The Cavalier

Two

Manson Fights



The town bustled with activity; men strengthened the walls, women and children gathered food stores. Kiltharin, the blacksmith, sharpened axes, swords, scythes and any other tools that could be used as a weapon. Families living on the outskirts of town moved loved ones into the interior. Some built makeshift sleeping barracks in the town’s grange, while still others stayed with friends in their cramped little homes.

Gorum offered his small home to Jonas and his mother. Jonas noticed a few stares as they slowly carried their meager belongings into Gorum’s home, but not like before. It seemed to Jonas that Airos’s words had affected the townspeople’s feelings toward him and his mother. Everyone was too scared and busy to worry about a cripple and his mother anyway. They just wanted to survive.

The little home was cozy, clean, and smelled of baked bread. Gorum’s bakery was connected to the house through a door in the back. His massive clay and stone oven, built by his father who passed all his skills to Gorum many years ago, took up most of the work shop. The little house had one room with a connected bedroom. Gorum graciously offered them the bedroom which they accepted gratefully.

Jonas stood in the main room looking up at a large old sword hanging above the hearth. The blade was pitted and marked from many battles, and the leather handle was worn and frayed.

“It’s seen better days, that’s for sure.”

Jonas turned toward the voice of Gorum as the baker approached him. Gorum was a big man, round in the face and belly, but strong too, like a sturdy oak.

“That was my father’s sword,” Gorum continued. “I’ve never really used it myself, although my father taught me how.”

“It looks very old. Is it still sharp?” Jonas asked.

“It soon will be.” The dancing flames casted an orange glow throughout the room as Gorum took down the heavy sword. “I guess I need to get this cleaned up,” he said as he moved toward the table.

“Are you afraid?” Jonas asked seriously.

Gorum sat down on one of his wooden chairs, the sword resting on his legs. “I am, Jonas,” he said. “I am a baker, not a fighter. I would be frightened to fight a man, but the idea of facing a boarg terrifies me.” Gorum took up a stone; dipping it in water he began to wipe the stone across the edge of the blade with one long smooth motion. The grating sound of the stone on steel seemed to hypnotize Jonas for a moment. “But we do not have a choice, Jonas. We cannot run. We cannot hide. There is nothing for us to do but fight and hope that the gods will protect us.”

“Why would the gods allow the boargs to attack us in the first place? We have done nothing wrong,” Jonas asked.

“A good question,” Gorum laughed lightly, “but I have never understood the ways of the gods, so it may be hard for me to answer. But I will say this. There is always a balance in the world, Jonas. There is good and there is evil. They both weigh the scale up and down from time to time, but in the end there must be a balance. One without the other would cancel their own existence.”

“So you’re saying that for good to exist, there must also be evil?”

“I do not pretend to know. But I think it would be hard to define goodness if there were no evil to compare it to,” Gorum remarked as he continued to hone the edge of his old sword.

Jonas contemplated the baker’s words for a moment before he spoke. “I wish I could fight. I’d stand my ground right next to you, and I would weigh the scale in the right direction.”

Gorum looked up at him, smiling, “I believe you would, Jonas. Have you ever heard how Malbeck the Dark One was destroyed?”

“No sir. I do not know much about the Dark One. Can you tell me?” Jonas asked with nervous excitement.

“I only know a little of the tale. The ancient king of Finarth, King Ullis Gavinsteal, defeated him in battle. It is told by traveling bards that the king’s armor and sword were enchanted for the very purpose of slaying the Dark One. I’ve heard several different tales, one of which told that those weapons may have been created by the most powerful elven ekahals for that purpose.”

“What is an ekahal?”

“Ekahals are elvish wizards. They are very powerful. When King Ullis killed the Dark One, there was nothing left except a burnt and decimated battle field, no king, armor, sword…nothing.”

“What happened to the king and his armor?” asked Jonas leaning forward eagerly.

“No one knows. It is a mystery. Some say that the elves hid the armor and sword, but no one knows for sure.” Gorum read Jonas’s eager expression and changed his tone. “Remember, son, when the fighting starts I want you to hide. If we are defeated, they will not stay long. They will kill, feed, and then be on their way. There is a good chance that you will survive if you stay hidden. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir. But I still wish I could fight with the rest of you.”

“There will be no fighting for you young man,” Lorna said, entering the room from the bedroom. The tension of their situation was evident on her face. Her eyes were swollen from crying and she was visibly distraught. Lorna squatted on her knees in front of Jonas and held him at arm’s length. “Now listen, son. I want you to do exactly what Gorum has said. You must hide and stay hidden. Do not make a noise until the fighting is over.”

“But…”

“You will obey me,” she said, ending the conversation. “Gorum, do you have a suitable hiding spot for my son?”

“Don’t you want to put him with the rest of the children and elders in the grange?” Gorum asked.

“No, I want him near me and I do not trust how they would treat him.”

Gorum nodded knowingly. “I have a place.” Gorum stopped sharpening the old blade, setting the sword on the heavy oak table next to him. “But it will be dark and dirty,” Gorum replied as he stood. “When the fire is not lit in my clay oven, there is a spot inside where a child could hide safely. It will be full of soot, but that may actually help conceal him and disguise his smell.”

They all walked through the back door and into his bakery. The large oven was just to their right, the heat from the clay warming them as they neared it. Gorum opened the iron door and dampened the fire.

“I’ll put the fire out now so it has time to cool down. When the fighting starts, that’s where we’ll put him.”

“What about you, Mother? Where will you be?” asked Jonas. The thought of hiding in that dark and dirty hole terrified him. But the thought of being separated from his mother was even worse.

“I will be here, helping where I may. Don’t worry son, I will be right here with you the whole time. I would never leave you,” Lorna said, another tear dripping slowly down her cheek.

