The Fable of Griffon: Book 02 - Herald's Dawn, page 14
The poorly made catapult had long since collapsed under the strain of fire, unable to even support the attack. That damned Polir had to be responsible for this outrage. Disrupting the control she had over the orcs, or at least that was what she intended to inform Sellith if anything else went wrong.
#
Griffon’s sword sang with the impact as Kin’s blade crashed towards him. He ducked back as another blow crashed into the earth where he had stood moments before. Kin charged forward, raising the point of his blade upward towards his chest.
“First I will kill you, then this city, and then your entire world will burn for my pleasure Southlander!” The orc warlord half laughed half grunted as he pushed his blade against the young king. Griffon charged forward, sliding his blade along the edge of Kin’s greatsword and bowling into the warlord. Kin moved back from the sudden blow before Griffon’s fist impacted hard under his chin.
The Badlander snarled angrily, backhanding Griffon with his free hand before raising his sword again. Griffon stung from the blow, his head swimming from its strength. Kin’s sword fell towards him with a roar of victory as the young king seemed to hesitate. Griffon sliced his sword in a high swift arc, cutting Kin’s hands from his arms and casting the orcs blade aside, he spun again as the orc warlord looked at his limbs in shock, barely noticing the blade that sang through the air for his throat.
Griffon fell to one knee for a moment as the massive orcs body fell lifeless to the ground. He leant against his sword, breathing hard before pushing himself back to his feet. The orc attack seemed to slow around him, the creatures coming through the breach just ahead of him standing in shock at the sight of their lifeless warlord and the human before them spattered in his blood. Griffon turned towards them, holding his sword ready. There was something in the Badlander’s eyes, a terrible fear, as though what they saw chilled them to the core. He raised his sword waiting for their attack as the Paladins and Lenatethians behind him began to beat the orcs back.
Griffon said nothing, only composing himself as he stared into the horde. His face and hands slick with blood he raised himself to stand proud, bringing the flat of his blade up to his face in salute.
The orcs before him slowed, even stopped. Many backed away as he stepped forward, Kin’s blood still dripping from the tip of his sword. A smile broke across his lips, unbidden but somehow inspiring, filling him with a grim confidence as that second beat thundered against his chest.
“Come.” He said to them. Other paladins and Lenatethians stood with him now, forming loose ranks either side of him. “Come!”
The orcs began to back away quickly, falling back from the wall, before suddenly taking flight from the field itself in a rush of panic and fear. The panic spread, first among those fighting on the walls, then to the others beyond them. A roaring cry of victory began to rise up from the defenders around the breach, spreading across the castle walls and echoing over the battlefield as the rout of the Badlanders quickened.
#
Phorest sheathed his sword quietly as he watched the Badlanders begin to fall back. He glanced back down towards the breach and the defenders clustered there cheering. For a moment he thought he saw something, a strange shadowy form among them that melted away. In that moment he felt his heart grow chill, but the feeling passed away as the mirage faded. He put his hand to his head, closing his eyes as though he had been struck with a sudden headache.
‘I must be getting old.’ He thought to himself before looking back to the East and watching the orcs flee back into the ruined city.
#
Ostler smiled broadly as he edged towards Griffon, embracing the young man in congratulations even as he hobbled on the deep cut upon his leg. “You did it!” He said with a laugh as Griffon smiled back. Ostler suddenly recovered himself and backed away a little before giving a respectful nod. “Sire.” He added. Griffon laughed and put his arm about his friend’s shoulders.
“Left me to it again then?” He smiled as they walked among the cheering defenders. “Where would I be without you?”
Chapter five: Lost Chances
Five more. Tar Sheva turned away, but even hiding them from her sight didn’t stop her from hearing them. Their ropes creaked in the wind with every passing gust. Every day she passed through this gallery as she went about her duties. Every day she felt the same chill, and every day fresh faces appeared at the gallows.
“They keep coming don’t they?” Tar Sheva turned to look further down the gallery of the castle wall. Standing at another of the windows stood an elderly man, his grey eyes fixed on the gallows outside. He wore the silver and gold armour of his order, a long red cloak flowing from his shoulders that caught gently in the draft. Marshall Fadden, Griffon’s uncle and head of the Order of the Golden Sword; he stood there just watching, as the gentle rain outside dripped against the window shutters.
“Marshall.” She greeted him, nodding to him as her hand maiden passed her a cloak to keep warmer.
