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It was barely a matter of hours after the meeting between King Randufil, Ichabod and Kawuhl that events in Meriandor were to take a dramatic turn, which would leave few in doubt as to the seriousness of their situation. Dusk was settling over the capital as the last of the street traders closed their stalls, and the few remaining shoppers scurried home clutching last minute purchases. With the youngest children tucked up in bed, their mothers hurried to join weary husbands, relaxing after a day’s toil in field or workshop.
As the fiery splendour of the evening sun slipped below the horizon, and shadows lengthened towards dark corners, honest people needed no excuse to be off the streets. The chill of the coming night was already beginning to make its mark as misty halos formed around flickering lanterns hung at the doorway to one of the taverns. Too late for the crush and bustle of the afternoon crowds, yet too early for the nighttime revellers to have taken to the streets, a quiet gradually descended.
In the main square, the shrill tones of a woman's voice scolding a child briefly overlaid the constant murmur of muffled voices coming from the alehouses. For a short time, the sobs of the snivelling tyke held sway over other sounds, until the rising clatter of hooves pounding cobbles filled the air. Moments later the fleeting shape of a mounted courier crossed the square, as he hurried to carry out his mission, the sound gradually diminishing as he rode into the distance. All the normal sounds of a thriving community settling to the slower pace of evening after a busy day.
Away from the commercial centre of the city, the streets were quiet save for the occasional bark of a dog or the howl of a cat, as they wandered abroad in search of food or sport. In one shadowy alley, two young felines crouched with flattened ears, their tails flared and erect like bottlebrushes, as they hissed and spat at one another, preparing to join in battle over disputed territory.
Because of the hour, a factor that would prove crucial in what was to come, most of the inhabitants of the city were already safely indoors. In one respect, it was also providential for the city guard since it was at this time that the watch changed. The men going off duty had only just begun their march back to the barracks, for the moment doubling the number of armed men on the streets. Although for what was to follow, it was arguable whether their greater numbers would prove to be advantageous.
No warning came from the guards posted along the city walls, due partly to the swiftness of the raid, but more to the unexpected direction from which the attack came. One minute all was calm; the next, the air filled with the beating of wings. Hundreds upon hundreds of black-scaled creatures, each no bigger than a small child, with leathery wings and whip like tails, poured from the skies above the city, swooping down and attacking every living thing in sight.
Although they carried no weapons, their vicious teeth and claws soon wreaked havoc. With unerring aim, they sought the veins of man and beast, savagely biting and clawing intent on draining their victim's blood. The sheep and cattle in the market pens soon fell victim to the overwhelming number of attackers, their wholesale slaughter taking bare minutes. The people left on the streets fared little better, their only choice to run for cover, but few succeeded.
Almost immediately the attack began, the column of retiring guards found themselves besieged, leaving the captain with no option but to order his men to defend themselves, despite being hopelessly outnumbered. Regardless of training, few of the men had combat experience, and when confronted by hordes of demons, many panicked. Breaking ranks, a number of men fled for the safety of the barracks, pursued by dozens of the howling creatures.
Meanwhile, on the barracks’ practice grounds, as yet unaware of the attack on his men, General Kawuhl's attention centred on delivering a punishing lesson in swordsmanship. His seemingly ill-matched opponent, their differences in height and build undisguised by the chain mail and morion each wore, was fighting valiantly to hold his ground against the relentless sweeps of the Jelvoan's curved blade. Unlike the general, the younger man, his colouring marking him as a native Caregoron, wore no surcoat or badge of rank, his outfit and weapon that of a common trooper, an extraordinary contest for the commander-in-chief.
Having been engaged in the swordplay for quite some time, the younger man was beginning to tire, struggling to maintain his guard as the otherwise empty arena echoed to the clash of their blades. Despite appearances, he held the rank of captain, yet the order coming as it had direct from the general had been to say the least, unusual. On arrival at the practice ground, Kawuhl, attired in chain mail, had insisted that he don a similar suit and not the full battle armour more normally worn on such occasions, and then promptly began the bout.
Despite the concession, the younger man was still finding the weight of the mail a burden, his stamina no match for that of the seasoned veteran. At first, the general's thrusts had been easily parried, but gradually they had become more forceful, more determined, until the young officer had begun to feel threatened. After one particularly vicious lunge that had sent him sprawling breathless to the floor, the soldier had called to the general to stop, but the Jelvoan had shown no inclination to take orders from a lowly captain.
Struck by the realization that his opponent intended him harm, the young man rapidly searched the arena, but knew only too well that they were alone, there being no one to whom he could appeal for help. Suddenly all that stood between himself and death were his skills with the sword now clutched tight in his hands, and he knew he was no match for the mighty warrior.
Without helm or plate, both men knew the vulnerability of the mail, as each sought an opening they might use to advantage, the captain now certain that if opportunity presented itself, he would have to strike to kill. Suddenly the Jelvoan swung his blade in a sweeping arc that ended in a bruising blow to the soldier's left side, only a last second twist of the general's wrist preventing serious injury, as it was the flat of the blade that struck home.