***

Airos checked the gate one more time, making sure the solid oak bar was firmly in place. Satisfied, he moved along the northern wall, reassuring the men as he went. He was wearing his shiny silver breastplate with the High One’s symbol embossed on the chest. He wore matching greaves and forearm guards, both covered with intricate runes and symbols. His armor was polished so brightly, that, like a mirror, it reflected everything that was near. A beautifully crafted long bow was strapped to his back and his sword swung gently at his side. All the men looked at him in awe as he passed them, reassuring them with a pat on the back, a smile, and his very presence. He seemed to suck the tension out of the very air and replace it with calm determination.

Airos knew the attack would come tonight; he could feel it. That was one of his many abilities, being able to detect evil, to feel it as it drifted through the air like a poisonous mist. Airos was not afraid, for death had no hold on him. He had given up his own personal desires many years ago to serve a greater good, to serve the High One who had picked him as one of His warriors. And he had served Him well. He would live or die in His service, holding no regrets. He could wield magic and heal the wounded and sick. He could bring forth God Fire at will, an ability reserved to first rank cavaliers, the highest ranking among them. Airos was an expert swordsman and archer; in fact he had never met his equal with a blade.

No, he was not afraid. But he felt a bit of unease, like he was missing something. The question that Braal had asked in the grange hounded him. Why would they attack this town? Was it really to feed? Or was there another purpose?

He continued to ponder his discomfort, checking the southern wall of the town. All able-bodied men, women, and even children, were preparing themselves for the attack. He could see in their eyes that they were frightened, but he could do nothing but give them hope by his presence.

Why would a Banthra be leading the boargs? It makes no sense, he thought. As far as he knew there were only a handful of Banthras that ever walked the lands of Kraawn. Why would they be back? Why would a Banthra be in the mountains to gather a small army of boargs? Surely a lesser minion could handle that job.

One of the few things that gave Airos pause was a Banthra. Banthras were fallen cavaliers, cavaliers who were captured by Malbeck and twisted into his servants many years ago. It was thought that they had all disappeared when Malbeck was defeated, but they had reappeared with dire consequences for Kraawn. Reports of orcs, goblins, trolls, and other monsters, moving from the Black Lands and the Mazgar Forest, have been whispered from city to city all the way to Annure. Evil was definitely growing in the northeast near Banrith, Malbeck’s old stronghold.

Traveling bards tell stories of the great wars, over a thousand years ago, when Malbeck had captured six cavaliers. He tortured their minds and bodies until there was nothing of the original warriors left. Airos hoped that the High One had protected their souls; he had to believe that He did, for he had faith in Ulren. Nonetheless Malbeck used magic to twist their minds and bodies into demon-spawn. After many years of this torture the six cavaliers became the black knights of Malbeck. They had the power of a cavalier, but their magic came from the black gods that constantly try to possess the hearts of men. It was not an easy task to create these powerful warriors, but Malbeck was a follower of the Forsworn, the three evil gods of Kraawn, and they had given him great power so that he might rule Kraawn in their name.

These gods represent the dark side of existence. There is Gould, the Tormentor, high evil god of lies, anger, jealousy, and power. Naz-reen is goddess of the dark, stealth, plot, and murder. Then there is Dykreel the Slayer, god of torture and pain. They are the Forsworn, the topic of bedtime stories told by parents to frighten children into being good. But they are no mere story; they are real, and Airos fought their power daily. There was a constant struggle between the good and evil gods of Kraawn, and it was Airos’s job to wield his sword in defiance of the evil that would otherwise permeate the lands around him.

Again, the question rolled around in Airos’s head, why a Banthra? Why would it come here? He must be missing something.

Suddenly both his hands began to tingle. He pulled off his gauntlets and looked down at the familiar blue glow emanating from both the symbols. The men standing around him looked at his hands, with eyes that revealed their fear.

Braal was among the men nearby and he moved closer to Airos, a large battle axe resting over one thick shoulder. “Is it time?” he asked sternly.

“Yes,” Airos said, quickly putting his gauntlets back on and drawing his sword. “Braal, I want you to hold the south wall as we discussed. You must maintain your lines. If you don’t hold them off then they will converge on us from both sides. They will breach the wall; there is nothing we can do about that. When they do, and you can no longer hold them off, regroup with my force by the north wall. Our only hope is to stay together. If our forces get spread out then we will be picked off like wounded deer. Do not try to attack the Banthra. No one can defeat him but me. I will sense his presence and hunt him down wherever he goes. If I can kill the Banthra then we may have a chance.”

“Yes sir,” Braal said, quickly moving off towards the south wall, his men unsheathing their weapons and following on his heels.

This is a hardy group of men, thought Airos, tough mountain men who grew up fighting and surviving, but would it be enough? Airos erased the thought from his mind as his horse galloped towards him, nudging him with her nose. She, like Airos, could sense the approaching evil. His magical steed never ceased to amaze him. Suatha had appeared to Airos on the day that he passed his final trial. She was a magnificent steed that had saved his life many times, for she, like the cavalier, had been given the gift of magic. Suatha could run all day and never tire. She was faster and stronger than any horse and she could sense her rider’s thoughts and movements. She would not be swayed by magical fear and together they were a powerful team.

Airos smoothly leaped onto Suatha’s back, grabbing the reins and spurring her towards the northern wall. He could feel the energy that came before battle start to rise within him as he neared the gate. The magic in his veins pulsed with power and he smiled inwardly, reveling in the adrenaline rush that always took hold of his body every time he was about to go into battle.

As he rode through the gathering men he yelled, “Our enemy is near! Gather your weapons and take your positions!”

The men, women, and children that had weapons all ran quickly, taking up the positions they had hastily worked out earlier. Airos gathered the townspeople in two lines facing the northern wall and the gate. One line was held back as reserves while the front line carried all the longer weapons they could find or build, pikes, spears, javelins, anything to keep the enemy at arm’s length.

