Black kerthons doom, p.1
Black Kerthon's Doom, page 1
Black Kerthon's Doom
Jim Greenfield
COPYRIGHT
First published in USA 2013
Copyright © James R. Greenfield
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book has been produced for the Amazon Kindle and is distributed by Amazon Direct Publishing
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Whither art thou death? Does thou not seeketh me? I run rampant in thy forests and have yet to taste thee. By what device am I unseen?
Chapter 1
"Gareth! We must retreat!" cried Mira, racing through the long grass to Gareth's lookout position. She crouched next to him, breathing hard. "There is another squad to the west! It was hidden by that ridge!" She pointed to the soldiers breaking through the tree line to join the battle. The rebels were pressed by the v-shaped attack. The surging soldiers hit the rebels before most knew the battle had turned. The rebels fought desperately to regain their positions but the pressure moved them backward.
Gareth's face was white; his lip trembled. He struck the ground with his sword.
"We cannot let this chance slip by! The High King is in that van. We must kill him now." He felt his anger welling up, overwhelming his thoughts. That familiar urge throbbed in his temples. He pushed it aside, perspiration dotting his brow.
Mira stood in front of Gareth, ignoring his stern glance, trying to penetrate his obsession. She started to reach out and shake his shoulders, and then drew back her hands.
"That may be, but I count six squads of soldiers with drawn swords waiting for us. It's a trap! Gareth, don't throw it all away. You are Gareth de Arayr and you have the best claim to the throne. No one else has the right. High King Michak must be tossed from the throne and we will do it, but do not rush into it. You have planned so very long for this. You may die if we press the attack and all our progress will be in vain. Without you there is no rebellion. This apparent vulnerability of the High King is but a ruse to draw us out. We must retreat and plan again. This is not the chance you waited for, that will still come. It must!"
"I have waited too long. Too long. I have aged in this pursuit." His voice trailed off as he finally realized what he was seeing around him. The red plumed helmets were everywhere hacking at his overmatched rebels. The forest green figures fled before a sea of red pouring into the battle from two directions. It was turning into a rout. He turned and ran up the hill to his herald.
The horn sounded loud and long fading away amidst the harsh clang of steel and the cries of the dying. Gareth had finally signaled for a retreat. His squad leaders had cursed each minute Gareth delayed and now dispatched their soldiers into retreat, sparing no breath. The call rose quickly through the ranks of the rebels. The battered rebels stumbled back through the forest just ahead of the soldiers who gave chase with renewed vigor and uncharacteristic shouting. Gareth cursed his luck. He cursed the wizards who guided the High King. Two more months and Gareth would have claimed the crown but those wizards scattered his plans. The wizards had arrived in Nantitet even as the High King's power began to wane and Gareth's influence peaked. With their help, the High King regained his status and expanded his influence. He cursed the High King's luck. He cursed the High King. He cursed the wizards again and spat for good measure. He watched his army flee the vastly superior numbers of the Calendian army, again. He cursed again. Again, the sensation of power pulsed through his body, teasing him with its offer of a quick resolution to the rebellion. The sweet flavor rose in the back of his throat and the soft vibration began in his head, begging for release. He knew the price of course. Many in his family perished from the taint of sorcery. He had used it once. It worked wonderfully and its taste was sweet. He struggled to relinquish the power and felt achingly hollow afterward. However, he had seen his father's slow death from using the power, eating away his mind and body until unknowingly he walked out into a blizzard without a stitch of clothing. He found his father's body, himself a boy of nine, the sight of which he shall never forget. Once he hoped the High King would fall to the lure of the sorcery but Michak de Arayr did not possess the taint, nor did he possess enough magic to be a threat. He was just a man. The de Arayr line traced its lineage back to Mauran de Arayr the great sorcerer of Nantitet and the son of Weracht de Arayr, ancient King of Cothos and founder of Nantitet. While legends hold Mauran walked the land for eons and may still be somewhere on Anavar, most of his descendants could not suffer the use of magic. The most notorious of the Arayr's to be swallowed by sorcery and emerge as a force of evil was Kerthon, once the Prince of Nantitet when his brother Deneth was king. Kerthon slowly twisted into a vessel for the desires of Wargat the demon, a former servant of the Jungegud Agnaran. Kerthon controlled much of western Anavar before the Talos Company defeated him. The stories of Kerthon became nightmares for children but Castle Moorld remained a place of evil avoided by all beings of Landermass.
Gareth stood on a ridge overlooking the narrow battlefield. Trees grew close around him shielding him from the view to the bloody scene below him. His plan had failed of course. His scouts had told him of a smaller force guarding the High King and he had wanted to believe it. He forced himself to believe it and had led his troops into a trap. His eyeglass followed the departing litter of the High King who had yet escaped another attempt on his life, if he had really been in the litter at all. Gareth's sword arm hung at his side, weighted down by the blood on his blade, and his ambition.