Enraged by the blow, the captain gulped air, wincing from the pain in his side as he swung wildly in the general's direction. Easily brushing aside his opponent's weapon, Kawuhl again hammered home another blow, this time to the man's unguarded right. Staggering and in more pain than he could ever remember having suffered, the younger man again appealed to stop the contest, but Kawuhl had not yet finished with him.
Blocking the Jelvoan's thrusting blade, the general's sword again flashed towards him, forcing the captain to parry, twisting his wrist as he had been taught, to deflect the cut. With his eyes misting from the pain he struggled to maintain his guard, suddenly more afraid than he had ever been before. There was no time to consider the reasons why Kawuhl was acting so strangely, yet his mind refused to believe that he meant him no harm.
Calmed by his acceptance of the situation, he cleared his mind of all other thoughts, and concentrated his efforts on defeating Kawuhl. Only as his attention focused did the truth dawn, his life had not been threatened, as surely the Jelvoan could have dispatched him with either of his last two blows. No, turning his blade as he had could mean only one thing, the general meant to teach him a punishing and painful lesson. Well, he had no intention of taking it without inflicting some hurt of his own.
Parrying the next two thrusts from the Jelvoan, the captain circled slowly, looking for openings, the gathering gloom hampering his efforts. The first opportunity came as Kawuhl changed his stance to meet his opponent's new position. In the brief instant that it took for him to face the captain, the soldier delivered a swift slash to Kawuhl's sword arm, striking the mail with such force it severed the links, drawing a trace of blood from the flesh now exposed.
Kawuhl simply grunted his annoyance at having been caught out and returned to the attack. For several minutes the two men exchanged blows, neither gaining from their efforts, until the captain spotted the opening he had been waiting for. With his eyes glinting in anticipation, he turned his body, feinting left, before bringing his blade up in a vicious right hand sweep. His intent had been to aim at Kawuhl's exposed throat. Had the blade finished its journey, the Jelvoan would doubtless have died in that instant, yet with lightening speed, Kawuhl's sword blocked the thrust, the power behind his attacker's blow turned against him to jar his arm with such force, his sword dropped from his numbed hand, his humiliation added to as the huge warrior deftly kicked his legs from under him, sending him sprawling in the dirt.
Standing over the young man, the general offered no assistance as the captain struggled to regain his feet, the wind knocked out of him by the fall. Removing his helmet, exposing sweat sodden black hair plastered to his head, he rounded on the general, his eyes flashing his anger.
“Damn you, General Kawuhl, you'll pay dearly for this, just wait until my father hears how you treated me today.”
“I think not Your Highness, it was for your own good that we fought today, and the king was well aware of the lesson I have just delivered. You fought well young Feldric, but remember, never let your opponent see in advance what you intend. Had your eyes not betrayed you, I might well not be standing before you now. Your sword masters have taught you well, yet you still need to practice if you are to be able to stand against such as the warriors of Jelvoa.”
Getting his breath back, and bending to retrieve his sword from where it lay, Feldric grimaced as the pain from the blow still affected his arm. “It's a good job we were not really fighting one another,” replied the prince, “or one of us might have been injured.”
“A prince of the blood you may be Sire, yet our contest was just that. Now that you have been taught all that your instructors know, it was time for you to test your mettle in true combat. Had you not been ready, then you would probably have died.”
Before the prince could speak, to protest that as heir to the throne of Caregoron, Kawuhl had no right to jeopardize his life, he was interrupted by half a dozen soldiers running into the arena, all calling for the general. A lieutenant pushing past the other men shouted as he ran to where Kawuhl stood, “Sir!” he yelled, “it’s the city guard, they’re under attack.” Skidding to a halt in front of the Jelvoan, who by now had turned his back on the hapless prince, the officer quickly related what little he knew of the attack.
As he spoke, so twenty or more soldiers entered the arena, but the general who hurried after his men quickly dispatched them, bellowing orders as he ran. Clutching his sword and helmet, Feldric did his best to follow, grimacing from the pain that still had him in its grip. Arriving at the guardhouse minutes later, the sweat pouring from his brow after the exertion, and with the mail clinging to him like a lead coat, the sight that greeted the prince shocked him deeply.
Kawuhl was addressing two troopers; their ragged and bloodied state witness to whatever misdeed had befallen them. Satisfied that the fear in their eyes was as real as their injuries, the general's interest lay more in extracting details of what had occurred than in their cowardice. As soon as he had heard their story, he issued orders for six squads of men to be sent to reinforce the beleaguered column with the two deserters accompanying them.
Snatching up his sword, Kawuhl made to leave, his intention to lead a second, larger force of men to the main square to join up with the newly posted guards. His plan depended on having sufficient men available to permit him to detach part of his force to defend Castle Randufil if the fighting moved in that direction. Catching sight of Prince Feldric as he turned, the general called the youth to him, his manner that of a senior officer addressing one of low rank. “Captain you will remain here until I have established the seriousness of the attack,” then softening his words added, “despite what you may think of me, your safety is still my concern,” and with that he turned on his heel to leave.
“But I must return to the castle,” protested Feldric, calling after the general's retreating back.
“Not until I am sure it is safe for you to do so, remain here and I will send word.”
Feldric opened his mouth to speak, but without turning round, the general cut him short. “That's an order, Sire.”
