The burning tears of mor.., p.1
The Burning Tears of Morlak (War of the Twelve Book 3), page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Alex Robins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
Cover and Interior Design by Damonza
Maps by Alex Robins
978-2-9576580-6-0 (paperback)
978-2-9576580-5-3 (ebook)
Published by Bradypus Publishing
49380 Bellevigne en Layon
Dépôt Légal : décembre 2021
www.warofthetwelve.com
For Juliana and Nolan
Your smiles will never stop bringing me joy
Laugh loud
Chase your dreams
And know that you are loved
Table of Contents
Prologue: The Last Days of Talth
Chapter 1: Hiding in Plain Sight
Chapter 2: Lady of the White Wolf
Chapter 3: Seeds and Snowballs
Chapter 4: More Complications
Chapter 5: The Jewelled Necklace
Chapter 6: Brother and Sister
Chapter 7: Survival of the Fittest
Chapter 8: Peace
Chapter 9: A Roll of the Dice
Chapter 10: Broken Crockery
Chapter 11: The Crimson Wing
Chapter 12: Flotsam
Chapter 13: The Spike
Chapter 14: The Chained Man
Chapter 15: Memories of Quayjin
Chapter 16: Aldarin’s Reply
Chapter 17: A Titanic Struggle
Chapter 18: Mangonels and Wildflowers
Chapter 19: Choosing a Path
Chapter 20: The Assault
Chapter 21: One Too Many
Chapter 22: Brood Mother
Chapter 23: The Burning Tears of Morlak
Chapter 24: Aftermath
Chapter 25: Seventh of the Twelve
Epilogue: The Unbroken Circle
Appendix: A Brief Timeline of Events
The Twelve Orders
Prologue
The Last Days of Talth
“You sent riders to Morlak and Talth, did you not? Have they returned? They have not, and they will not. I am in contact with my brothers and sisters. Morlak is already under our control, and Talth? The Baron of Talth was stubborn and refused to comply. The greylings have taken the capital and burned their fields and villages. There is nothing left of Talth.”
Mina, Last of the Twelve, 426 AT
*
Baron Davarel del Talth watched his city die.
Flickering, incandescent fires spread as far as the distant horizon, their golden glow lighting up the night sky. Below him, hundreds of timber houses fuelled a colossal wall of flame half a mile wide, the uncaring wind pushing it inexorably towards the last remnants of the town guard lining the stone wall of the inner courtyard. Noxious plumes of dirty smoke spiralled skywards, carrying the stench of burnt flesh up to the roof of the keep where he stood, his bony, blue-veined hands gripping the ancient parapet.
And ahead of the wall of flame came the greylings.
They were far too many to count, a boiling mass of grey-skinned bodies, scampering forwards on all fours, chittering and shrieking like bickering children. Threshers towered over their lesser brethren, some wearing rusty breastplates or crude iron helmets, others holding barbed whips that swished and cracked as they urged the smaller creatures onwards.
Davarel shook his head sadly. The heat from the distant blaze was not enough to warm his tired bones. Thirty years ago, he would have stood proudly on the walls with his men, but his fighting days were long gone. His coat of chainmail hung heavily on his skeletal frame. He could barely hold a sword. He looked down at his swollen, arthritic knuckles in disgust.
Old age had crept up on him, slowly leeching away his strength and resilience. He had lost his friends through disease or senility. His wife had died peacefully in her sleep. Yet still he endured, battling the merciless currents of time alone as they deepened the wrinkles in his face and fused the joints in his arms and legs. And now this, this final torture, the complete and utter destruction of his lands.
It had taken only two weeks for the greylings to lay waste to Talth. The Pit was first to fall, the small contingent of the Old Guard massacred within hours. The survivors had fled south to the temple of Guanna, Second of the Twelve, an ancient walled fortress high up in the northern hills.
The Knights of Guanna had quickly assessed the situation and split into two groups: one half riding south to the capital, the other half marching north to slow the greyling advance. One hundred men against thousands. A brave and selfless sacrifice. Davarel had not wasted this final gift, using the time bought in blood to organise the evacuation of Talth and the strengthening of the worn stone ramparts.
Days later, scouts posted along the northern outskirts had sighted the greyling horde. The enemy were advancing slowly, slaughtering sheep and cattle left unattended by their owners, burning the last of the crops, and polluting the wells and waterways with animal carcasses and faeces. Great swathes of woodland were put to the torch, leaving behind a monochrome wasteland.
There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to such wanton destruction, only the pure, unadulterated hatred of the greylings for all things made by man.
The walls of Talth had not stopped them, despite the valiant efforts of the Knights of Guanna. For a night and a day, they had held, as the massive armoured warriors accounted for hundreds of greyling deaths. But it had not been enough. For every greyling killed, two more had appeared to take its place. A crude battering ram made from a fallen tree trunk had shattered the main gate, allowing threshers to enter the city and assault the ramparts from the rear.
