had immediately followed Kiln to the bed and knelt next to the unconscious prince. “In Shyann’s name,” he whispered as he surveyed the wounds. There were several long pink scars on his abdomen and more than a handful of open and bleeding lacerations on his arms and legs. His face was bloody and bruised and his lips were torn and bleeding in several spots. He had obviously been repeatedly and severely beaten. Also, burned in the middle of his forehead was Dykreel’s brand, a circle of spiked wire. But the worst of the damage was to his groin. They had cut off his manhood leaving nothing more than a bloody stump of flesh. Jonas had never seen anything so horrible.

“Is the prince alive?” asked Alerion as he quickly moved next to the bed.

“Yes, he is breathing. But he has been tortured and severely wounded. By the looks of it they completely slit open his abdomen and then healed the wound with magic, just enough to stop the bleeding. Kiln, what are we to do? Those evil vermin have taken his…”

“Heal him, Jonas,” Kiln interrupted. “Bring him back from the darkness. But cover his body first.” Kiln’s voice was low and dripping with anger at the vile deed that had been done to such a good man.

Jonas was shaking with anger as well. How could someone do this to another human being? It was incomprehensible to him, and the dark deed just added fuel to the fire that was burning deep in Jonas’s soul. Dykreel, dark god of torture and pain, the third ranking Forsworn had marked this man, and that act alone was a violation of all that is good. Nothing would dampen the flames of vengeance. And Jonas knew that Kiln felt the same way. He could see it in the hard set of his face and in his ice cold eyes. As Jonas looked at him, an understanding was shared between them. Nothing would stop either one of them from stamping out the evil that was responsible for this act.

“Heal him, Jonas,” Kiln repeated.

Alerion draped the prince’s body with a light red blanket as Jonas laid both his hands on the mortally wounded prince. Jonas closed his eyes and prayed to Shyann, asking for her power to heal this man who embodied all the qualities of goodness.

He felt her power rise deep from within him and he channeled it into his hands. Instantly they glowed blue and he released the healing magic into the prince’s ravaged body. Tendrils of magic surged into the prince, searching out all that was corrupted. Shyann’s magic first sought out the prince’s forehead, drawn to the evil mark that was burned there. The magic healing tendrils were like hunting dogs sniffing out their prey. The magic grabbed hold of the mark and wrestled with the dark magic there in.

Kiln and Alerion saw smoke rise from the scar as it glowed brightly. But Jonas’s eyes were closed and he didn’t see the reaction. He felt it. Dykreel’s darkness tried to hold on but Jonas gritted his teeth and sent a strong burst of light into the mark, chasing the shadow of darkness from Prince Baylin’s body.

Then Jonas found the other wounds, and there were many. The cleric of Dykreel had slit open the prince’s abdomen and pulled sections of his intestines out while he was still alive. Then the torturer replaced them and healed the wound, just enough to keep him from bleeding to death. This had been done several times and Jonas cringed thinking about the pain that Prince Baylin had gone through. Jonas could see the damaged and bruised sections deep in his abdomen. He worked quickly to heal the area and sealed all the lacerations on his body, after first pushing out the salt that had been poured on the wounds to maximize his suffering.

Lastly he went to work on the Prince’s groin. There was nothing he could do for the missing flesh so he simply did his best to heal the wound with the least amount of scarring. Jonas knew that an opening would be needed for the prince to relieve himself of his fluids, so he found that spot and sealed the flesh around it. Finally Jonas opened his eyes, took a deep breath to steady his body before standing up from the prince’s inert form.

Prince Baylin’s chest was rising in slow deep breaths and his flesh was no longer pasty white. The scar on his forehead was gone and it looked as if he had never been burned.

“He will be okay, but I think he will need to rest for a while,” Jonas said softly.

“The damage that the prince sustained was not just physical. The mental trauma alone will likely keep him unconscious, at least for a while,” Kiln said, looking at Alerion and Jonas both. “We will speak to no one of this, do you both understand? No one must know of his injuries.”

“I understand,” replied Alerion gravely.

“I will tell no one,” added Jonas. Kiln nodded his head as if to seal the oath they both took.

“You both have exerted a lot of energy, now go get some sleep, I will stay with the prince,” Kiln said as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the blanket all the way over his prone body.

“Very well, Kiln.” Jonas was indeed tired. He had been fighting constantly for two full days and it was time to get some rest. “Please inform me if you need anything,” he said as he turned to leave.

“And me as well, Commander,” added Alerion as he left the room on Jonas’s heels, leaving Kiln and the prince alone in the dimly lit tent.