Airos rode his horse back and forth before the lines hoping to give them some sense of hope. Everyone was deathly silent. Airos knew that the townsfolk were frightened, and that their fear was paralyzing them now. He had to give them some hope, some belief that they could defeat this threat. Turning his horse to face the men, he held his blade up high, letting the magic flow from his body and into his sword. The god given weapon lit up like a beacon, the magic light piercing the blackness, pushing back the sinking feeling of doom. Airos’s voice, lifted by magic, hit everyone like a thunderclap.

“People of Manson, soon these very walls will be climbing with evil and vile creatures that want you dead, that want your children dead! We are here to turn back this pestilence, to protect your homes and families!” His voice and the magic light eased their fears instantly. They all stood up straight and held their weapons before them with new vigor. “I am a cavalier! I am here to fight next to you. To die next to you if that is my purpose! You have the strength to defeat them. I know this; I can see it in your eyes and in your hearts! Fight with me, fight for your life, fight for your homes, fight for your families!” Airos yelled as he turned his horse toward the gate. The large bonfires that had been lit earlier shed a bright light on the entire expanse of the town’s walls.

As if on cue, the gate wall began to shake suddenly, and a large gray form pulled itself onto the top of the wooden structure. The boarg squatted in perfect balance on top of the gate, its huge form rippling with muscles as it held itself erect. Two thick, curved horns, sprouted from the sides of its bulky boar-like head. The beast crouched like a cat, its long powerful arms holding its body on top of the wall. The boarg bellowed a defiant roar, exposing long tusks and yellow fangs.

Airos sheathed his sword, grabbed the bow at his side with lightning speed, and had three arrows whistling across the expanse in the blink of an eye. The first arrow struck the boarg’s open mouth, while the other two hammered into its neck with enough force to launch the animal off the gate and into the darkness.

Screams erupted in the night from the southern wall as the gate in front of him again shook violently. It has begun, thought Airos, notching another arrow as he waited for his next target.

***

The blood chilling roar jerked Jonas from his trance as he stared into the burning fire. He looked up as the big form of Gorum quickly ran into the room from the bakery.

“Jonas, it is time. I need to get you in the oven.” Gorum quickly swept up Jonas’s light body as if it were a baby and hurried him into the bakery. His mother was there with a wool sack in her hand, her face streaked with new tears. She bent down and hugged Jonas tightly, her fresh tears wetting the side of his face.

Lorna finally stopped hugging Jonas, holding him at arm’s length. “Now listen to me, son. In the sack are food, a knife, and all the money we have including the gold coin. I want you to stay in the oven until either Gorum or I come for you. If neither of us come for you then stay in there until the morning at least.”

“Mother, where will you be?” Jonas asked frightened. More screams tore through the night as the attack on the town commenced.

“I will be right here, I promise,” she replied frantically.

“I’m scared for you,” Jonas muttered.

“I will be fine, now quickly, get in the hole,” she said, stroking his face one last time.

Gorum lifted Jonas’s tiny form, slowly sliding him into the dark oven. “Remember what I said, Jonas. Stay in the oven, no matter what you hear outside. Do not come out,” Gorum repeated, squeezing Jonas’s hand one last time before he left. Jonas could feel the soot cover his body and he looked out the mouth of the oven to see his mother’s face.

She reached in and touched his arm gently. “I love you, Sprout. Now I’m going to cover the opening with burnt wood to hide you. Push your body as far back as you can.”

Jonas scooted his body back until he bumped into the back of the oven. The light from the opening began to slowly disappear as Lorna piled up the wood. Jonas’s heart began to beat faster. I can do it, thought Jonas. The whole town is out fighting for their lives and I’m worried about being stuck in a hole. I can do it, he kept thinking to himself. Finally the last log was put into place and he heard his mother say, “I love you,” one more time.

“I love you too, Mother. Be careful,” he said before he was surrounded by darkness.

***

Braal swung his huge axe in a ferocious arc taking the boarg in the side of its neck, cutting deep into the beast’s collarbone. The boarg’s momentum carried him into Braal sending them both flying onto the bloodied snow. Braal scrambled out from underneath the boarg only to feel the crushing weight of another beast land on top of his chest, crushing him as its claws dug into his flesh. He couldn’t move as the boarg’s face slowly inched towards him, the fetid breath hitting him like a gust of wind. The boarg’s mouth was open, its yellowish fangs only inches from his face.

Suddenly the boarg jolted hard, arching its back violently. Braal saw the tip of a spear, dripping with gore sticking out of the boarg’s throat. It made a popping sound as it was pulled out. As the boargs hairy body fell to the side, Braal was able to painfully scramble up as he clutched his wounded chest. He saw the young boy, Fil, standing in front of him, holding the bloody spear, his eyes wide with fright.

“Well done, boy,” Braal said as he scanned his surroundings. The pain in his chest vanished as he looked around at the carnage. His line was breaking; he could see it as if it were in slow motion. Nearly fifty boargs were attacking the line and more were climbing over the wall as he quickly surveyed the scene. Dozens of townspeople littered the frozen ground, their bodies torn to pieces. There were boargs among the dead as well, but not enough. He turned back towards Fil and saw a boarg bearing down on the boy with incredible speed, running on all fours, covering twenty paces in seconds.

“Get down boy!” Braal yelled.

Fil flattened himself to the ground instantly as Braal’s battle axe flew over him, sailing head over end, striking the boarg in the chest. It was as if the boarg hit a steel wall. The axe head buried itself deeply in the boarg’s bony chest, sending it somersaulting backwards to its death.