The scene in the square was the bloodiest Kawuhl had ever witnessed, despite being a seasoned veteran of numerous campaigns. Although unprepared for the carnage that greeted him, it took bare seconds for the general to realize how grossly his men had underestimated the scale of the attack. Because of their superior numbers, the hordes of attackers were rapidly overrunning the guards.
In the same time it took Kawuhl to recognize the seriousness of their situation, his mind began to form a strategy. With half his forces armed with halberds and pikes, which were of little effect against attack from above, he ordered his archers into two ranks. In square formation around their comrades, both ranks of archers could fire alternately to keep up a constant volley. For several minutes, it looked as if the longbows might succeed, the battle turning against the attackers as dozens of black bodies tumbled from the sky, falling to the ground to be hacked to pieces by the weapons of the soldiers within the defensive square.
Throughout the battle, the imps kept up the most hideous piglike squealing, as the gutters ran with their green ichor, liberally supplemented by the crimson blood of the valiant soldiers. But it was a battle doomed to failure, the defenders simply didn't have enough arrows to keep up the barrage, and one by one, they fell to the attackers. Kawuhl realizing the danger, ordered all but the archers who still had shafts left, into a defensive phalanx, overlapping their shields to form a protective barrier, as he sought a means of retreat.
Meriandor's main square, sited to the south of the city centre, was bounded on all sides by colonnades housing permanent lock-up shops. Beyond these forming a second line to the northern side were the taller buildings of the law courts and town hall; whilst to the east were the commercial premises of the most prosperous tradesmen, a number of bawdy houses, and numerous inns. As the country's capital, the city had naturally grown to become its largest settlement, and consequently boasted the biggest square, providing space within its confines for scores of vendor stalls and barrows and for the multitudes that thronged its vast openness every day.
Outside and to the south, lay the unmade area of the cattle and horse market, with pens to hold livestock overnight, only to the west did the square give directly on to private dwellings. With four wide roads leading in or out, one situated at the midpoint of each side, it acted as the central gathering place of the city. It was here that traders could sell their wares, tradesmen their skills, and whores their favours, yet as a place for an aerial attack, it could not have been worse for its defenders. Offering no cover whatsoever, the only roofed buildings being the locked shops, and with virtually no obstacle to impede their flight, it presented the attackers with an open killing ground.
Unlike the smaller side roads or alleys, the square and its four main byways were all cobbled, providing a good surface for both foot and wheeled traffic. Unfortunately for Kawuhl's men, this brought an added difficulty that of staying on their feet, as the surface soon became as slippery as glass from the gore that covered it. Retreating from it should only have been a matter of choosing, which of the four routes to take. Those to the south and west would eventually lead them back to the barracks, whilst the opposite two led towards Castle Randufil.
Despite the failing light, he could see that already the attackers were blocking the two barracks exits by sheer weight of numbers, and that the northern route was rapidly going the same way, which made his decision for him.
Shouting over the incessant din created by the black beasts, Kawuhl ordered his lieutenants to make for the eastern avenue. If they could get to the castle, they would be better able to defend themselves. By now the number of arrows being fired into the sky had fallen to a mere handful, as quivers emptied, and the failing light made finding black targets against a rapidly darkening sky almost impossible. Still the imps attacked in swarms, men falling to the ground smothered as the creatures tore and bit at them.
Calling to the young bugler, who had somehow managed to stay at his side, to sound the retreat, Kawuhl urged his bloodied and weary men towards the castle. It was almost half a mile from the square, and they had to fight for every inch of the way, all semblance of order lost in the general rout. By the time what remained of the force had reached the main gate, the castle guards had been alerted by the commotion and rushed to assist their comrades. Working as fast as they were able, they dragged the wounded and injured men into the covered inner courtyard. Once inside, the gatekeepers hurriedly slammed the heavy gates shut, drawing the massive locking beam into place the moment they could.
Despite the speed with which they had worked, dozens of the black imps had forced their way into the castle grounds. Pressing home their attack, which never faltered despite the reverse in numbers, it was the archers and swordsmen of the king's personal guard who finally dispatched them, but not before they had inflicted yet more casualties.
So loud was the fighting that Ichabod had heard the noise deep down in his rooms, and came rushing up to investigate. All around lay the bodies of wounded and dying men, their flesh torn to shreds by the attackers. Bewildered by the sight that greeted him, he searched about, looking for someone who could tell him what was happening.
Catching sight of General Kawuhl, he hurried over to him, horrified by the Jelvoan's appearance. Despite being spared serious injury by the chain mail he had fortunately been wearing when the alarm had been raised, his surcoat was in tatters, its heraldic designs obscured by the blotches of blood and green slime that now covered it. Had more of his men been similarly attired they too might have survived, a factor that weighed heavily with the general.
Despite his ragged appearance, Kawuhl continued to issue orders in clipped sentences to the guards, whilst a Healer attempted to staunch the flow of blood from a deep gash across his forehead. The wound had been caused by the misdirected thrust of a pike in the hands of a man blinded by the demon that covered his face as it tore at his flesh.
Reaching the general’s side, the sorcerer demanded, “In the name of the Creator what has happened?”