Kiln looked down at the unconscious prince. “I’m sorry, young king. But don’t worry, you will get your justice, and I will be standing right beside you.”

The morning came quick. They had a new task before them, one filled with uncertainties and danger, but also hope. Their task was to find the warrior king, Kromm, who was fleeing for his life in the mountains around Tarsis with what was left of his followers.

Tarsis had been destroyed by Malbeck the Dark One, and his forces were now moving on Finarth. Jonas knew that something was hunting King Kromm with the sole purpose of destroying him, and this something was probably of another world, something that only a cavalier could face. They had to find the king and bring him back; it was necessary for the survival of the land, although Jonas had not yet been told why.

King Baylin Gavinsteal and Kiln would be preparing the defenses for Finarth while Jonas, Taleen, and Fil went on this mission. They could wait no longer, it was time to leave.

Their nighttime mission had been successful. Lord Moredin was dead and they had rescued the prince. Hopefully the retreat would now go unhindered since Lord Moredin and the other enemy commanders were now dead. It would take Malbeck many months to reach Finarth and the winter season would slow them as well, giving Finarth the time needed to prepare for a long drawn out siege. Also, no one knew if Malbeck would stop along the way to plunder other cities like Cuthaine, a free city just outside of Finarth’s borders and in Malbeck’s path. Either way, the people of Finarth had a lot of work to do, as did Jonas. He had to find the King of Tarsis and bring him back.

All three of the warriors were saddled and ready to ride. Kiln had given them all provisions and the necessary supplies for the long journey.

Fil had a hard time masking his excitement. He sat proud and tall on a sturdy warhorse that Kiln had given him. He was wearing his chain mail shirt draped with a charcoal gray tunic and black breeches and he carried his traditional footman’s short sword and dagger, as well as a stout long spear. He was ready for this mission.

Jonas and Taleen sat on their cavalier mounts. Everything sparkled in the morning sun as their huge warhorses pranced about, eager for their mission. Tulari would be leading them, and he shook his head back and forth in anticipatory eagerness for the adventure.

Jonas was wearing his polished helm, the deer antlers jutting from both sides like a noble stag. Endowed with magic, the magnificent piece was almost weightless. Jonas sometimes forgot he was wearing it. It felt a little different now that he had no hair, but that would grow back, creating a softer bed for the helmet.

The edges of the God Mark that had been burned into his forehead could be seen under his helmet. The blue symbol was slightly raised, like a scar, its lines smooth and its edges straight. Jonas often brought his hand up to touch it, marveling at the feel of the gift that Shyann had given him for his service. He did not need a religious symbol on a chain around his neck; his symbol was embedded in his flesh, where it would never go away.

A small crowd of men were out to watch the departing trio. It was an hour before dawn but word had spread throughout camp and many of the men had come to wish them well.

Kiln was there, along with Alerion and several knights with whom Jonas had traveled. Graggis stood like a block of stone holding his huge battle axe. He nodded his head to them as they made eye contact.

Dagrinal was standing next to him in full battle armor, casually resting his hand on his long sword. Jonas smiled and Dagrinal smiled back, nodding his head in farewell.

Suddenly the men around them parted and began to cheer, “Finarth! Finarth!” as an armored man moved through them with purpose. It was the prince, now the King of Finarth, and he approached the trio dressed in full battle armor.

The men were yelling and cheering for their king. Rumors had spread quickly of his rescue but no one had yet seen him. He looked tired but he had healed fully and he moved with determination. He moved close to Jonas and looked up at him. They shared something briefly, a knowing, and a silent thank you. Words about what happened did not need to be spoken. It was understood and it did not need to be discussed.

“Thank you, Jonas, and good luck. May Bandris guard you and bring you back safely with the help you seek.”

Jonas leaned down and gripped the young king’s hand. “Just hold out long enough to give me time to get back,” he said with a wry smile.

“It will be done,” replied the king, his soft voice emanating power.

Something had changed within the man; Jonas could see it, could feel it. His face was hard and cold, and he looked like a volcano ready to erupt. Something had died within him and something else was born, and growing.

Jonas turned his gaze to Kiln who stood next to the king. He reached down from Tulari’s back and gripped his hand firmly.

“Be careful, Jonas. I still need a training partner and no one is good enough with a blade. Bring yourself back,” he said seriously.

“I will,” he answered back as Tulari took the lead and moved forward in anticipation.

Taleen’s and Fil’s horses followed and they moved off through the meadow. Jonas looked back at the group, who were silently watching them depart, and yelled. “May Shyann be with you!”