Braal ran over and tried to rip the axe from the boarg’s chest. He had to use his foot as leverage before he could pry the axe from the dead body. He hefted his bloody axe and looked around trying to determine what to do. He knew that it was futile to continue to hold their position. His friends were fighting for their lives, but it was obvious to any observer that they couldn’t defeat these ferocious animals. Then he remembered Airos’s words. “Reserves! Fall back!” Braal screamed. “Retreat to the north wall! Front line, hold your ground!”

Braal ran to the center of the front line and Fil followed. Marsk the butcher intercepted him. His face was covered in blood, and a nasty deep cut stretched the entire length of his thigh.

“If the front line stays, then they will die!” Marsk yelled above the fighting.

“If both lines stay then we all die. I will stay with the front line to give you time to get the reserves to the north wall to join with the cavalier! Now go! Take Fil with you!” Braal ordered.

Marsk looked at Braal with respect and shook his head. “Fil, go with the reserves. Tell Airos that Braal and I stayed with the front line to guarantee your retreat.” Fil looked at them both and then ran off into the night joining the retreating men. Marsk returned his gaze to Braal and looked at him seriously. “You ready to die?"

Braal held his bloody axe before him and matched his stare. “I plan on taking a few more with me before I go,” he answered with a wry grin.

Marsk smiled as they both raced to help their comrades as they struggled to keep the powerful boargs at bay long enough to give the reserve line time to retreat.

Side by side they fought; sword and axe cleaving into the gray masses of flesh. The boarg’s long arms and sharp claws were formidable weapons. One hit from their powerful limbs would send a human flying, usually resulting in more than one broken bone. They were not only strong, but their speed was incredible to witness. The men of Manson were tough men, valiantly fighting for their lives and homes, and yet it was not enough to match the boarg’s strength and speed.

Marsk was not a trained warrior, but he fought with the energy and strength of ten men. He was fighting for his home and family and his determination and strength were fueled by the potential loss of all he held dear.

As Marsk struggled to free his sword from the heart of a boarg he had just killed, another creature, with lightning speed, dug its curved claws deep in his leg. Suddenly, Braal’s axe swung down, cleaving the boarg’s arm off at the elbow. Marsk was momentarily free, but the boarg did not stop. The beast leapt into the air as Marsk retreated, the severed arm still clenched to his thigh. Marsk stumbled back and held up his bloody sword as the boarg landed on top of him, impaling itself on the sharp blade.

The boarg, tougher than any human, continued to move in for the kill. Marsk’s arms were buried under the boarg’s weight and he could do nothing to stop the bony head from descending. Time seemed to slow down as Marsk closed his eyes and waited for impending death. He felt the hot breath, and then the sharp teeth close around his face. And pain, excruciating pain, as his own blood filled his eyes and mouth. But the pain did not last long. With one quick jerk the boarg ripped his face off. Marsk was still alive, but the pain was gone. All he saw was blackness and then he suffocated in his own blood.

Furiously, Braal swung his axe in a sideways arc with all his strength. The boarg was sitting on top of Marsk with its mouth clamped on the butcher’s face. Braal had swung the axe just as the boarg jerked its head up, ripping off Marsk’s face. The timing was perfect. The axe hit the boarg in the neck and the strength of the swing carried the axe through flesh, sinew, and bone. The boarg’s head landed five feet away with pieces of Marsk’s face still hanging from its jaws.

Braal looked down at Marsk’s twitching body. He knew that there was nothing he could do for him. Marsk was not a great man, but he had ended his life with dignity and he deserved a better death. Braal turned around to face his enemies, prepared to die with the rest of his friends.

Suddenly a huge explosion shook the ground around him, sending him flying through the air to land heavily on his back. As he slowly arose, he noticed that the forty or so remaining boargs had retreated to the log wall. They all stood, surrounding a huge smoking hole. A ten foot section of the wall was blown inward, the large logs shattered and smoking on the ground.

The remaining fifty men retreated back to Braal. Tired and covered in blood, they glanced around, unsure of what to do. Suddenly all was still. All they could hear was their hearts pounding as a black mist slowly drifted through the hole.

Braal suddenly wanted to flee, to get away from the evil that was stealing his resolve. His men felt it too. But they were frozen with fear, on the verge of running away from the darkness, but they could do nothing but stare at the dark shape slowly emerging through the hole in the wall.

A massive black horse carrying a shrouded rider appeared from the darkness like a wraith. Braal’s hands began to shake. His axe dropped to the ground. A dark cape draped the rider’s deathly form. Beneath it, he wore fearsome spiked armor as black as night and etched with intricate carvings of demons and other creatures of the dark. Ram-like horns curved down around his ominous looking helm, barely concealing the specter’s glowing red eyes which radiated hatred and malice, sucking everything of light into its dark aura that surrounded it.

***

The boargs continued to swarm over the gate like cockroaches. Airos had long ago put away his bow but not before he had killed a score of them as they tried to scale the log wall. Suatha moved up and down the lines allowing Airos to cut a line of death as they went. Suatha would sense the boarg’s movement and position Airos for the kill every time, his magic blade easily cutting into the boarg’s tough hides.

The men and women around him were not faring as well. The front line was almost decimated, and the reserve line was moving in to fill any slots that opened as the boargs tore someone to pieces.

Airos was quickly surveying the scene when a huge boarg leaped from the top of the wall. Airos sensed the attack and turned just in time to take the full impact of the beast right in the chest, sending them both flying backwards onto the snow covered ground. Airos hit the ground hard rolling backwards to absorb some of the impact. He quickly got his feet underneath him and leaped up with his sword held in a defensive position.

The boarg, now standing, swung its powerful arm with impossible speed. This boarg was huge, two heads taller than Airos, and its fur was more silver than gray. Airos realized he was fighting the leader of the pack. He ducked underneath the swing, launching a series of offensive attacks. The beast was fast, very fast, and it was able to avoid the strikes by dodging them and using the flats of its tough large palms to smack the blade away when it got too close.

