The Cavalier (7 page)

These gods represent the dark side of existence. There is Gould, the Tormentor, high evil god of lies, anger, jealousy, and power. Naz-reen is goddess of the dark, stealth, plot, and murder. Then there is Dykreel the Slayer, god of torture and pain. They are the Forsworn, the topic of bedtime stories told by parents to frighten children into being good. But they are no mere story; they are real, and Airos fought their power daily. There was a constant struggle between the good and evil gods of Kraawn, and it was Airos’s job to wield his sword in defiance of the evil that would otherwise permeate the lands around him.

Again, the question rolled around in Airos’s head, why a Banthra? Why would it come here? He must be missing something.

Suddenly both his hands began to tingle. He pulled off his gauntlets and looked down at the familiar blue glow emanating from both the symbols. The men standing around him looked at his hands, with eyes that revealed their fear.

Braal was among the men nearby and he moved closer to Airos, a large battle axe resting over one thick shoulder. “Is it time?” he asked sternly.

“Yes,” Airos said, quickly putting his gauntlets back on and drawing his sword. “Braal, I want you to hold the south wall as we discussed. You must maintain your lines. If you don’t hold them off then they will converge on us from both sides. They will breach the wall; there is nothing we can do about that. When they do, and you can no longer hold them off, regroup with my force by the north wall. Our only hope is to stay together. If our forces get spread out then we will be picked off like wounded deer. Do not try to attack the Banthra. No one can defeat him but me. I will sense his presence and hunt him down wherever he goes. If I can kill the Banthra then we may have a chance.”

“Yes sir,” Braal said, quickly moving off towards the south wall, his men unsheathing their weapons and following on his heels.

This is a hardy group of men, thought Airos, tough mountain men who grew up fighting and surviving, but would it be enough? Airos erased the thought from his mind as his horse galloped towards him, nudging him with her nose. She, like Airos, could sense the approaching evil. His magical steed never ceased to amaze him. Suatha had appeared to Airos on the day that he passed his final trial. She was a magnificent steed that had saved his life many times, for she, like the cavalier, had been given the gift of magic. Suatha could run all day and never tire. She was faster and stronger than any horse and she could sense her rider’s thoughts and movements. She would not be swayed by magical fear and together they were a powerful team.

Airos smoothly leaped onto Suatha’s back, grabbing the reins and spurring her towards the northern wall. He could feel the energy that came before battle start to rise within him as he neared the gate. The magic in his veins pulsed with power and he smiled inwardly, reveling in the adrenaline rush that always took hold of his body every time he was about to go into battle.

As he rode through the gathering men he yelled, “Our enemy is near! Gather your weapons and take your positions!”

The men, women, and children that had weapons all ran quickly, taking up the positions they had hastily worked out earlier. Airos gathered the townspeople in two lines facing the northern wall and the gate. One line was held back as reserves while the front line carried all the longer weapons they could find or build, pikes, spears, javelins, anything to keep the enemy at arm’s length.

Airos rode his horse back and forth before the lines hoping to give them some sense of hope. Everyone was deathly silent. Airos knew that the townsfolk were frightened, and that their fear was paralyzing them now. He had to give them some hope, some belief that they could defeat this threat. Turning his horse to face the men, he held his blade up high, letting the magic flow from his body and into his sword. The god given weapon lit up like a beacon, the magic light piercing the blackness, pushing back the sinking feeling of doom. Airos’s voice, lifted by magic, hit everyone like a thunderclap.

“People of Manson, soon these very walls will be climbing with evil and vile creatures that want you dead, that want your children dead! We are here to turn back this pestilence, to protect your homes and families!” His voice and the magic light eased their fears instantly. They all stood up straight and held their weapons before them with new vigor. “I am a cavalier! I am here to fight next to you. To die next to you if that is my purpose! You have the strength to defeat them. I know this; I can see it in your eyes and in your hearts! Fight with me, fight for your life, fight for your homes, fight for your families!” Airos yelled as he turned his horse toward the gate. The large bonfires that had been lit earlier shed a bright light on the entire expanse of the town’s walls.