Shaken by the fury of the attack, the Jelvoan was still trying to work out the answer to that question for himself. “Demons, black demons, hundreds and hundreds of them. They came out of nowhere, pouring from the sky. They attacked the city guard, and when I sent reinforcements, they cut us off in the square, we only had one way out, and that was to come here.” Reaching boiling point, Kawuhl's anger spilled over filling his words with venom, “By the light I'll have my revenge for this night! I've lost over a hundred and fifty good men, to these...these creatures. They will be destroyed, or I'll die in the attempt.”
Recognizing the futility in trying to reason with Kawuhl for the present, Ichabod sought more information whilst nodding an implied assent. “Black demons you say, it would help if we knew more of their nature, how big were they, did they have tails or horns?”
Almost dismissively the soldier replied, “There are plenty of bodies at the main gate if you want to look at them, for me I would only set eyes on one at the point of my sword.” Gradually the temporary madness induced by the heat of battle, subsided. Facing Ichabod, he once more became the calm, efficient officer, yet the bloodlust was still in his eyes as he spoke. “The lookouts tell me the demons still circle the city, but so far haven't found a way in to the castle. We must ensure we have our defences prepared in readiness; I'm sorry, I must make the arrangements,” and shaking off the hands of the Healer, he hurried away.
Left alone to ponder on the Jelvoan's words, as Kawuhl strode off to organize the castle's defences, the sorcerer walked towards the gates, so that he could see with his own eyes what manner of creature attacked them. Reaching the perimeter of the covered courtyard, he found the ground liberally spread with their corpses. A few of the creatures although unable to fly were obviously still alive, as they twitched and in a couple of cases mewled their pain and rage.
Hesitantly prodding one of the inert bodies with his foot to ensure the creature was dead, Ichabod bent low, peering at it intently as if trying to identify it, yet he’d already guessed from Kawuhl’s scant description what manner of being they were. Imps, a diminutive form of the Dark One, often referred to in the passages of his books that dealt with the Awakening. Demon slaves of the beast, with their scaly black skins and pointed tails; they were the creations of the magic of the dark path. He shuddered as he gazed thoughtfully at their numbers, aware that it would have taken powerful magic to conjure up so many.
Evil creatures, well suited to their task, it was their lust for blood that drove them to frenzied attack. Their leathery wings, with claws at each joint would hook onto their victim, whilst long talons raked at flesh and hollow teeth sucked their fill. Ancient records told of them being sent to attack the lands in their thousands, called forth by Shegrimoth and his demonic allies.
As he pondered the corpse at his feet, Ichabod recalled that one of his great works gave details of how they had once been defeated. Creatures of the night, they were able to see well in the dark, but hated the light. According to the writings, it had taken the combined talents of several men of magic to create a mystic light, using it to drive them from the cities. Although Ichabod knew the incantations, he didn't think that on his own, he would be able to create a light strong enough to defeat the present attack. “Still,” he thought resignedly, “there's only one way to find out,” and gathering his robe about him, set off to climb the nearest stairway that would take him to the battlements, the highest point in the castle.
Whilst Ichabod made his way to the top of the castle, Healers were fighting a losing battle with many of the injured. It seemed that where the demons had bitten the defenders, the wounds became infected, rapidly turning them foul smelling and causing the flesh to rot. Despite using every known medicament, they had so far found nothing that would halt the spread of the putrefaction, their patients failing fast.
Following his general's orders, the messenger sent by Kawuhl to King Randufil was begging the king to remain safe inside the castle. Ignoring the man's pleas, Randufil dispatched Barshivor to attend the wounded, and clipping his sword to his belt, almost ran from the room, intent on seeing for himself what was happening in the courtyard. He'd barely arrived before Kawuhl spotted him and hurried over. Knowing it would be futile to try to persuade the king to return to the safety of his chambers, the Jelvoan quickly delivered his report on events. With the relatively small force available in the castle, King Randufil quickly agreed there was little more they could do. The first priority had to be to get word back to the barracks, for reinforcements to be sent.
Knowing the risk involved, Kawuhl decided that volunteers would be more successful on such a dangerous mission, and was not surprised when only Jelvoans stepped forward. The lack of response from his own countrymen angered the king, who turned away in disgust to hide his feelings from the brave Jelvoans.
Seeing the king’s reaction, the warrior attempted to ease his discomfort. “Sire, that Caregorons have no stomach for this is no fault of your own.”
“Kawuhl, friend, what you say may be true, but it saddens me that there isn't one amongst them, now that he has the choice, who would help defend his country.” Turning on his heel, he walked away, deeply unhappy, and for once in his life, a bitter man.
Elsewhere, having gained the battlements, Ichabod leant his back against the rough stonework, getting his breath back before he moved cautiously from the stairwell. Once beyond the protection of the walls, he could just make out the wheeling creatures above him. As they circled and dipped, their hideous screeching filled the air, the beating of their wings no less unpleasant. Two or three times individuals spotted the sorcerer as he made his way along the walkway, and dived straight at him, talons extended. Each time, the old man paused in his stride, and pointing a finger at his attacker summoned a bolt of blue light that he hurled at it, instantly turning it to cinder.
