Minstrel's Serenade (18 page)

A hefty man with a black beard as thick as brambles stood before the anvil. He brought a hammer down on a metal sword with a clang. Sparks flew, raining on either side of the anvil. Only when the smoke cleared did he look at his visitors.

The blacksmith wiped his forehead with his arm. “Bron Thoridian.” His face cracked into a crooked smile. “Where have you been, old friend?”

“Garish, you old devil.” No matter how many times he saw him, the old man still brought a smile to Bron’s lips, even when he was trying to maintain his tough façade.

Bron met the blacksmith and they clapped their hands together and pulled themselves forward into a one-armed hug. Bron pulled away and showed him the metal. “Finding the answer to our problems.”

Garish turned the bar over in his hands with curiosity. “Didn’t know we had problems.”

Bron nodded solemnly. “Aye. You’re going to be very busy.”

Nip tugged on Bron’s pants leg and the warrior gestured toward the boy. “Garish, may I introduce Nathaniel Blueborough, son of Alhearn Blueborough.”

“Good ’ol Alhearn.” Garish crouched beside the boy. “You look just like your father.” He turned back to Bron. “What brings his boy here?”

“War,” Nip croaked. “The wyverns attacked my village and killed my family before my father could forge the armor to defeat them.”

Bron nodded, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He gestured toward the silver in Garish’s hands. “Now the task falls upon you.”

Garish placed a hand on Nip’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, son.” He stayed there, locked in place for a long moment before standing to inspect the metal. He held the silver block in his hands, hefting the metal to feel the weight. “By itself, this metal is far too weak. I can’t believe it blocks the wyvern’s fire.”

“The combination of this new metal with our own strengthens the alloy.” Bron put a hand on Nip’s shoulder. “The boy has a breastplate his father made that has proven itself against the fire.”

Garish shook his head. “I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ll have to make several models and test the mix.”

“We don’t have time for experiments.” Bron hated hurrying his friend, but an entire swarm of wyverns headed by a massive myth of a beast might be on their way. He softened his tone. “Nip knows how much his father used. He can help you.”

“All right.” Garish clapped Nip on the back and gave Bron a wink. “Leave us to our work.”

Bron nodded and rustled the overgrown hair on Nip’s head. This was the first time they’d be apart, and the thought saddened him more than it should. An overprotective urge to look after him every second came upon him, but the boy needed his space if he was ever to grow. Bron’s father had let him and his brother run free and, in doing so, they’d become capable men. “Do well. Make me proud.”

Nip only nodded, then scurried over to where Garish stood above the melting pots. It was hard to believe the kingdom rested on the shoulders of such a young boy and his memory. Bron left, having faith Nip would recall the right balance. That boy was as smart as a ravencrock.

Bron took the horses to the stable. As he handed them over to a young boy a messenger galloped in to return his horse. Mud-covered and travel-weary, he fell, more than jumped, off, and waited in line behind the warrior while his horse guzzled from the trough. He was Bron’s age, with the thin build the princess looked for in messengers to ride swiftly without burdening their charges.

Bron turned, knowing one weary man asked another to give an ounce more than either of them had left in store. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Of course, Chief.” The man bowed, and Bron gestured for him to rise.

“Assemble my men in the center field of the barracks for a quick briefing.” As a token of gratitude, he dropped a gold coin into his hand.

The messenger’s face brightened with the tip. “Thank you, sir.” He turned on his heel, took another horse from the stables, and rode off toward the barracks.

When Bron arrived, walking hard on his aching feet, the Royal Guard had begun to shuffle out of hiding, bellies fat and round and beards overgrown. Without an enemy to kill, they’d fallen into laziness.

This ought to coax them into shape.

Bron’s wearied muscles longed for the softness of his bed in the barracks, but with an enemy at their doorsteps, he needed his men to start preparing. Brushing travel dirt off his shoulders, he stood before them as their Chief of Arms and gave the order to assemble in rows.

“Men, I have journeyed far these past days and seen sights few men see. I have witnessed a wyvern attack on a village firsthand and spoken with the leader of the House of Song. I traveled to the bowels of Darkenbite in search of an alloy to fend off the wyverns’ fire attacks and come back with a cartload of metal to equip all of you in battle.”