As if on cue, the gate wall began to shake suddenly, and a large gray form pulled itself onto the top of the wooden structure. The boarg squatted in perfect balance on top of the gate, its huge form rippling with muscles as it held itself erect. Two thick, curved horns, sprouted from the sides of its bulky boar-like head. The beast crouched like a cat, its long powerful arms holding its body on top of the wall. The boarg bellowed a defiant roar, exposing long tusks and yellow fangs.

Airos sheathed his sword, grabbed the bow at his side with lightning speed, and had three arrows whistling across the expanse in the blink of an eye. The first arrow struck the boarg’s open mouth, while the other two hammered into its neck with enough force to launch the animal off the gate and into the darkness.

Screams erupted in the night from the southern wall as the gate in front of him again shook violently. It has begun, thought Airos, notching another arrow as he waited for his next target.

***

The blood chilling roar jerked Jonas from his trance as he stared into the burning fire. He looked up as the big form of Gorum quickly ran into the room from the bakery.

“Jonas, it is time. I need to get you in the oven.” Gorum quickly swept up Jonas’s light body as if it were a baby and hurried him into the bakery. His mother was there with a wool sack in her hand, her face streaked with new tears. She bent down and hugged Jonas tightly, her fresh tears wetting the side of his face.

Lorna finally stopped hugging Jonas, holding him at arm’s length. “Now listen to me, son. In the sack are food, a knife, and all the money we have including the gold coin. I want you to stay in the oven until either Gorum or I come for you. If neither of us come for you then stay in there until the morning at least.”

“Mother, where will you be?” Jonas asked frightened. More screams tore through the night as the attack on the town commenced.

“I will be right here, I promise,” she replied frantically.

“I’m scared for you,” Jonas muttered.

“I will be fine, now quickly, get in the hole,” she said, stroking his face one last time.

Gorum lifted Jonas’s tiny form, slowly sliding him into the dark oven. “Remember what I said, Jonas. Stay in the oven, no matter what you hear outside. Do not come out,” Gorum repeated, squeezing Jonas’s hand one last time before he left. Jonas could feel the soot cover his body and he looked out the mouth of the oven to see his mother’s face.

She reached in and touched his arm gently. “I love you, Sprout. Now I’m going to cover the opening with burnt wood to hide you. Push your body as far back as you can.”

Jonas scooted his body back until he bumped into the back of the oven. The light from the opening began to slowly disappear as Lorna piled up the wood. Jonas’s heart began to beat faster.
I can do it
, thought Jonas.
The whole town is out fighting for their lives and I’m worried about being stuck in a hole. I can do it,
he kept thinking to himself. Finally the last log was put into place and he heard his mother say, “I love you,” one more time.

“I love you too, Mother. Be careful,” he said before he was surrounded by darkness.

***

Braal swung his huge axe in a ferocious arc taking the boarg in the side of its neck, cutting deep into the beast’s collarbone. The boarg’s momentum carried him into Braal sending them both flying onto the bloodied snow. Braal scrambled out from underneath the boarg only to feel the crushing weight of another beast land on top of his chest, crushing him as its claws dug into his flesh. He couldn’t move as the boarg’s face slowly inched towards him, the fetid breath hitting him like a gust of wind. The boarg’s mouth was open, its yellowish fangs only inches from his face.

Suddenly the boarg jolted hard, arching its back violently. Braal saw the tip of a spear, dripping with gore sticking out of the boarg’s throat. It made a popping sound as it was pulled out. As the boargs hairy body fell to the side, Braal was able to painfully scramble up as he clutched his wounded chest. He saw the young boy, Fil, standing in front of him, holding the bloody spear, his eyes wide with fright.

