The Chronicles of Caylen-Tor Read online

  “Proceed,” Caylen growled.

  The guard began to light the torches and braziers arrayed about the chamber, serving to illumine the encroaching darkness.

  Then, two men entered the room, each making the Salute of the Hammer as they approached the throne.

  General Oughtred Bearsark was a giant of a man, standing just under seven feet tall. His red beard was forked and braided, and intricate knotwork tattoos adorned his shaven head. A black leather patch covered his left eye socket, and a huge bearskin cloak was draped over his chainmail-clad frame. In addition, he wore studded leather vambraces, trews of thick wool and high boots of cured sheepskin. By his side was a huge, long-hafted axe, its great notched head etched with battle-runes. A veteran of countless tribal wars, Oughtred was chieftain of the Raven-Saters clan, and had been swiftly appointed supreme commander of the tribal armies upon Caylen’s ascension to the throne, answerable only to the king himself in all military matters.

  Beside Oughtred stood the man known as Wulfric Oakenbrand. He was wiry and lean, but hard muscled. His copper coloured hair was gathered in a ponytail, and he sported a few days’ worth of stubble. He stood three inches shy of six feet in height and his pale green eyes gleamed with cunning and wiliness. Wulfric wore a hooded leather jerkin, a shirt of dyed green wool edged with russet braid, leather leggings and doeskin boots. Across his chest was a broad leather baldric which housed four slender throwing knives with hilts of carved bone. Oakenbrand hailed from the forest kingdoms to the south, and had found his way into the tribal armies as a wandering outlaw during the wars against the Tundra Nomads some four years ago. Caylen had witnessed the mercenary’s skill with a blade during the Battle of Hag Moor, and much to the chagrin of several elder members of the tribal council, had formally offered him the position of Chief Ranger, an appointment which the wolfshead had readily accepted.

  “Welcome, friends,” the king said. “What word from the frontier?”

  “Our scouts have intercepted a merchant convoy from the satrapies,” replied Wulfric. “Word is that the imperial legions passed into Delanian territory a fortnight ago. The royal army marched to meet them. It did not go well.”

  Caylen’s brow furrowed. “Meaning?”

  “The king is dead, his army routed. The legions have sacked the capital.”

  Caylen sighed heavily. “So, Delania has fallen. And now the jackals are baying at our gates.”

  “So it would seem, sire,” said Wulfric. “There are also reports that a smaller imperial force has struck at the frontier cities of Zulantia and raided the border settlements of Turanan.”

  “Indeed.” Caylen’s icy gaze then fell upon Oughtred Bearsark. “And what of the imperial outriders that were captured near the border? Have they told you anything useful?”

  “They gave us nothing,” gnarred Oughtred. “Not even when we carved the moon-wheel into their backs.”

  “Then they are well trained indeed,” mused Caylen.

  “Several of them were set free, as you instructed. They were told to take your message directly to their commanders.”

  Caylen smiled coldly. “Let us hope my warning reaches the ears of the empire’s generals.”

  “Our best rangers have been assigned to watch the borderlands,” said Wulfric. “Nothing will escape their sight, we can be sure of that.”

  “How long do we have?” asked Caylen.

  “Difficult to say for sure,” Oughtred replied. “Two months, if the empire fully resupplies and commits to fortifying the capital. No more than that.”

  “Then war is upon us, it seems,” the king said, turning to glance over his wolfskin-clad shoulder. “Wizard, show yourself!”

  From the shadows behind the oaken throne, a black-cloaked figure emerged to stand at the king’s left hand. In the dimly flickering torchlight, the diminutive man seemed somehow to be an extension of the darkness which had disgorged him. A deep cowl concealed his features, affording only a fleeting glimpse of deeply lined, leathern skin and gleaming feral eyes. In his bony hands the man gripped a staff of gnarled ash, carved with many runes and tipped at both ends with round caps of bronze.

  “Drogha Tul. My shaman and sage.” Caylen said, casting a wary glance at the cowled man.

  “Greetings, Wolf-King,” Tul rasped, his sepulchral voice like crackling parchment. “The blessings of the gods be upon thee.”

  “What have the runes told you, old man?”

  Tul smiled mirthlessly. “They speak of blood, of fire and of death. The future holds war and strife.”