His men straightened and sobered as he talked. Some of them held fear in their eyes, while others licked their lips with hunger for battle. Bron allowed them their own personal emotions. They needed both fear and bravery to instill diligence and keep their edge.

“In a fortnight we are to journey along with the minstrels of the House of Song to Brimmore’s Bay, where we’ll take carracks to Scalehaven. There we’ll combat the growing horde of hatchlings produced by a legendary She-Beast with scales as big as festival tables. The minstrels will distract the horde with their song while we track down the She-Beast and put an end to her fiery reign.”

Silence fell as the soldiers digested his words. For some, it would be their last battle. For others, their way to prove themselves to further their rank. Everything he loved lay on the line: his kingdom and the woman he secretly adored. The solemnity of the mission hung heavy in the air.

“What are the odds this mission will succeed, sir?”

Bron turned to a man the same age he was when he joined the Royal Guard. Anticipation brightened his features and twitched in his lips.

With no scout ships, Bron had no idea of the extent of the She-Beast’s horde. Any scout sent would be sent to their lonely death. He only knew one thing: if they didn’t go, the battle would be fought on their lands, and more people would die. Stepping to the man, Bron put a hand on his shoulder. “What does your heart tell you?”

The young man straightened under Bron’s heavy hand, as if by touching him, the warrior had lent his strength. “That we can succeed.” A tremor cut through his voice.

“Good.” Bron turned to address the whole army. “We cannot fail, or the wyverns will overrun the southern coast then continue north to overpower Ebonvale’s ramparts with their sheer numbers. I need you rested and trained to the best of your ability. Go now and prepare.”

As the army disassembled, most of them jogged to the training fields, already overgrown from disuse. Their boots stomped the blossoms of wildflowers as they pulled their weapons off the dusty racks.

Task completed, Bron retired to his chambers on the top floor of the men’s barracks. He pulled off his boots and rocks the size of marbles rolled across the floor. Tomorrow, he’d work on that field with them, but for now he could rest his wearied muscles. He tossed his clothes in a heap and collapsed onto his bed. His last thought before sleep took him was a wish.

If only King Artemus still breathed to raise his sword.

Dying Words

Clanging metal reverberated through the valley, cutting through the northern mountains of Sill. Heavy mist rolled off the foothills, covering the grasslands in an ethereal fog and spreading insidious chill throughout the men’s bones. If Bron’s armor hadn’t pulled down on his shoulders and across his chest, he might have thought himself part of a dead army as well, ghosts forever roaming their last battle, searching for fallen brethren.

The weight of his armor fell on his body in a reassuring shield between him and the rows of un-dead spreading out like a plague upon the valley. The creatures teased them by clanging together their ill-forged weapons in a crude, staggering, rhythmic heartbeat. The smell of death, rot and mold hung heavy in the air, choking Bron’s throat until he couldn’t remember the sweet scent of the cherry blossoms in the courtyard or the newly cut hay in his father’s fields.

“Helena, take me into your forgiving arms.” He made the sign of her sword across his chest, at peace with the path of his destiny. Bron did not fear death.

“Hold steady.” King Artemus’ deep voice resonated above the troops. “Wait for them to come to us.”

The king had positioned the Royal Guard on a hillside overlooking the valley. If they waited, they had the advantage of a higher position and the momentum of a thousand horses plunging hooves into the enemies’ chests. Only necromancers rode horses. The rest of the dead crawled up from the filth ridden swamps of Sill festering between the two mountains.

King Artemus’ decision was wise. They were outnumbered by twofold and had to seize any advantage the terrain had to offer. Even when the soulless monstrosities hissed and clanked their crude weapons in derision, the Royal Guard held its ground. The dead army would have to fight their way past them to soil Ebonvale’s ramparts with their disease.

The Necromancer King broke through the front lines, riding on a blood-smeared dead horse. He wore a crown of nails and thorns. He was too tall and thin to be a human, as if someone had stretched him out or his body kept growing despite the lack of sustenance. Bron pulled a telescope made from rolled leather and two spyglasses from his travel bag. Another rider rode behind the necromancer, arms draped around his neck with hands tied.