“Well done, boy,” Braal said as he scanned his surroundings. The pain in his chest vanished as he looked around at the carnage. His line was breaking; he could see it as if it were in slow motion. Nearly fifty boargs were attacking the line and more were climbing over the wall as he quickly surveyed the scene. Dozens of townspeople littered the frozen ground, their bodies torn to pieces. There were boargs among the dead as well, but not enough. He turned back towards Fil and saw a boarg bearing down on the boy with incredible speed, running on all fours, covering twenty paces in seconds.

“Get down boy!” Braal yelled.

Fil flattened himself to the ground instantly as Braal’s battle axe flew over him, sailing head over end, striking the boarg in the chest. It was as if the boarg hit a steel wall. The axe head buried itself deeply in the boarg’s bony chest, sending it somersaulting backwards to its death.

Braal ran over and tried to rip the axe from the boarg’s chest. He had to use his foot as leverage before he could pry the axe from the dead body. He hefted his bloody axe and looked around trying to determine what to do. He knew that it was futile to continue to hold their position. His friends were fighting for their lives, but it was obvious to any observer that they couldn’t defeat these ferocious animals. Then he remembered Airos’s words. “Reserves! Fall back!” Braal screamed. “Retreat to the north wall! Front line, hold your ground!”

Braal ran to the center of the front line and Fil followed. Marsk the butcher intercepted him. His face was covered in blood, and a nasty deep cut stretched the entire length of his thigh.

“If the front line stays, then they will die!” Marsk yelled above the fighting.

“If both lines stay then we all die. I will stay with the front line to give you time to get the reserves to the north wall to join with the cavalier! Now go! Take Fil with you!” Braal ordered.

Marsk looked at Braal with respect and shook his head. “Fil, go with the reserves. Tell Airos that Braal and I stayed with the front line to guarantee your retreat.” Fil looked at them both and then ran off into the night joining the retreating men. Marsk returned his gaze to Braal and looked at him seriously. “You ready to die?"

Braal held his bloody axe before him and matched his stare. “I plan on taking a few more with me before I go,” he answered with a wry grin.

Marsk smiled as they both raced to help their comrades as they struggled to keep the powerful boargs at bay long enough to give the reserve line time to retreat.

Side by side they fought; sword and axe cleaving into the gray masses of flesh. The boarg’s long arms and sharp claws were formidable weapons. One hit from their powerful limbs would send a human flying, usually resulting in more than one broken bone. They were not only strong, but their speed was incredible to witness. The men of Manson were tough men, valiantly fighting for their lives and homes, and yet it was not enough to match the boarg’s strength and speed.

Marsk was not a trained warrior, but he fought with the energy and strength of ten men. He was fighting for his home and family and his determination and strength were fueled by the potential loss of all he held dear.

As Marsk struggled to free his sword from the heart of a boarg he had just killed, another creature, with lightning speed, dug its curved claws deep in his leg. Suddenly, Braal’s axe swung down, cleaving the boarg’s arm off at the elbow. Marsk was momentarily free, but the boarg did not stop. The beast leapt into the air as Marsk retreated, the severed arm still clenched to his thigh. Marsk stumbled back and held up his bloody sword as the boarg landed on top of him, impaling itself on the sharp blade.

The boarg, tougher than any human, continued to move in for the kill. Marsk’s arms were buried under the boarg’s weight and he could do nothing to stop the bony head from descending. Time seemed to slow down as Marsk closed his eyes and waited for impending death. He felt the hot breath, and then the sharp teeth close around his face. And pain, excruciating pain, as his own blood filled his eyes and mouth. But the pain did not last long. With one quick jerk the boarg ripped his face off. Marsk was still alive, but the pain was gone. All he saw was blackness and then he suffocated in his own blood.

Furiously, Braal swung his axe in a sideways arc with all his strength. The boarg was sitting on top of Marsk with its mouth clamped on the butcher’s face. Braal had swung the axe just as the boarg jerked its head up, ripping off Marsk’s face. The timing was perfect. The axe hit the boarg in the neck and the strength of the swing carried the axe through flesh, sinew, and bone. The boarg’s head landed five feet away with pieces of Marsk’s face still hanging from its jaws.