  “I expected nothing less,” said Caylen. “Have you sent word to the Fen-Witches of the Great Mere?”

  Drogha Tul scowled. “Aye. Their high priestess remembers the favour she owes you. They will do their part, should the need arise.”

  “So be it.”

  As he gazed at the shadowed figure, Caylen realized how little he truly knew about the shaman whose services the Wolf Clan had employed for so many generations. Tales of the wizard Drogha Tul had been told around the tribal hearth fires for as long as any clansman could remember, and no one, not even the tribal elders, could guess the man’s true age.

  “Will the empress weave spells against us?”

  “Indeed, sire,” said Drogha Tul, his rheumy eyes sparkling from the deeps of his cowl. “The Witch-Queen is a fey creature, dabbling in petty magicks and invoking vulgar minor demons to do her bidding.”

  “Witches and demons!” spat Oughtred contemptuously. “The empire is truly a charnel-pit of nithings and deceivers!”

  Drogha Tul nodded. “Zyrashana’s chthonic priests empower her troops with battle-spells so that all fear is driven from their hearts in the fray. Her warriors rival our own ber-serkr marauders in their ferocity.”

  “Pah! It will matter little,” Oughtred rumbled. “Her hordes will still fall in the massed throng of battle, enchantments or not!”

  Wulfric moved closer to the old wizard. “And what of her vassal, the one called Ebonfyre? Are the rumours true?”

  “Host to a fiend born of the Z’xulth,” whispered Tul. “A terrible foe he is, stalking the battlefield with his great curved sword, leaving sanguine ruin in his wake. Slaying ten to his left, ten to his right, men and beasts falling with each stroke of that cursed blade.”

  Caylen-Tor’s eyes narrowed. “Well then, I shall meet this demonic champion in the thick of the fray, and prove that he bleeds like any other man when kissed by good northern steel.”

  Tul shifted his grip upon his twisted staff. “As you say, Wolf-King.”

  “Bah! Enough talk of witchery!” Caylen bellowed, turning to Oughtred. “Now general, what of the foe’s movements?”

  Oughtred moved to a nearby trestle table, removing a rolled leather map from a satchel at his belt.

  “The legions have been pressing west since annexing the satrapies of Azesham and Numadai two seasons past. I believe they aspire to reach the western baronies before winter. Now that Delania has fallen, our lands constitute the swiftest route to the coast.”

  The general unfurled the scroll and pressed it onto the table, revealing the detailed representation of the tribal alliance’s borders that had been etched into the bleached surface of the leather. Then he pointed to a location at the map’s northern edge. “It will be Blackhelm Vale, the Gate to the Northlands. That valley is the only path through the mountains for such an army.”

  Caylen gazed into the flickering torchlight and after long moments of contemplation, he spoke. “The tribal war-council shall meet at moonrise nine days hence. Let word go forth that the Wolf of the North summons all the chieftains of the alliance to his great hall at Ulfheim. Gather the Witenagemot! Such is the king’s decree!”

  The officer of the guard hurried from the chamber to carry out Caylen-Tor’s order.

  With a sigh, Wulfric moved in to study the map and the valley which Oughtred had pinpointed.

  “Blackhelm Vale, eh?” he muttered.

  “Aye,” said Oughtred. �
�There’s no doubt that is where the empire shall begin their incursion into our lands.”

  Caylen-Tor grasped the hilt of Caled-draca once again, his voice scarcely more than a malevolent whisper. “Then that is where they shall fall!”

  Chapter III

  Woe to the Conquered

  Talus Ebonfyre reclined upon the ornate jeweled throne within the Delanian palace’s royal audience chamber, flanked by twin columns of intricately carved granite which towered towards the shadowed ceiling. His deeply oiled, jet-black hair had been scraped back and braided, the strands secured with onyx ringlets. He wore a shirt of black silk, leggings of blackened leather and knee-length riding boots. A dark woolen cloak edged with sable hung from his broad shoulders and at his belt was a black sheath within which rested a curved dagger with a hilt of polished ebony. Even in the golden light which the room’s many braziers and cressets provided, Ebonfyre’s face seemed to maintain a deathly pale pallor, his high cheekbones and grim, thin lipped mouth accentuating his cruel countenance. Torchlight flickered in Ebonfyre’s eyes, seeming to gutter and fade in their abyssal depths, as he studied the captive Delanian prince who now stood before him.