"We should lose them easily," said Mira, coming up behind him. "The Calendian army has no woodcraft." She was a stout woman, very strong, and Gareth's lieutenant, one of a handful who could influence his decisions. Only one man protested when Gareth gave so much authority to a woman and would not swear loyalty. Mira discussed the objections with the man and even buried him herself after their discussion. When she spoke, the rebels jumped. Even Brice, a huge, powerful man, perhaps the best fighter among the rebels, moved quickly when Mira was angry.
"How did they find out?" asked Gareth. "We didn't plan this attack long in advance and we came upon them suddenly. There was not enough time for messages to go astray. How is it that Michak has two hundred soldiers with him for a diplomatic visit to Rhath? He knew, he knew." He spat out a bloody tooth.
"Remember the stories of conscription and tithes. Perhaps he is taking over the free cities and needs the support of two hundred soldiers."
"Perhaps, perhaps. More support for us if he is," said Gareth. His lilting voice belied the strength of his shoulders and he groomed his long grey beard constantly with his hands as if to wipe the blood out. It had been a bloody five years and the rebellion had gained precious little ground. But still, Gareth was a folk hero, a descendant of kings, cousin to High King Michak and many believed him to be the ruler they so desperately needed. The peasants prayed for Gareth's victory but his army was modest and lightly armed; there was no way he could overpower the Calendian army. Quickness and stealth were their only advantages. There could be no other way. He suppressed thoughts of sorcery. No, no. Down, down, out of my mind. But it remained on the edge of his thought. It would always be there, waiting. Sorcery would give him the power to take the throne from his cousin. He could correct the injustices Michak inflicted on Calendia. Michak even raised the taxes on Curesia and Wierland for the third time in three years. What did he need the money for? Calendia was wealthy and Nantitet was the greatest city on Anavar and even in the entire of Landermass.
"But you are correct in your assessment. We cannot fight today. There will be another time, I promise it." He watched wistfully the litter of the High King crested a hill vanishing from his sight.
High King Michak retained control of Nantitet, the center of his empire and taxed the free cities for the protection of the Calendian army. The High King's soldiers outnumbered the populations of most of the free cities and the obese Michak claimed more resources as the cities 'welcomed' his troops. He was a blight on the de Arayr name.
"Look, one squad of soldiers has entered the forest. They are searching for tracks." They watched the red plumed helmets move without hesitation through the trees. "They appear to have some skill. I thought they had no woodcraft. The rest have turned back."
"Horeth trained them," said Gareth. "Of that I have no doubt. It's probably a special unit."
"A death squad."
"Quickly, we must rout them before they find a trail to our camp."
"Can we afford the time and lives?" asked Mira. "They might keep us engaged until reinforcements
"It's a chance we must take. We cannot risk being followed to our camp. That would be the end for us. We must lead them deep in the forest and kill everyone of them. This way, we still have a chance."
"Slim."
"Yes, slim," snapped Gareth. "But better than no chance."
Gareth led the way off the ridge. Silently they ran on a course to intercept their fleeing soldiers. Then they would ambush the High King's soldiers and hide the bodies. There had never been a trace of the rebels to lead General Horeth and the wizards of the High King to the rebel camp. There must never be, Gareth vowed.
The trail led down a ravine. Its steep banks were dotted with trees and the weeds grew high making it difficult to avoid leaving some evidence of their passage. The rebels climbed the slopes on both sides. Mira barked commands and the rebels took up positions under cover. In moments, the forest was silent except for the sounds of the soldiers pounding their way through the underbrush. The sounds seemed closer than they were and the soldiers moved slower than expected. Mira could feel the tension rise around her, quietly praying for patience from her soldiers
. Mira did not need to speak again, the rebels knew what was expected of them and they were skilled at fighting in this terrain.
The soldiers burst into the clearing and had almost passed when the first arrow lodged in the neck of the lead Calendian soldier. Moments later, a hail of arrows dropped the red clad warriors and the plumes of their helmets danced crazily on the ground. Several tried to run for cover but there were too many archers, thudding their shafts into the bodies of the soldiers.
A second group of soldiers broke through from the east, behind the rebels, pinning them between two squads. Mira shot Gareth an 'I told you so' glance and shouted commands. Brice led a squad of rebel against the newcomers. Mira had positioned Brice out of the battle in the event more Calendian soldiers showed up. Gareth nodded his thanks to her.
The archers increased the speed of their volleys, pinning down the Calendian army, slowly picking them off.
It was over quickly. The rebels did not leave their positions, waiting for their orders and an eerie silence filled the trees. An occasional groan from Calendian soldier broke the silence. The birds were silent for several minutes before a raven cried. After a moment Mira whistled and a group of rebels began moving the bodies and cleaning up the obvious traces of battle. The bodies were dragged up the ravine and hidden in the brush. All the spent arrows were recovered and the trail was brushed. In a quarter hour, they were ready. A double whistle. The rebels faded back into the forest.