Airos drew his razor sharp hunting knife, thinking he may need his skill with two blades to defeat this opponent. He looked to his left quickly to see that Suatha was busy keeping two hungry boargs away from her flanks. A cavalier’s steed was no ordinary animal, they were able to think, reason, and use magic of their own. Even riderless they were still formidable in a fight. Suatha’s powerful body and hooves were as deadly as any warrior’s sword.

Airos was on his own for this fight. He could kill the boarg with magic but he knew that he might need all the strength he could muster when the Banthra arrived. The use of magic always taxed him physically and mentally and therefore Airos had to be judicious with its use.

The huge boarg moved in quickly, both arms reaching to grab him in its iron-like grip. Airos spun the two weapons in a defensive blur, repeatedly slicing into its flesh and narrowly escaping those deadly arms.

The boarg quickly changed its tactics and tried to ram Airos. The huge powerful head charged at him like a blacksmith’s hammer, the two horns, both as thick as a man’s arm, leading the way. Airos could strike the boarg’s head but he knew that their skulls were thick and that it would do little damage. The two horns would impale him before he could kill the beast.

But the boarg had never fought a human as quick and agile as Airos. Instead of retreating, Airos dove forward underneath the massive head and between the legs of the charging animal, his sharp hunting knife slashing across the beast’s inner thigh. He continued his roll, rising quickly to his feet to engage the next boarg, not even looking back at the doomed animal as it bled out.

Airos killed four more boargs before he felt it, the evil presence hitting him like an oppressive wave. Suatha felt it too, moving back behind the lines to wait for him. He jumped over dead bodies, many of them women and children, and leaped onto her back, sword held in hand. He looked toward the south wall and saw fifty or so people running towards them. It must be their reserve line thought Airos. There was a young boy carrying a bloody spear running towards him panting with exertion and fright.

“Sir…Braal sent his reserves back to regroup with you! He and Marsk stayed with the front line to keep the boargs back! He told me to tell you this!” Fil yelled through panting breaths.

“Good work, boy,” Airos replied.

Just then Airos caught site of Gorum the baker battling a boarg that had breached the front lines. Airos sheathed his sword, drawing his bow and nocking an arrow from a quiver on Suatha’s side. In one smooth motion Airos drew back the powerful bow, sighted in the target, and released the shaft. The arrow slammed into the beast’s side, burying itself to the feathers. The boarg stumbled to the ground, wheezing for air as its lungs filled with blood. Airos returned the bow to its sheath at Suatha’s side as Gorum stumbled backwards; his legs and arms exhausted from constant fighting.

“To me, Gorum!” yelled Airos.

Gorum, seeing safety in Airos, moved quickly towards him carrying his large heavy sword at his side. “Thank you, cavalier,” Gorum blurted, his words coming through labored breaths.

“I have to leave you; the Banthra is here, at the south wall. If I do not return I want you to organize a retreat and get as many people out of the town as possible. If you’re lucky, the boargs will stay here and feed rather than follow you. I cannot promise you anything, just do the best you can to get as many survivors to safety as possible. If I can kill the Banthra then we may have a chance. If not, then you need to get far away from this town for a while, until they have fed.”

“I will do my best, sir,” replied Gorum.

“I wish you luck, baker. Now be off and may Ulren guide you,” replied Airos as he flicked the reins. Gorum was already running towards the line as Suatha leaped into the night.

***

Braal and his men were paralyzed with fear as the boargs slowly crept towards them, saliva dripping from their open mouths. They could sense their paralysis, and they wanted to tease them, like a cat plays with its prey. Braal’s heart began to beat faster and he willed his body to move, to pick up his axe and die fighting, but his body would not obey.

The black rider slowly advanced, his huge horse stepping forward, its massive hooves covered in mangy blood soaked fur, pushing deep into the trampled snow. The horse’s cave-like nostrils flared open as steam hissed from them, splattering mucous into the air. The dark steed curled up its frothy lips, exposing large fangs covered with saliva and blood. Red eyes scanned the men before it, hatred spearing every man who looked upon the deadly animal. This horse was no ordinary horse, but a nightmare, a demon, just like its rider. But it was the Banthra’s gaze that froze them all and they could do nothing to stop the boargs approach.

“Feed my children, kill them all,” hissed the Banthra, his voice sending a paralyzing chill down Braal’s spine.

The boargs moved in slowly, continuing to play with the immobilized men. Their jaws clicked open and shut, exposing fearsome teeth.

Braal was not afraid to die, but to die like this was terrifying. Give me my axe, thought Braal, and let me take several of you demons with me.

A brilliant white light suddenly bathed them all, awakening them and freeing them from the Banthra’s spell. Suatha and Airos thundered to the center of the line, white light erupting from them like a star. The men hastily moved back behind Airos, their weapons held before them. The boargs did the same, moving quickly behind the Banthra who had backed away from the light.

The Banthra’s scream sent a chill through everyone, and the men looked around nervously, retreating slowly backwards. Airos lifted his sword high, the white light flaring even brighter. As the light bathed the men in its magical warmth, they became invigorated, their muscles no longer tired, their fear erased, new energy and purpose coursing through their veins. They held out their weapons and set their feet firmly in the ground with new resolve. The powerful light slowly dissipated, but it did not totally go away. It was as if Airos and Suatha were outlined in it, a white light that glowed steadily.

“You are not wanted here demon spawn! Your very presence blights this land! Come, and let me send you back to the dark pits from which you were created!” Airos roared.

The Banthra made a rasping, hissing noise, as if it were laughing. “A cavalier; it has been a thousand years since I’ve had the pleasure of killing one.” The Banthra drew a massive sword from its back and held the blade out to the side. The blade erupted with orange and red flames. “Prepare to meet your precious god, cavalier, for you are about to die.”