Reaching a point midway between two of the castle's many towers, so that his view was as little obstructed as possible, the magician began his preparations. First, he cast a shielding spell, and then began the long series of incantations to produce the mystic light.
Although the shield held back any attack, it failed to keep out a chill breeze that blew his long hair and beard into disarray, as he stood high on the castle wall shrouded in its purple glow. One old man against so many, yet he never for one moment considered the danger. Gradually the spell began its work, a glimmer no brighter than the flickering of a single candle formed beside the sorcerer. Then with the words of the spell almost done, he reached out and raised his hand lifting the glow until it hung in the air several feet above his head.
The instant he uttered the last words, the glow became a sunburst so bright it threw back the shadows, bathing the castle in its radiance, and still it grew. Rising higher and higher, it brightened until it was impossible to look towards, hanging like the sun to cast a brilliant light over the whole of the city and its surroundings.
As the darkness retreated, the imps' movements became uncontrolled. Blinded by the light, and in great pain, they flew into one another, biting and clawing in their frenzied panic. Light as bright as this killed these denizens of darkness. Screaming their fear and rage, those close enough tried to attack Ichabod, knowing him to be the source of their affliction, but they were unable to pierce the shielding spell.
Those farthest from the centre of the light fled in every direction, whilst others, trapped by its glare, were unable to find a way out. Dozens and dozens flew into the walls and towers surrounding the magician, whilst many more flew downwards hoping to escape the light that inflicted so much pain. As the bodies piled high on the ground, the light continued its work where they lay stunned and injured.
Illuminated by this mock daylight, many of the castle's occupants thought that further catastrophe must be awaiting them. Kawuhl and a few of his men seeing the effect it was having on the demons beyond the castle walls, determined to take advantage of what was happening. Opening the courtyard gates he and four men set off at a run for the barracks. They hadn't gone far before one of the men shouted, drawing the general's attention to the battlements. Looking up, he could just make out the unmistakable outline of the old sorcerer, standing alone, surrounded by light and hundreds of wheeling demons.
Mistaking the old man's situation, thinking him to have been caught by the creatures, Kawuhl hesitated, torn between a desire to assist the old magician and the need to carry out his mission to get reinforcements. A trusted lieutenant, seeing the anguish on his commander's face nodded and without word sprinted off at the head of the group of men, leaving Kawuhl to head back into the castle as fast as his legs would carry him. Bounding up seemingly endless flights of steps, he arrived on the battlements minutes later, breathing hard with his heart pounding.
He could see the sorcerer off to his left, only now realizing that it was he who had created the light, and that he was in no immediate danger from the creatures that swarmed about him. Although it was not possible to see, it was obvious that Ichabod had surrounded himself with some sort of magic shield, the demons flying into it yet unable to penetrate it as they fell to the floor, stunned. As the Jelvoan watched from the relative safety of the passage leading onto the battlements, he could see that whatever the old man was doing, it was costing him dearly. He had his eyes shut tight, and seemed to have aged almost beyond recognition. Gradually he was bending over, as if a great weight pressed down on him, and his legs were beginning to buckle.
By now, the number of creatures still in the air was few, so Kawuhl rushed forward intent on assisting the old man, only to find that he too could not pass the shielding spell. Frustrated in his endeavours, Kawuhl had to resort to shouting in the hope of attracting Ichabod's attention. Screaming the name of the sorcerer at the top of his voice, it took several attempts before he opened his eyes and saw him.
By this time, the magician was almost on his knees, and the light had at last begun to fade. Kawuhl was helpless to do anything, and had to stand and watch as the old man muttered a few words, causing the brightness to flare more strongly. Frustrated by having to watch Ichabod slowly destroy himself, Kawuhl bellowed at him to release the spell, but to no avail.
The end when it came was quite sudden; one moment the two of them stood bathed in light as Ichabod's strength slowly ebbed away, the next, the sorcerer toppled sideways. The instant he fell, the light dimmed, and because he could no longer maintain the shield, it was possible to see the telltale glimmer extinguish. Kawuhl rushed forward and sweeping the sorcerer up from the walkway, headed back down from the battlements with him in his arms.
The return journey taxed the powerful warrior to the limit. Plunged into darkness when the spell broke the moment he had touched Ichabod, the castle stairs became a nightmare of hidden obstacles. That and the added burden of the sorcerer caused him to stumble on several occasions, although never once did he relax his grip, keeping the old man firmly but gently in his arms. What neither of them knew was that the spell had done its work, either destroying the demons by its light, or causing them to flee.
As soon as he gained the ground, Kawuhl searched around for a Healer, the burden in his arms beginning to test even his great strength. Rounding a corner of the inner courtyard, he charged bodily into someone in the darkness.
“Watch where you're going,” he growled, as he sought to regain his balance. “Can't you see I carry the king's Master Sorcerer, now make way I have to find a Healer before it's too late?”
The response was both unexpected and somewhat unnerving for the soldier, “Kawuhl, is that you?” came the familiar voice of King Randufil.
“Sire, a thousand apologies,” blurted Kawuhl, distressed that his outburst had been addressed to the king, “I didn't recognize you.”
“No apology is needed general; is that truly Ichabod you have in your arms, by all that's sacred what has happened to him? Did the demons get him?”