Gareth stood, looking back down the ravine to the scene of his latest setback. He had planned so long for the defeat of the High King and prepared this attempt in secrecy, yet the Calendian army was in place to thwart him. So many lives wasted and the rebels were few to begin with. Was this course worth the price? So many had already died for him. He was committed to see it to its conclusion - the crown or death. He muttered under his breath, turned away, and entered the trees. He stopped, and turned, listening for a sound that he felt rather than heard. He waited. Several moments passed. Then he finally followed his rebels still unsure of what he felt at the ravine. His instincts were usually true, yet he had become unsettled. Clearly, something intruded upon his awareness. He sensed nothing now, but there had been something or someone. He hated to try to use such senses because he feared the legacy of Kerthon's descendants of which he was one. Sorcery was the legacy and each descendant that claimed the birthright to the power of the King of the West, the Sorcerer King, Kerthon the Great, dead these many centuries, each pretender gradually lost his life as the darkness of sorcery encompassed their life, suffocating them in the desires of power. This was Gareth's great fear: to use sorcery to gain his objective only to be destroyed by the consuming nature of his own darkness.
This internal war waged as he followed Mira. He did not notice the return of the presence at the ravine.
Above the ravine among the shadows of the trees, a shape reluctantly detached itself from the darkness and followed Gareth for a moment. It stopped and turned around, curbing its bloodlust, barely. There would be other times. The Master calls and must be obeyed. Obey. Obey. The sorcerer lifted his arms and he vanished in the mist that had risen out of the ground. Scithers had returned to the land. Not far away, dark ruins of a castle tower once used to safeguard the land rose in defiance of the bright sky. Scithers moved among the shadows, waiting for true night to free his wanderings. Once his power returned in fullness he would be able to be abroad in daylight. The tower was his goal. His master drew him there, pulling with strength ancient with malice, strong beyond measure. The power of Kerthon was still green in strength, even beyond the grave.
The ruins of the tower sprawled among the shrubs and trees. It had been overgrown centuries ago, but the plants withered and most died in the chilly gloom of Kerthon's resting place. The King of the West once lived in the tower before he built Castle Moorld where he ruled for a generation. Near the end of his time, he returned to the tower, his enemies closing in around him and only Scithers by his side. The battle was long and bloody, a dozen wizards throwing their might against Kerthon, all perishing in the battle but it was enough. The tower burned, Scithers escaped, but the body of Kerthon was never found. It was said that under the tower was a labyrinth of vaults and passages. Perhaps his body is there. No one knows. A new king was crowned in Nantitet.
But in the years since a brooding watchfulness had risen about the ruins and few would venture near it. Some never returned and the voices in the wind warned travelers to keep clear. The air was colder near the tower and the vale was empty of life, as appealing as an asteroid. Rumor had it that the spirit of Kerthon had infected the land, poisoning it and all who ventured near it. This visitor found the withered landscape a welcome sight.
The spectral shape of Scithers walked over the stones again. He listened to the wind and smiled. He was home, welcomed by the faerie voices in the wind. Six hundred years he lay in darkness amid the whispers of the dead and the unknown. Now, the voice of his Master calls out again and the sorcerer returns to prepare the way for Kerthon.
He found the entry passage and thrust back the blocking door. Its hinges creaked painfully and the foul air rushed out of the hall. It was dark and cold; no creeping vine had been bold enough to venture inside. Inside was where the decay waited, waited for the time to be unleashed.
He walked directly to the gathering room, his memory undimmed by centuries. In his mind, he saw not the burned and broken remnants of the past, he saw the blazing color on the tapestries, the glorious music filling the hall, and the banquet tables loaded with food. He looked for his Master. The massive stone chair appeared empty but Scithers sensed the presence near the rotted tapestries. He bowed. A shimmering form appeared to hover over the throne and it raised its arms. Scithers nodded in understanding. It was time. He felt the slices of air crease his skin exposing the rotting flesh. Black blood oozed out of the wounds, more and more as the biting wind ripped him to shreds. He trembled at each exquisite throb of pain, remembering life, how it was to be alive, and how it felt to die. Spasms racked his bleeding body. The pooling blood was lifted up by the wind, its voices screaming in agony and pleasure, and Scithers remembered how it once had been and hoped again for his master's will to control him. The encompassing will of Kerthon. The shape near the throne began to take on substance, if only for a brief time. The eyes glowed with pleasure and Scithers knew his master was pleased. Then blackness consumed him.
The High King did not speak. He tried to think it through. His thoughts were muddled and that was unusual, giving weight to Daura's statements. Was it possible? He did seem a bit confused these past weeks. Would they be so bold?
"Are you positive?" he asked. He lost his appetite, momentarily. He sounded so uncertain, he felt his control slipping. It would be seen as a weakness.
"I have no doubts," said Daura de Arayr, cousin to the High King. "Prosty is drugging your drinks."