Like a rock flung from a sling, the Banthra bolted towards Airos with its sword held high. Airos and Suatha shot forward to meet the charge. The boargs followed their master and flung themselves forward, pouncing upon the sturdy men of Manson.

The glowing blades of the mighty warriors clashed over and over again, sending sparks and magical energy into the air. The Banthra’s devil steed broke through Suatha’s defenses and sunk its teeth deeply into the side of her neck. Airos saw the move, kicking the horse in the face hoping to dislodge the dangerous fangs. The Banthra, taking advantage of the sudden opening, swung its sword down and across Airos’s exposed leg. The blade glanced across his cuisse that protected his upper thigh and made a shallow cut just above the kneecap. Suatha used her powerful head and smashed it against the demon horse until its jaws tore away flesh and they both pulled apart, circling each other.

The shallow cut on Airos’s leg burned with pain. Even a shallow cut from a Banthra’s weapon can kill, for the blades and armor of the black knights are cursed. But Airos was a cavalier, and the pain began to subside as he closed the wound with his magic.

“Do you feel it, cavalier, your life nearing its end?” The Banthra hissed mockingly.

Airos laughed loudly. “That is your folly fallen one. I have no fear of death, but you are already dead. You are nothing without the twisted magic that makes you what you are! You are empty!” Airos yelled as he and Suatha leaped forward again. This time Suatha led the charge with her front hooves, and Airos, faster than the eye could see, flung his sword to his left hand.

Suatha’s hooves pounded into the Banthra and it was forced backwards, his sword held to the side. Airos, his blade now on the near side of the Banthra, swung it down on top of the neck of the demon horse. The black steed tried to turn its head away from the deadly blade but all that did was expose the side of its neck even more. Eight inches of Airos’s blade sunk in just to the right of the vertebrae, slicing all the way through the side of the neck. The devilish horse screamed, staggering backwards, black blood pulsing from the long gash on its neck. As the steed stumbled to the ground, the Banthra jumped from its back to land squarely on his feet.

***

Jonas was not sure how much longer he could stay in his hiding place. It was pitch black and he could hear the screams of the fighting outside. The sounds were all muffled but he could tell that horrible things were happening as he hid away in the safe confines of his hole. He felt like a coward and that did not bode well with him. But what can I do, he thought. I would just get in the way.

Suddenly a loud noise erupted from inside Gorum’s home. Jonas strained to hear what was happening and to recognize the source of the noise.

Lorna stood just to the left of the door of Gorum’s home. She was so frightened, more frightened than she could ever imagine, but she was not scared for herself, she was terrified for her son. She could not imagine the deadly teeth of the boargs tearing into her helpless son’s body. She would not let that happen. She would die trying to stop it.

In her hand she held a razor sharp bread knife as long as her forearm. She heard the boargs outside ransacking the homes, and she knew it was only a matter of time before they entered Gorum’s home.

Suddenly a fist pounded on the locked door. The loud noise brought her out of her reverie. She gripped her knife harder, her heart pounding in her head.

“Lorna, it’s me, Gorum, open up the door!”

Lorna let out her held breath, quickly lifting up the heavy oak beam and opening the door. Gorum rushed in and shut the door while Lorna replaced the beam. He was covered in blood and he had a huge claw mark from ear to collar bone, his iron sword was dripping crimson on the wood floor.

“We have to get out of here! We will not win this fight! Get Jonas and let’s make a run for it into the mountains. We’ll grab as many survivors as we can!” He grabbed a bag by the door that was already filled with provisions.

“Are you sure? Can we make it?” asked Lorna.

“I don’t know! But if we stay, we die! That I do know!”

The door suddenly exploded inward, sending splinters and wood fragments into Lorna and Gorum, sending them both sprawling backwards to land hard on the cabin floor.

Two huge boargs entered the room, stepping over the destroyed door, looking around hungrily, their deadly clawed hands scraping on the wooden floor as they slowly looked around, sniffing the air for their next victim.

***

Airos looked around quickly before returning his gaze to the unhorsed Banthra. It was not going well. The boargs were destroying the people of Manson. I have to kill this Banthra, thought Airos. It is their only chance.

The Banthra lifted its sword in the air and screamed, the screeching noise assaulting the men as they tried to fight, the Banthra simultaneously ramming the blade deep into the ground.

Airos recognized the use of magic and called on Ulren’s magic as well, but he was too slow. As the Banthra’s blade hit the earth a bolt of powerful energy traveled through the ground towards Airos. The ground erupted in a straight path and struck Suatha and Airos as the Banthra released the full power of the attack causing the ground to explode under Airos.

Suatha and Airos flew backwards landing heavily on the ground five paces away. Airos’s body was protected by Suatha’s powerful form so the courageous steed took the brunt of the attack. Airos struggled to get up and regain his footing, but his horse lay still, her underside burning and smoldering and one leg broken, hanging at an impossible angle.

Airos’s anger burned deep but controlled. He drew his long hunting knife with his left hand, holding his sword with his right he advanced on the approaching Banthra, his piercing eyes pits of boiling rage.

***

Gorum quickly scrambled to his feet, holding his heavy blade out in front of him. Lorna sprang up as well, running to stand next to him with her pitiful knife.

The boargs both hissed, a sound that Gorum now recognized as laughter. Gorum said nothing. He simply looked at Lorna, a silent ‘I’m sorry’ blanketing his face, and then he attacked the boargs with speed that seemed impossible for his size.

Gorum leaped at the first one, swinging his sword in a sideways arc hoping to kill it with the first blow, knowing that he would never be able to kill them both if he did not dispatch the first one quickly.