Surrounded and exhausted, the guardsmen would have been annihilated had it not been for Davarel’s son and heir. The courageous noble had gathered the tattered remains of the heavy cavalry and led a desperate countercharge down the main street, clearing an avenue of retreat for the beleaguered defenders. A brief respite, as now the last few survivors manned the inner wall surrounding the keep itself. The final line of defence, with no means of escape.
And his son had not returned.
An inhuman screech, strident and piercing, came from somewhere down below. An enormous wooden litter came into view, supported by eight sweating threshers. On it sat a hideous, malformed creature, over twenty feet long, grimy grey and slug-like. It had no legs, only a long, slimy tail spattered with a dark red substance that could only be human blood. Small, stick-like arms gestured wildly towards the wall. Its porcine nose sniffed the air, searching for something.
The creature opened its distended mouth and screeched again, loud enough to make Davarel’s ears ring. The cry was answered by a cacophony of discordant sounds and the greyling horde surged forwards. A deadly rain of steel-tipped arrows pattered down among them, killing dozens, their bodies trampled into the dirt. The first of the greylings reached the base of the wall and began to climb. Sharp claws punched easily into crumbling mortar.
“I must go down to meet them,” muttered Davarel to himself, one wasted hand straying to the pommel of his gilded longsword. He would not die up here all alone.
“My Lord,” came a voice from behind him and he turned to see that one of the Knights of Guanna had joined him on the roof; a well-built, fair-skinned man with short, spiky black hair and indigo eyes. The knight was wearing a suit of heavy plate armour, complete with a steel gorget that covered his neck and lower jaw. A metal buckler was strapped tightly to his left forearm, leaving both hands free to wield the well-worn longsword sheathed at his side.
Davarel tried to recall the man’s name and failed. “Ah, what is it, Sir…?”
“Gaelin, my Lord.”
“Of course. My apologies. My mind is not what it once was, Sir Knight.”
“No need to apologise, my Lord. I came to discuss what should be done about your heir. I fear the walls will not resist the greylings for long.”
“My heir? My son has been found?” Davarel felt his heart beating insistently in his chest. Maybe there is still a reason to hope!
Gaelin gave an embarrassed cough. “No, my Lord. I fear that your son did not survive the night. Although his bold efforts saved the lives of many. I was talking about your grandson, Kayal.”
At the sound of his name, a young sandy-haired boy, no more than nine, peered cautiously out from behind the big knight’s legs where he had been hiding, lost in the shadows. “Grandfather,” he said in a squeaky voice, barely audible above the sounds of battle echoing up from below.
Davarel stared at the child’s tear-streaked face as conflicting emotions flooded his mind. The boy looked so much like his father; the same light-coloured hair, the same sky-blue eyes. Love and grief intertwined. For a moment, they threatened to overwhelm him, but he resisted, drawing on the last of his fading strength.
“Kayal, of course.” Here was something worth fighting for. He felt as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes. Davarel stood straighter.
“Approach, boy. Down on one knee. Sir Gaelin, if you would bear witness?” The knight nodded.
Baron del Talth drew his ornate sword, ignoring the pain that burned through his hand as his fingers wrapped around the grip. Kayal was kneeling before him, trembling with fear. The old man touched the boy’s shoulders lightly with the tip of his blade.
“Kayal. As is my right as Lord of Talth, and as witnessed by this Knight of Guanna, I hereby declare you heir to the Barony of Talth, with all the titles and honours that such a rank entails. May the Twelve guide you, Lord Kayal.”
The boy rose on shaking legs. “I thank you, Grandfather,” he said formally, bowing at the waist.
“Excellent,” Davarel replied, sheathing his weapon. “Sir Gaelin, how long do we have?”
The knight surveyed the carnage below. “A few minutes, my Lord. At most.”
The greylings had gained a foothold on the ramparts despite the heroic endeavours of the defenders. Several of their number were tying coarse ropes around the merlons, ropes strong enough to support the weight of a thresher.
A large clawed hand appeared, then another. With a snarl, an eight-foot-tall hulking beast pulled itself over the battlements and landed heavily among the defenders. A reverse swipe of its cudgel brained one of the guards and sent another reeling back into his fellows.
“Very well,” said Davarel, nodding curtly. “Then there is no time to waste. Follow me.”
They left the roof and descended the twisting stairs to the Great Hall where two more armoured knights awaited them. The green banner of Talth hung proudly on the wall at the far end above an elevated dais. Davarel took a moment to gaze upon his coat of arms. A prancing stag, its antlers raised defiantly.
“This way. Below the dais,” he said, breathing heavily. He forced his aching body forwards and pointed to one of the large slabs that paved the floor of the hall.
“My Lord?” asked Gaelin.
“It’s hollow, Sir Knight.”
The Knight of Guanna nodded and drew his longsword, cutting through the joints surrounding the slab with a series of precise strikes. With a grunt of effort, he pulled on the stone square, lifting it from its bedding and revealing a locked trapdoor beneath.
Davarel reached under his chainmail and produced a rusty iron key. “This should still fit. It works both ways, so lock the door behind you once you are through. The passageway leads to a cellar below one of the farmhouses on the southern road. We will just have to hope the exit has not been blocked … half of those old timber structures have already been burnt to the ground.”