  “Greetings, your highness,” growled Talus, his voice deep and grave-cold. “I trust your sojourn in your father’s dungeon has afforded you ample time for rumination?”

  The bruised and shackled young nobleman met the general’s gaze defiantly, his eyes burning with hatred. He said nothing.

  “Behold the carnage which surrounds you, princeling of the realm,” Ebonfyre hissed. “Your walls are breached, your temples are in ruins and your splendid citadels have been razed to the ground. All because your vaunted king would not swear allegiance to the banner of Mytos K’unn.”

  Talus Ebonfyre’s fingers slowly curled around the hilt of the dagger at his belt. “Is all this a fair price to pay for such arrogance?”

  The young prince threw back his head proudly. “To the pit with you, devil! And your accursed queen of whores!”

  Ebonfyre smiled icily. “Ah, such admirable defiance. A family trait, mayhap? Quite misplaced, of course.”

  Talus Ebonfyre’s dagger suddenly hissed from its sheath and he surged from the opulent throne to drive the blade into the heart of the young prince, twisting the steel cruelly before dragging it free. Blood erupted from the wound and splashed to the marble dais as the youth collapsed lifeless to the stone floor’s mosaic tesserae tiles.

  Ebonfyre regarded the reddened blade in his grasp. “Steel is wondrous in its disregard for rank and birthright. It so readily spills the blood of thrall and king alike.”

  Resuming his seat, he motioned to the guards flanking the doorway. “Put his head on a pike to rot alongside his father’s. It will be a fitting family reunion.”

  The sentries duly gathered up the corpse and hurried from the chamber.

  Ebonfyre closed his eyes, striving to quiet the dark voice which had begun whispering to him the moment his steel had pierced the flesh of the prince. He tightened his grip on the dagger, feeling again the restless stirring of the fiend which dwelled within him. Focusing his mind, he strengthened the tenebrous reins which for the most part kept the beast fettered in its incorporeal prison. Sensing the displeasure of the entity, Ebonfyre smiled. Not yet. The beast would be unleashed soon enough, then it would once again drink its fill of carnage and be replete before returning to that lightless corner of his mind where it seethed and slumbered.

  Such a malefic and insidious entity of untrammeled carnage!

  The ruinous aftermath of the energumen beast’s unshackling was still vivid in Ebonfyre’s mind, the red vista of its slaughterous rampage crystal clear in his memory. A hoary creature of the utter darkness, it was ageless beyond measure, and had long been summoned and conjured by the nefarious acolytes of the Z’xulth across the fathomless aeons. The darksome bargain which had been struck between Zyrashana and the tenebrous entity was a covenant of matchless evil, and Ebonfyre could ever taste the torrents of rage and malevolence which seethed and roiled within its inhuman mind.

  A fitting host I am, for such a ravenous essence of black chaos, cast crudely in the form of a man! Nothing more than a means to an end… but what a sublimely villainous web is woven!

  Peering deep into the benighted abyss of his psyche, Ebonfyre beheld once more the closing moments of the confrontation with the Delanian army, and felt anew the opiate bliss of battle as the martial memory unfolded vividly before his mind’s eye…