“Yes and no My Lord, t’was he who got the demons, but the strain has hurt him badly, I was going in search of a Healer.”
“Yes...yes, we must find Barshivor, take him to my quarters, I'll fetch the Healer,” and leaving the bewildered Jelvoan standing, he ran off.
Never one to question a rightfully given order, Kawuhl hefted the still unmoving form more comfortably in his arms, and set off for the royal chambers. Once inside he carefully lowered the old man onto a couch. He had barely straightened himself before Barshivor and Randufil hurried into the room. As the Healer set about examining the sorcerer, Randufil turned to Kawuhl for an explanation for the magician's condition.
Relating the scene on the battlements almost moved him to tears as he recounted what had happened. When he finished speaking, the king told him that he had seen the effect the light had caused on the creatures, but because it was so bright, he had been unable to look up to see what was causing it.
As they waited for Barshivor to complete his examination, they listened to two of Kawuhl's lieutenants who had joined them to report on the situation outside. Although the battle was won, its cost had still to be counted. Men of the guard were still dying in the most horrible fashion from their wounds, and now it seemed even Ichabod may have sacrificed his life.
As he listened, a feeling of despair came over Randufil that he couldn't shake off. If the old sorcerer died, he would have lost his greatest and truest friend; he also believed that Caregoron would have lost one of its most powerful defenders.
Shaking his head, the Healer got up from his examination, and came over to where Randufil and Kawuhl waited.
“I find it hard to believe that the old fool would take such risks. Not only does he place himself in great danger by confronting these creatures, but he almost succeeds in destroying himself by undertaking a feat that has never before been conducted by fewer than six I believe.”
Angry at the way the medic spoke of the sorcerer; Randufil's tone was not pleasant. “By the light, Barshivor, you try my patience, I have not the slightest interest in whether or not you consider it right or wrong for Ichabod to act the way he did. It is he we have to thank for saving the city this night, now I only wish to know if he is going to be all right.”
Unabashed the Healer replied, “Oh! Didn’t I say, yes... yes, he'll be fine, constitution of an ox that one. All he needs are a few hours rest, and some nourishment.”
“Thank the Creator,” said the king and his general simultaneously.
It wasn't until the light of day that the true extent of the slaughter became known. With few exceptions, the injured guards had all died a total of two hundred and twenty-three men. A further eighty-six civilians had been killed, some having been caught in the streets, others overrun when they had foolishly ventured beyond the safety of their homes. They would never accurately know the numbers of the attackers slain, there being too many, and dismemberment too frequent, but conservative estimates put the number as high as three thousand.
The clean up operation began at first light, but it was going to take more than a few hours to remove the filth left by so many black bodies. To add to the difficulty, great care had to be taken when handling the corpses as their poisonous teeth and claws remained as deadly in death as they had been when the creatures were alive. Huge pyres built outside the city walls were kept constantly supplied as all day wagons piled high with the bodies of the demons left the gates to return only to collect a new load. Fortunately, the wind blew away from the city, keeping the dreadful stench from drifting across it.
The mood in the city and particularly in the barracks was sombre, with too many comrades lost in the battle for the survivors to rejoice over the victory.
Two days after the attack on Meriandor, Ichabod, against Barshivor's advice was up and about preparing to leave the city. Now more than ever he felt the need to bring together as many men of magic as possible, to persuade them to join with him in the battle he knew would soon be upon them.
He expected that his task would be a difficult one, due in no small part to the intense rivalry that existed between the magicians of Falgorin. Generally, they tended to ignore boundaries of geography and nationality, yet few would be willing to join their efforts, even for something as potentially catastrophic as the return of the Ghyyrox. Although the Brotherhood had been formed centuries past to school and train new magical talents, it had been in decline for years, the numbers attending its centres of learning dwindling.
For long years, the numbers of magicians who had sought service with the various rulers of the lands of Falgorin had grown, their powers frequently used to further the conquests and battles of their chosen masters whilst ensuring their own futures. Fearing rivalry, few men of magic took new apprentices, but with their studies complete, most novices elected to leave the Brotherhood, and fewer still remained to seek out the ancient magic that had been lost to them over the centuries.
Knowing how sceptical his fellow Brotherhood members tended to be; Ichabod had obtained for himself the corpse of a black imp, which he was in the process of transferring to a large glass container filled with embalming fluid. He'd had difficulty in finding a suitable vessel and had finally resorted to visiting one of the city's glass makers, giving the man specific dimensions for the jar he required. Although he had requested a wide neck, he was still finding it difficult to force the semi-rigid body into the bottle whilst avoiding its teeth and claws.
Whilst the sorcerer laboured at his grisly task, elsewhere in the castle a meeting of great importance had been underway for some time.
Randufil II, King of Caregoron, was a man beset by troubles, a situation that although not unique, was on this occasion causing him unusual difficulty. As head of state, he was not unused to having to contend with the variety of problems that governing a country could bring. His dilemma on this occasion was that he found himself torn between two loyalties, those of state and family, brought on by the crisis that the country now faced.
After the events two days earlier, and with the emergency continuing to be fuelled by dissidents wanting to overthrow the monarchy, maintaining law and order was becoming increasingly difficult. If word should spread that he had sent the Royal Family into hiding, there was no telling what might happen. As a family man, he had a right to concern himself with their safety, but he also had a duty to protect the heirs to the throne.