But the boarg was just too fast. Its long arm snaked out, grabbing the wooden chair nearby and holding it up, blocking the deadly blade. The blade crashed into the wood, shattering the chair as the boarg used its other arm to open up a gash along Gorum’s right shoulder. Gorum stumbled back and saw to his horror that the other boarg had leaped upon Lorna. But he was powerless to help her as the boarg in front of him continued the attack by leaping into the air in an attempt to pin him down with its strong clawed hands and heavy body.

Gorum knew that to retreat was death, so he simply did the thing that was least expected. He rushed forward to meet the attack. But he could not get his heavy sword up in time to cut down the leaping boarg so he punched the animal with the hand that was holding the sword. The boarg and Gorum’s powerful fist came together like an explosion, the boarg stopping instantly in the air, its lower jaw and teeth shattering on impact. Gorum felt his fist crumble, the many bones in his hand splintering under the terrible blow. They both staggered backwards in agony.

But Gorum did not feel the pain in his hand as he looked down at Lorna who was struggling against the strong beast that seemed to be playing with her. Its back legs rested on her thighs while the beast’s left hand was holding her neck. The boarg was running the claws of its right hand over her cheeks, opening up shallow cuts all over her face. Lorna was screaming and Gorum could see her scrambling to grab the knife that she dropped by her side.

Gorum switched grips, grabbing the heavy iron blade in his good hand. He gritted his teeth, swinging the blade with all his might, but his strength was leaving him and he knew that his left arm held little power. The blade sunk in a couple of inches into the boarg’s back.

The boarg roared defiantly, lashing its right arm out with astonishing speed and power, swiping its claws across Gorum’s chest and sending him sprawling to the floor with several more deep cuts and a few broken ribs.

Lorna took the brief distraction that Gorum had given her and looked for her knife. She spotted the blade, grabbing it with her right hand just as the boarg returned its attention to her. The boarg was done playing with her. Its left hand was still wrapped tightly around her throat and the beast begun to squeeze harder and lift her face to its open maw. Just as her face was inches from the boarg’s mouth, she used her right hand, slamming the razor sharp knife deep into its throat. The boarg howled as she ripped the knife through its flesh, severing the ropey vein that ran up its neck. Dark blood bathed them both but the boarg continued to squeeze her throat with the last remnants of its strength.

Gorum had landed hard, and as he struggled to get up he felt blood gushing from his wounds. As he got to his knees, a powerful weight struck him again, flattening him to his back and knocking the air from his lungs. The boarg with the broken jaw lay on top of him, its jaw crushed and hanging awkwardly to the side. Gorum tried to use the last of his strength to push the boarg off, but the beast was too strong and quick and fueled by pain and rage the beast furiously struck Gorum repeatedly, crushing his face and his throat. The pain was brief and then everything went black.

Lorna used her knife to stab at the fatally wounded boarg’s arm, its claws still clutched at her neck. The creature roared with fury and with one last burst of energy, dug its claws deep into her throat. The boarg fell away in death, Lorna’s blood covering its clawed hand. Lorna’s eyes went wide as she felt the warmth of her own blood pool around her. The boarg had sliced into her neck in several places and Lorna frantically brought her hands to her throat to try and stop the bleeding. But it was of no use, and within seconds she felt dizzy and lightheaded. There was little pain as her life blood gushed from the fatal wound and poured between her fingers. Her last thought was of Jonas as everything faded to black.

***

Fil was terrified. His family and friends were dying around him. He spotted Gorum the baker flee from the fight and head toward his home. He did not know where his family was and he did not want to die alone. Grabbing his spear he crawled out from behind the woodpile that was his hiding place and raced after Gorum. He was thirty paces from the baker’s home when he saw the two huge boargs smash their way through the baker’s door.

Fil stopped and looked around at the carnage. There were screams everywhere and men and boargs alike were dying all around him. It was obvious to Fil that the town was not going to survive. New anger surged through him and at this point he didn’t care if he died; he just wanted to inflict as much damage as possible to the beasts that did this to his home.

He gripped the spear with new vigor and raced toward Gorum’s home, running through the damaged door and into the room, attacking the first thing he saw. A boarg, with its back to the door, was sitting on top of Gorum and ripping his face apart with its teeth and claws.

Without thinking Fil ran forward and rammed his spear with all his strength into the back of the feeding beast. The spear point sunk in deep and then lodged against its sternum. The beast howled in pain, standing up and trying to grab the shaft from its back. The boarg turned around stumbling, Gorum’s blood coating its face, neck, and claws.

Fil’s anger still had not been quenched and he looked for another weapon to finish off the animal. He saw Gorum’s sword lying next to him. He grabbed it quickly. Fil was young, but strong for his age. His adrenaline took over and he hefted the sword with both hands and turned toward the stumbling beast. The boarg saw the weapon in his hands and lurched toward Fil hoping to kill the little human.

But Fil lifted the heavy blade and brought it downward with as much strength as he could muster, the sharp iron cutting deep into the boarg’s neck, causing the beast to stumble backwards, and ripping the sword from Fil’s hands. The animal wobbled on unsteady legs before finally falling to the ground, blood pulsing from the terrible wound.

A horrible gagging noise alerted Fil that he was not alone. He glanced against the wall, noticing a woman on the ground, her throat covered in blood. Fil ran towards her and knelt by her side. Blood had pooled all around her body and it was still slowly pouring from the lacerations at her throat. He noticed that it was Lorna, the mother of the cripple.

Lorna grabbed Fil’s arm with surprising strength, looking at him with the last of her life’s energy. “Jonas…..in the fireplace…..help him….protect him,” Lorna murmured quietly, her voice a soft gurgle. “Promise me, Fil,” she whispered, her strength finally leaving her.