“I had hoped to speak with you before now. Things as they are, it has been… difficult.” He said, stone grey eyes turning to match hers.
“Griffon’s departure has been difficult for many of us.” She answered.
“Some more than others.” He replied, leaning one hand against the window ledge. He smiled, it was surprisingly warm coming from a face such as his. In another time, Tar Sheva could imagine his face carved from the granite of a mountainside. Griffon shared his uncles bearing, but little else. The man was forged of colder and harsher steel than her husband, and had seen and done far worse than she could bare to imagine. “I was hoping we could talk, in private.” He turned his gaze to her handmaiden, who shrank away.
“It’s all right Kaara.” Tar Sheva smiled. “Go see to Ashan. Make sure he isn’t causing Mrs Litten any trouble.”
As the handmaiden skittered away down the passageway, Tar Sheva felt suddenly very cold. The passageway seemed silent, only the rain and the drafty wind making their music upon the walls. Marshall Fadden turned, offering his arm to her. She accepted it, the two of them gently making their way down the long passage.
“His majesty’s absences are getting longer.” Fadden said quietly. Tar Sheva immediately felt her heart tighten at the reminder.
“He has his duties.” She answered.
“And while he is away, we do what we can to keep his land safe for him; His advisors, his councilors, and yourself.”
“What is it you wanted to discuss with me?” She asked him, hoping for a direct answer.
“Each of us in the governance has our place here. Your majesty guides, the Paladins and the Watch protect, the scholars teach, and the Bishops…”
“The Bishops salve.” She continued. “They guide the people with faith, and heal the wounds Tyran suffered under the occupation.”
“This country needs a lot of healing it would seem.” Fadden answered quietly. She noticed how he kept looking about them, his eyes never staying in one place for long. “Tell me. After two years, how much healing still needs to be done?”
“Are you questioning the need for the faith? I thought you were a Paladin?” She asked him, watching him carefully to gauge his reaction. He did not seem angry at the implication, but sad. It seemed a long time before he answered, the pause heavy in the air.
“I question that so many have died to heal my country. I question why so many keep dying.” He stopped at one of the windows, pushing the shutter aside gently to reveal the gallows far outside upon the slopes. Already crows were gathering. “The church of the Raven finds traitors and collaborators from our midst. It tries them. It judges them. It removes them. Neither you nor I nor the absent king hears a word of these people. It happens invisibly around us, and though we may notice it, we do nothing because we trust those who are our ‘healers’.”
Tar Sheva watched him carefully, trying to avoid looking at the sight outside. “Lazarus has his reasons I’m sure. Nallaimor’s invasion was proved to be preplanned, and many were said to have known in advance and to have benefited from their betrayal.”
“Look there.” Fadden said, nodding to one of the five that swung gently in the rain. Tar Sheva did not, but if Fadden noticed he said nothing of it. “That one; a boy of six. I looked into the trial records this morning. He was said to have run weapons and messages for the Nallaimorians within the city outskirts, informing on hidden troops for petty rewards. Yet, at the time he would have been no more than four.” He closed the window. “I checked again earlier today. His name was Edward. A kitchen boy from the citadel. You may well have seen him before today.”
Tar Sheva swallowed, trying to think back. In truth she did remember him, and the thought of his final fate made her stomach turn.
“The servants there said he was spouting nonsense of shadows in the cellar a week or so before today.” Fadden turned to her again, indicating another of the swaying ropes. “There. A merchant from the Eastern provinces, Charadon’s border. He was accused of selling information to the invader. I hear he was very wealthy, and an influential landlord in the ports of that area. I’m sure his holdings are being put to good use by his replacement.”
Tar Sheva frowned. “Replacement?”
“A traitor forfeits his wealth and holdings to the court my queen. The court appoints someone to administer them.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I fear it is not only the country’s benefit these trials are working for.”
“Is that all you fear of them?” She asked him.
“I’m a soldier my queen. My like can face fear every day. But not like this. They say walls listen, and windows watch. I cannot do the same.”
“But I can?” She asked him.
He smiled. “A queen can do many things in the name of her king.” He answered before walking away. “They say the dark days have passed, but the day does not look very bright to me. We will speak again when there is time.” He turned to leave, passing one last smile to her. The expression looked strangely out of place on him, as though he felt unsure how to express it properly.
She watched him go, listening to his steps as he followed a staircase from the gallery to the courtyard below them. His words played again and again in her head as she stepped up to an open window. As she reached out to close the shutter, the gallows below creaked again.