Queen Jessima, a woman of strong character, had insisted that she and their three children, Princess Esperia, their oldest at twenty-two, Prince Feldric, eighteen and Prince Caslan, eleven, all remain at the castle in Meriandor.
With the castle the obvious target for future attack, Randufil had strongly argued against their remaining. His insistence and common sense finally prevailed, but it saddened him that he was soon to be parted from his family. Queen Jessima, Princess Esperia and young Prince Caslan, would leave Meriandor and take refuge in the city of Corindell, whilst Prince Feldric, since he was of age, would take his place at his father's side. As a serving army officer, and showing considerable prowess with both sword and bow, it was his duty to help defend that, which would one day be his to rule over and his continued presence would do no harm in helping to allay the fears of the common people.
Randufil's thoughts continued to dwell for a moment longer on his sons. As so often happens with brothers, they were like chalk and cheese, the older boy, outgoing and with something of a devil may care attitude towards life, was the complete opposite to his brother. Caslan, whilst still young enough to develop his talents, had no interest in military matters, and spent whatever time he could, with the old sorcerer, Ichabod, poring over books and striving to learn the magical arts.
Shaking himself from his temporary lapse of concentration, Randufil tried to decide if he had missed anything important in what was being said. He sat at the head of the Court of Administration, the Members having assembled for an extraordinary session to discuss the present situation. After the attack on the city, he had immediately ordered a full session of the Administration, the governing body of Caregoron, to decide what course of action to take.
The current speaker had been monotonously droning on for some thirty minutes or more about how his province would not be able to meet the targets for food production unless the men were left to tend the crops.
Finally, the king's patience ran out. “Enough! I've heard enough of this drivel. The country is facing its greatest threat since history records, and all I hear is how you cannot do this or you cannot do that. Isn't there one among you who will stand up and say what he can do?”
Red-faced, the speaker stared at the king, before resuming his seat, not daring to say more. As he sat, another provincial leader rose to his feet, “Sire, it isn't that we don't want to meet the targets, but if you insist in conscripting those men between the ages of eighteen and forty into the army, then we cannot.”
“Rubbish, there are many fit and able bodied men beyond the ages specified for military service, they must make greater efforts, and if needs be, the women too.” That drew a gasp from a number of those around the table.
The next speaker to get to his feet was the head of the province adjacent to Meriandor's western boundary, a gross, loathsome creature, whose name, Baron something or other, escaped the king. “Your Highness, you talk of continued threat to Caregoron, but what proof is there that we will be attacked again? Having defeated them once, why would these creatures risk further attempts? Surely it would at least be better to leave the men at their farms to gather the harvests before conscripting them.”
The man's whining tone irked the king, who well knew his real concern. As a landowner, the prospect that some of his vast profits might disappear if the crops couldn't be gathered in time was all that was worrying him. Contempt filled Randufil's eyes as he looked down the length of the great Chamber, dismayed by what he saw.
For too long now the governing of his country, and he considered it to be just that, had rested with these individuals. The majority greedy, selfish old men, whose titles and lands had been handed down from one generation to the next, no effort made, no reward earned. They had become soft and weak and now showed themselves to be spineless as well. Allowed to hold their positions without challenge for too long, they had become as comfortable in them as they would in a well-worn jerkin. Well no longer, he, Randufil, would put up with it, no more.
Striving to keep his rising anger in check, his eyes the only outward sign as they gleamed black with fury; he spoke in level tones, his words chosen to touch even the most insensitive of the gathering before him. “Very well, I have heard your whining, and your complacency, and I will hear no more. You can keep your demesnes, sport your jewels and foppery but you may no longer govern in my kingdom, you are all dismissed. Now, get out the lot of you!” At which point he stood up and removing the state sword from where it lay at the head of the table, strode from the room, with Kawuhl hard on his heels.
For several moments, there was almost complete silence in the chamber, so stunned were its occupants by what had just occurred. Never before, had the state sword, symbol of the government in office, been taken from its place during a sitting. The law decreed that only the reigning monarch had the authority to do so, and by such an act, dissolved the Administration.
As Randufil's action sank in, so voices lifted in protest. All but few, saying that either the king had gone mad, or that he didn't have the right to treat them in such highhanded fashion. It was however, the few that mattered. It was these loyal followers, whom the king had called to a meeting in his private chambers before the assembly, to prepare a strategy for just such an eventuality. It was all too apparent that the Administration had itself fallen prey to the very problems it was supposed to be resolving.
The king and his commander-in-chief, having returned to the privacy of the royal apartments sat waiting in a large banqueting hall. The long table, big enough to seat sixty, was bare except for pitchers filled with wine or ale, and several drinking vessels. Seated at its head, with Kawuhl on his right, the two didn't have long to wait, before being joined by seven men.
This handful was all that remained of the Administration, or at least the only part that the king considered still loyal to him. Once they were all seated, having filled goblets or tankards as suited their needs, the king addressed them.