Fil held her hand gently. Not knowing what else to say to the dying woman, he said what she wanted to hear. “I promise; I will look after him.” Fil stared down at Lorna as she died, her eyes glazing over and her blood smeared hand falling away. Fil did not know Lorna well, but the dying woman seemed to symbolize the entire town, the town that he had loved for fifteen years. He thought about his family and friends dead and dying, and tears began to fall, tears he could not stop as they cascaded down over the Lorna’s body.

He went on like that for a few moments, struggling to regain control of his emotions. The torrent of tears slowly stopped as Fil created a mental dam, a dam built of anger and determination. As the tears subsided, Fil gently used his hand to close her eyes. He got up and ripped the spear from the dead boarg. I’m going to survive this he thought; they will all pay for what they have done.

***

Airos and the Banthra clashed together, their blades creating a blur of magical energy. Airos’s skill with a blade was unrivaled, but he had never met a Bantrha in combat before. What Airos possessed in skill, the Banthra made up in magical enhancements. Airos’s blades spun faster and faster, creating a deadly barrage of steel that could not be stopped; so he thought.

But the Banthra was there, blocking every slash and lunge. The blackness of the creature began to suffocate Airos as they struggled together. He could feel the vileness seep his energy from him, the Bantrha hissing as he felt Airos begin to slow. Airos jabbed his long sword forward but fell off balance as the Banthra sidestepped the attack, slamming a spiked gauntlet into Airos’s side as the cavalier stumbled by. Airos felt the corrupt metal sink several inches into his unprotected side. The sting was unbearable, for the Banthra’s weapons were no ordinary steel. They were cursed weapons that created wounds that killed much faster and would not heal without magic.

“What’s wrong, cavalier? Does it sting?” the Banthra’s gravelly voice whispered. Airos was visibly struggling against the pain as the demon mocked him.

“Ulren, help me fight this abomination,” he prayed. As he focused on his prayer, the pain began to subside. His hands began to tingle and the black veil that seemed to cover him fell away and new strength shot through him. The wound in his side sealed itself as the pain mercifully faded away.

The Banthra felt his magic being countered and hissed angrily, swinging his blade down in an overhead chop. Airos flung up his sword and knife in a cross block catching the flaming weapon. He used his sword to slide the Banthra’s blade to the side while ramming his knife deep into the Banthra’s thigh. The Banthra screamed, lurching backwards, the magical knife ripping from its leg and falling from Airos’s hand.

Airos gripped his sword with both hands, and summoning the High One’s energy he released it toward the Banthra. “Ulren!” Airos screamed, pointing his sword at the Banthra. Airos’s body glowed bright blue for a second, then all the energy burst from the tip of the sword in a powerful bolt of God Fire that hit the Banthra square in the stomach, forcing it to stumble backwards. The Banthra snarled and looked down at a charred burning hole in its bowels, its legs wobbly underneath him.

Braal ripped his axe from the dying beast’s chest and looked up for his next victim. He had long ago exhausted all the energy of his physical body and was now fighting with his heart. His anger fueled him; the anger of his brother’s death many years ago, the anger of seeing the death and destruction of the town he loved. He knew this new energy would not last forever so he found his next victim quickly.

The Banthra was standing with its back to him not more than twenty paces away. As he looked at the devil warrior he saw Airos launch a dazzling bolt of flame into the demon’s stomach. Braal shielded his eyes from the brightness, gripping his axe tighter. He looked back at the staggering demon and his eyes burned with hatred. Braal lifted his axe, charging at the personification of his fury, at the very thing that had destroyed everything he held dear.

Airos saw the charge and screamed inwardly, knowing that Braal’s weapon could do nothing. Airos moved in like a striking snake just as the Banthra turned to meet the charge that he sensed behind him. The Banthra held up his sword to intercept the powerful chop of the axe. When the two weapons met the axe exploded in a shower of metal and wood and the Banthra reversed the parry and struck the enraged human in the side, the magical flames of the sword cutting through the man’s body as if it were made of air.

Airos saw Braal’s body fall away in two pieces just as he leaped forward and rammed his own sword through the body of the distracted Banthra. The blade pierced the black knight through the heart, erupting out the other side in a shower of black blood.

The Banthra lifted his head and screamed into the night. Airos twisted the blade, and called on the power of Ulren again.

“Burn you Forsworn spawn!” Airos yelled through gritted teeth, his power surging through the sword into the body of the Banthra. The Banthra, screaming louder, dropped his sword and grabbed Airos’s head with both hands.

“I will take you with me, cavalier,” hissed the Banthra. The Banthra’s hands began to glow red as he sent his magic into the cavalier. Airos clenched his teeth and continued to pray and channel his magic into the body of the Banthra.

The demon knight lit up like the moon as the blue flame began to flow through it, burning him with fiery pain. As Airos screamed, the demon’s dark magic continued to attack Airos’s body. They were locked together, fused in a searing struggle for survival. Airos arched his back and screamed louder as the magic burned his core…but he could not let go. If he let go of the sword then the link that was channeling his magic into the demon would be severed and he would be incinerated.

All the men and boargs that were still alive stopped fighting, slowly stepping further away from the glowing combatants. Airos’s body became translucent and the red fire filled him and burned from the inside out. They both continued to scream, sending one last burst of energy into each other.

The magic flared and exploded out over fifteen paces before it receded and disappeared. The men and boargs nearby fell to the ground to shield themselves from the blast. Those closest to the battle ended up as charred burning husks. The ground was scorched black around the two dead warriors, their bodies nothing more than burnt and blackened forms, unrecognizable from their previous selves.

There were fifteen men left, barely standing, holding onto their bloody weapons. The remaining fifty boargs advanced on the men, paying little attention to their dead leader, for food was standing right in front of them. The men could barely move, let alone stop the charge of the hungry beasts.