  Countless Delanian corpses littered the grassy plain, their silvern armour battered and riven by the blades of the imperial host. The sturdy steeds of the king’s knights lay butchered atop their broken riders, and the bodies of templars and spearmen were strewn twisted and cloven amidst the crimson mire. Talus Ebonfyre vaulted from the saddle of his grey charger and surged headlong into the fray, his black cloak billowing like a shadow, his great curved blade whirling like a coruscant vortex of pattern-welded death. Three paladins raced to meet him, and he swept the head of the first man from his armoured body in a gruesome shower of blood and bone. His scimitar hacked off the sword-arm of the second knight and the man fell quivering to the earth where he swiftly received the pitiless final blessing of Ebonfyre’s envenomed steel. The third paladin’s strike was knocked aside with disdainful ease and Ebonfyre’s sword punched through his cuirass to emerge slick and sanguineous from the man’s shattered back. Dragging his scimitar clear, Ebonfyre stalked toward an embattled young templar whose mount had been hacked from under him and arced a brutal blow at the man’s visored helm. The azure-cloaked knight boldly threw his longsword up for the parry, but its canescent steel was instantly shattered to silver shards by the force of Ebonfyre’s pitiless blow. The great curved blade hammered down unchecked and clove through the young knight’s pauldron and breastplate, leaving a terrible ragged wound which gaped redly from neck to sternum. Gouts of hot blood erupted from the fallen templar’s corpse and Ebonfyre instantly spun to face an older warrior whose barbute helmet had been dashed from his bloodied head. The man’s braided grey beard was flecked with gore and a mad fervor shone in his eyes as he drove his notched broadsword in for the attack. Ebonfyre parried the strike amidst a blossom of red sparks and delivered a lightning riposte which bit deep into the man’s gardbrace, unbalancing him for a fleeting moment. Pressing the advantage, Ebonfyre hammered his sword two-handed directly into the warrior’s cuirass, transfixing him with the ruinous yard of searing steel. Pulling his blade free, Ebonfyre turned and saw the mounted form of King Gustanhav and his two remaining royal guards desperately fending off an attack by three black-clad marauders of the Iron Jackal Legion. Leaping over the bodies of the slain, Ebonfyre spun his great sword and lanced it downwards in a devastating arc which all but hewed off the chanfron and crinet-clad head of the king’s steed. Crashing to the bloodied earth with the body of his ravaged mount pinning him in place, Gustanhav gazed up at the hulking form looming over him and raised his ornate longsword defiantly.

  “Vile revenant!” the king spat furiously. “I shall not yield! You shall yet fall, heretical devil!”

  “Your kingdom is mine, Gustanhav!” growled Ebonfyre, a rutilant glow burning behind the eye-slit of his great horned helm. “And not kind shall my rule be!” With that, he swept the king’s head from his body with a single blow of his gore-kissed blade.

  Gathering up the grisly trophy by the crest of its helm, Ebonfyre lifted it to the crow-glutted sky and bellowed his inhuman rage to the heedless heavens…

  Abruptly, Ebonfyre’s eyes snapped open and he let the bloodied dagger fall to the tesserae tiles, swiftly clearing his mind of the battle’s tumultuous memory. Before him, a scarred, black-garbed man was bowing silently at the dais of the marble throne.

  Ebonfyre sighed wearily. “What is it, General Tolodes?”

  “My lord,” the general said, “a scout has returned from the wilderness to the west. He requests an audience.”

  “Scouts report their finding
s to their staff officers, not to me.”

  Tolodes swallowed hard before speaking again. “With respect, my lord, he says he bears news for you alone.”

  Ebonfyre leaned forward. “Indeed? Then we shall hear this news.”

  Tolodes motioned towards the chamber’s door and the scout warily approached the throne. Kneeling, the man pressed his forehead to the floor.

  “Speak!” thundered Ebonfyre.

  “Dead, my lord,” the man rasped, his voice hoarse with fear. “All but myself! Like ghosts from the shadows they were! We did not see them until they were upon us!”

  “What are you babbling about?” Ebonfyre barked at the supine man. “Who assailed you?”

  The scout lifted his head from the tiles, but did not dare meet his dark overlord’s gaze. “Savages, my lord, painted savages! The warriors of the tribal king, he who is called the Wolf of the North!”

  Ebonfyre’s eyes widened and he partially rose from the throne. “Caylen-Tor? The barbarian chieftain? He has dared spill the blood of the empire’s agents? What else? Out with it, dog!”

  The scout’s words welled in his fear-tightened throat. “The tribesmen who spared me, my lord. They bade me return here with a message for you. A message from Caylen-Tor himself.”

  Talus Ebonfyre reached down and grasped the scout’s tunic, dragging the man roughly to his feet so that their faces were mere inches apart. “What is this message?” he hissed.

  The scout’s voice was no more than a guttural rasp. “If... if the dogs of Mytos K’unn dare set foot within the boundaries of the tribal alliance, they shall be soundly whipped and driven howling back into the east!”

  Ebonfyre surged fully to his feet, hurling the terrified scout to the floor. “Madness!” he thundered, striding from the marble dais. “Does this king of savages truly think he can stand against the empire? Does this blue-daubed barbarian actually believe he can challenge the might of these legions?”