Something was not as it should be. Necromancers rode alone. Bron studied the pinkness of the hands. Those hands still had blood running through them, contrasting with the pale, black-blotched skin of the necromancer. A member of the living amongst the army of the dead?

The necromancer dismounted, black cape flowing, and pulled the living man to the ground with his metal-lined fingernails. The clanging ceased in one great crash reverberating into tense silence.

Bron recognized his prisoner and dread stirred in his gut. Fiobald Rosenditch, a member of their army two ranks below him, collapsed to the earth. Up to this day, they’d thought Fiobald a deserter. Now Bron wasn’t so sure. There were stories of wraiths taking people in the night to feed the army of Sill. Either way, to be held at the hands of a necromancer was a fate no man deserved.

“It’s Fiobald,” a man beside Bron exclaimed in horror. “What will they do to him?”

King Artemus raised a hand to silence him. “We will not respond to their threats.” Under the stoic mask of his face, a bead of sweat trickled into the collar of his golden armor.

Fiobald cried out, pleading with anyone who would listen as the necromancer began to chant an incantation, evil words twisting their way up to the Royal Guards’ ears.

Two members of the legion stumbled forward on their cracked knees and torn limbs and knelt beside Fiobald. The necromancer took a handful of Fiobald’s hair and pulled his head up, exposing his neck.

“Don’t watch. Move your eyes away,” Bron instructed his troops as he glanced at his horse’s leather reins. He allowed his gaze to wander up again, as if he couldn’t give up on Fiobald, even though the sick feeling in his gut told him it was too late.

The necromancer’s words stopped and the dead leaned in. Fiobald screamed as they plunged their ragged teeth into his skin. The members of the Royal Guard murmured uneasily and shifted on their horses. Bron looked to the king to give them wisdom, yet Artemus tightened his grip on the reins.

No
.
He couldn’t fall into their trap.
Bron wanted to shout at him but it was not his place. Fiobald’s screams died away to low moans, curdling Bron’s blood even more than the cries of pain as the blood flowed down Fiobald’s chest and his face paled. Bron wondered if the man had a family, a wife. Would she wonder what his last moments were like for the rest of her life? Bron might not live through this day, but if he did, he vowed to find her.

The necromancer waved his arm above the man’s head and Fiobald rose, taking staggering steps, and joined their army.

“Blasphemy!” someone called out behind Bron.

“Murder!”

“Kill the bastard!”

The front lines of the dead army parted again, and three more healthy men stumbled forward, ropes attached to their necks. They wore civilian clothes. These weren’t members of the Royal Guard, but farmers.

Bron spit bile in front of his horse, feeling the urge to shed some black blood.

No. Not more
.
Would the necromancers force them to watch their friends turn all day, increasing their army before their eyes? Nothing could be more horrible than to see an ally turn into an adversary and know you would have to deliver their death blow.

As the men lined up and the necromancer began his chant once again, King Artemus growled deep within his throat and took off, sprinting on his black battle horse. “In honor of Fiobald!” he shouted. The men echoed him until Fiobald’s name became a war cry. Bron scrambled to stay with the king in the charge. Artemus had let anger and revenge fuel his mind and his deeds and, in doing so, he’d become reckless, squandering their position. The king’s loosening grasp of control sent panic through Bron’s usual calm.

They raced down the hill and across the long grasses, meeting the enemy in the mud-caked sludge seeping from Sill’s festering swamps. The dead were quick, despite their handicaps, fueled by black magic. They charged, blinking in and out of existence like ghosts visiting from another realm.

Some of them blinked in just as the horses reached them and were trampled underneath the hooves. Others dodged the initial onslaught and darted between the soldiers, biting their legs where their armor didn’t cover.

Bron plowed through five walking dead, slashing more with his claymore on either side. He kept Artemus in view and a sword’s width away. He’d sworn an oath to protect the king at all times and for all costs.

The men with the ropes tied around their necks cowered in the confusion. Although their plight called to Bron, he couldn’t save them because he could not leave the king.