“Gentlemen, it is a sad day for Caregoron that finds us gathered here. Faced as we are by dangers we have no way of assessing, and with the government of the country in disarray, matters could not seem blacker. You have all seen the aftermath of the recent attack, one or two of you, I know, witnessed it first hand, and it is for that reason that we have to make ready for whatever may follow.
There is no way we can determine how far or how deeply the followers of the dark path have penetrated our peoples; is it restricted to Meriandor or does it go much further afield? I have consulted with Ichabod, who as the Court's Grand Master and surviving member of the three guardians of the Manifex is the authority on such matters. He advises me that for an attack on such a grand scale, and with evidence of the reincarnation of the Ghyyrox, Shegrimoth's plans must be well advanced, and that the Dark One himself could well be free.”
Murmurs rippled down both sides of the table. Although they all knew of the seriousness of their situation, this was the first time anyone had mentioned either the Ghyyrox or Shegrimoth.
The news horrified Parlan, a staunch royalist, and lifetime friend to Randufil. “Sire, what proof is there that the Ghyyrox walks again?”
Up to this point, Randufil had avoided any disclosure regarding Ichabod's activities and the matter of the young stranger, Adam, brought by him to Meriandor. Consequently, he believed that only three people knew about the loss of the sorcerer's Manifex, a situation he would have liked to preserve. Now he realized that if he wanted these people to place their trust in him, he had to inform them of all that had happened.
With the story told, there were a few questions that the group wanted answering, but in the main there was little either the king or his general could add. He did add one point his earlier explanation had omitted. Once Ichabod had visited his counterparts in neighbouring Mandax and Antalek, he proposed to mount an expedition to Mount Kaldshard. King Randufil was unclear what the old sorcerer hoped to find there, since it was common knowledge that Beorhtán had long since departed from his dwelling in the mountain.
The meeting broke up after further discussion about planning, each member agreeing to recruit suitable candidates from his own province to form the new Court of Administration. Each candidate would attend the next meeting, agreed to be held in two weeks' time, for assessment by the other members, and for swearing in if accepted.
As the various dignitaries departed, the king signalled to Antor the Provincial head of Corindell to remain, as he wanted to complete their plans for the Royal Family's passage into hiding. Kawuhl had arranged for a squad of Jelvoans to accompany the group, which would travel incognito.
Unfortunately, it was going to be impossible to disguise those features of the warriors that set them aside from Caregorons. To overcome this, they agreed on a carefully prepared cover story, under which they were to act as a group of disgruntled mercenaries fleeing Randufil's service and returning to their native land. This would cover them until they reached their destination, which lay to the far northwest of Caregoron, as Jelvoa would always lie roughly in the direction in which they journeyed.
The Queen and Princess would disguise themselves as peasant women, taken as slaves by the warriors. This situation had caused Kawuhl no end of consternation, as it went against so many of the dictates governing the relationship between royalty and the common man. He had a much harder time coming to terms with the arrangement than the queen, who teased him by asking him if she and the princess were not attractive enough to be enslaved. Since both of the royal females were of startling beauty, the question was singularly inappropriate.
A resolution to the question of a disguise for the young prince came when he assumed the role of squire to the warrior captain. Whilst none of the members of the Royal Family expected to have to perform their roles except when they might be observed, they knew that they would need to be convincing if required to do so.
Having agreed the travel details, the only thing that remained undecided was when the party would leave Meriandor. Antor suggested that since he was returning that day, perhaps they could travel in company. Kawuhl vetoed this by saying that any Jelvoan portrayed in the manner intended for this group, would not want to be seen in the company of free Caregorons. Particularly as they would have three with them, all supposed to be their captives.
Acknowledging the sense of what he said; the king agreed that his family would depart in two days' time. This would ensure Antor arrived back in Corindell in time to make whatever arrangements were necessary for when the party reached there.
The following morning, the news that Ichabod wished to see him, interrupted King Randufil whilst he was still at breakfast. Calling the old man in, it pleased the king to see how much better he looked.
“Welcome Ichabod, I trust you are as well as you appear?”
“Thank you Sire, indeed I am, and it is as well since I must set out for Mandax this day.”
“You're intent on seeing this through then?”
“Sire, what options are there? I know that it will be difficult persuading the others of the need for collaboration, especially since so long has passed without such necessity. However, without it I fear we will be unable to oppose the forces pitted against us.”
“Well I wish you luck and safe passage my friend, we will miss you here in Meriandor. Do you intend to return here after you have reached Antalek or will you journey on to Mount Kaldshard from there?”
“Since time is against us My Lord, it would benefit me to travel through Antalek, north-west to Kaldshard. I know that it will mean my being away from here for many weeks, but I think it better to complete the journey before returning.”
Grasping the old man by the shoulders, the king held him firmly for a few moments; his eyes bright from the tears so close to falling, then releasing him, he stepped back. “Then farewell, and may the Creator guide you in your travels.”
Moved by the emotion of the embrace Ichabod found himself lost for words and turned away. As he reached the door, he looked back and said just three words, “Take care Randufil,” and was gone.
Following the sorcerer's departure, the next morning saw that of the Royal Family, which left the king feeling lonelier and more depressed than he could recall. Sneaking out of the castle before the first light of day had touched the sky; they were well on their way before the normal hustle and bustle of the court began.