A scratching sound came from the far side of the hall, beyond the barred double doors. Claws on wood. The two Knights of Guanna silently unsheathed their swords.
“Once you are out of the tunnel, I suggest you aim for the coastal village of Haeden. They have ships leaving for Kessrin almost every day. Find the Baron, Derello. Tell him what has happened here.”
“My Lord, would it not be better for you to accompany us? I fear that reaching the Baron may be difficult without your support.”
The Baron gave a tired laugh. “I barely made it down five flights of stairs, Sir Knight, I would only slow you down. If the Baron refuses to see you, remind him of the time I saved his father from drowning in the River Trent. It was a closely guarded secret that the previous Baron, the so-called Lord of the Western Coasts, could not swim.”
The scratching became more insistent. Davarel sighed and once more tugged his own sword laboriously from its sheath.
“I thank you for all your Order has done for us, Sir Gaelin,” he said. “It is a debt I fear I will not live to repay, but my heir will do his best, won’t you Kayal?”
The young boy nodded, eyeing the wooden trapdoor warily. Gaelin unlocked it and threw the door open. The first few rungs of a metal ladder disappeared into the darkness. “Time for us to leave, young Lord,” he said, beckoning with one gauntleted hand.
Davarel looked on fondly as his grandson lowered himself carefully onto the ladder and descended into the tunnel. Gaelin followed close behind, his massive frame barely squeezing through the hole. He nodded one final time to the Baron before closing the door with a loud thud. Davarel heard the click of the key turning in the lock.
With a satisfied smile, he turned his attention back to the doors at the end of the Great Hall. The two Knights of Guanna were standing a few feet from the entrance, helms on and bucklers raised. Cracks began to appear along the wooden plank barring the doors as it buckled under the pressure. It would not be long now. Davarel felt adrenaline course through his body, numbing his fear and filling him with vigour. He strode down the length of the hall and positioned himself between the two knights.
“Gentlemen. It is an honour to stand beside you,” he said, watching the cracks spread across the surface.
Suddenly, without warning, the scratching ceased. An uneasy silence filled the hall. Davarel frowned and glanced at his stoic companions, their faces hidden behind their helms.
“Maybe they’ve decided to give up?” he said tentatively. Then the doors exploded in a hailstorm of rivets and splintered wood. The largest thresher that Davarel had ever seen emerged from the wreckage, its bare, muscular torso a mass of sores and badly-healed scars. A crude necklace of what appeared to be severed human hands hung around the thing’s neck, and it carried an enormous saw-toothed blade of corroded metal spattered with blood. It fixed Davarel with two dirty-yellow eyes.
“Uuuu-mann,” the creature grunted, the word barely intelligible as it twisted its jaw in an effort to mimic human speech. From somewhere behind it came the cackling of greylings.
“You do not belong here,” Davarel replied, fighting to keep the tremor from his voice.
The thresher bared its teeth. “Ourrr laaaand. Ourrr time.”
The Knights of Guanna attacked, charging forwards far faster than Davarel had thought possible for two men in heavy plate. The thresher blocked one swing with its blade and took the second on its left shoulder. The sword drew blood, but the wound did not seem deep enough to bother it. It retaliated. A vicious kick to the chest sent one knight reeling backwards, his breastplate cracked and dented. A quick forward jab knocked the weapon from the other knight’s hand. The saw-toothed blade came down again. The knight raised his buckler to parry the blow, only for the rusty sword to cleave straight through his upraised arm and cut deep into his neck.
The thresher ripped its blade free in a shower of crimson and bellowed a series of animalistic snarls. Greylings scampered out of the shadows behind it and set upon the fallen knights with tooth and claw. One of the men managed a hoarse cry before his throat was torn out.
Davarel tried to move but found himself rooted to the spot, his body refusing to respond. His sword fell from arthritic fingers. The colossal thresher loomed over him, its eyes burning with a deep hatred. The Baron felt a powerful hand clamp down on his skull.
“Ourrr time,” the thing repeated, and squeezed.
Chapter 1
Hiding in Plain Sight
“Ah, Morlak. My favourite town in all the nine Baronies. Remote, but full of lucrative opportunities. The people there are so … corruptible. I’ve yet to find a place that’s easier to get into, and even easier to get out of. I just need to make sure I have the necessary funds to grease all those palms along the way.”
Nissus, unknown
*
A thick blanket of glimmering whiteness covered the trees of Dirkvale Forest, the evergreen pines bowing under the weight of the snow on their branches. Winter had arrived, bringing with it cold, icy days and even colder nights. The larger forest animals had already begun to hibernate, tucked away in their sheltered dens and caves. Only the smaller rodents and other mammals still ventured outside, driven by the need to seek sustenance.
A rabbit emerged slowly from its underground warren, supple nose twitching as it searched for signs of danger. After a moment’s hesitation, it hopped forwards into the clearing, leaving the safety of its lair behind. Most of the forest floor was buried under a layer of frost, but the centre of the clearing was open to the sky and a few weak rays of afternoon sunlight had melted enough of the hard surface to reveal a single withered shrub, a splash of dark green against the pristine white.