“Griffon. Where are you?” She murmured.
#
Griffon walked out from the bastion beneath the keep, away from the cries of the wounded within as the apothecaries went about their duties. They were followed always by one of the few ghostwalkers or the shamans, a grim reminder of the duties to the dying. Blood was spattered over his armour and hands from where he had given what aid he could. The casualties had been heavy, the brutal weapons of the Badlanders leaving few alive to celebrate victory. The enemy dead had been piled outside at the base of the hill and burned, given short ceremony as their ashes were returned to the plains.
The order of the Angels shield had taken the brunt of the damage, holding the breach and the gatehouse. The survivors had taken a moment aside from the cleared courtyard, praying quietly together for the souls of their lost commander and brothers in arms, laying their comrades weapons down in an all too practiced arrangement before them. Griffon watched them sadly, the torchlight casting a terrible gloom over the scene.
“They suffered a lot today.” Ostler said quietly as he moved towards Griffon from within the bastion, wiping his hands with a cloth.
“We owe them for it. There will be a short ceremony of ascension for the new captains. Marshal Fiel fell at the gatehouse, so they will need a new head of the Order to be chosen.” Griffon told him, keeping his eyes towards the sorry scene.
“The less enviable duties of a king.” Ostler remarked sadly.
“Nevertheless...” Griffon turned away, looking about at the other defenders as they busily repaired the fortifications around them, cleaning weapons or cooking meals. The mood was generally good, though the initial elation of the victory had swiftly passed as the aftermath of the battle overshadowed them. “We are alive at least.”
“We can’t hold off another assault. I hate to say it but there is no way we can hope to repair that breach properly in a night, nor can we hope to place sound defenses that will last long. It’s a minor miracle Jarren was able to hold them off at the gate.” Ostler said as he evaluated the situation.
“We need a war council. Gather up the others, I’ll get everything ready in the keep’s hall.” Griffon told him. Ostler bowed respectfully and started to walk away, his gait still a little pained from the wound received in battle, despite the attention of the Paladin clerics. “Don’t forget your brother.” Griffon added, causing Ostler’s shoulders to sink slightly.
#
The map of the city lay flat over the table illuminated by the torches placed around them. Griffon looked over it, marking on it the points the orcs had regrouped. Ikkan peered at the map thoughtfully, Shump beside him. Dabilo sat at the head of the table, glancing over with interest as she devoured an apple. Phorest stood sternly with Ostler as he studied the parchment, a second map beside it showing the castle grounds.
The heads of the Paladin orders stood opposite, the newly chosen marshal Retine furrowing his brow in thought. Marshal Deanston, an experienced campaigner indicated various parts of the map as he described what he had observed of the orcs movements. The older man had almost taken the younger marshal under his wing, a relief to the young Retine who seemed uncomfortable with his new responsibilities. Griffon could appreciate that enough. He would have to thank Deanston later.
Jarren sat away from the group, watching from under his hood as they poured over the map, arguing over what was now their best option. He showed no outward sign of the wounds he had sported during the fighting. There had been no reports of the Polir having seen one of the shamans or a cleric and he seemed to move carefully when he chose to move at all. Griffon wondered at it a moment, hoping the Polir’s pride had not stopped him from seeking aid.
Balix muttered something darkly under his breath as he tried to explain again. “Look. We need a strong counterattack, directed West, I agree. We hit their encampment hard whilst we can. There are even hills to the North we can use to cover a flank attack. However you are presuming these are ordinary Badlanders, and after what you have seen you should know that is not the case!”
“We cannot hold this castle again, and we do not know when Conrad will send us reinforcements - If he ever does. We have to either strike now before they bring reinforcements and break them or we abandon the city and break out to the East.” Deanston explained. “Their casualties were horrendous, and we know now that they are using illusion to make their numbers appear greater than they are. We can hit their camp right now! We already have broken their morale today, why are we wasting time talking here when we can drive them out of the Battlelands altogether?”
“Because we don’t even know if that is their camp!” Balix protested loudly.
“Agreed.” Phorest spoke in a soft clear voice, cutting through before Deanston had a chance to respond. “This enemy has shown itself to make use of diversions and illusions. But they have also great numbers that must be camped somewhere. Their camp appears to be only in the West, and this would make some sense, there is room and it is defensible. Can we be certain, with such great numbers in their force, that this is their only encampment?”
“We can’t just stay here to find out.” Ikkan muttered. “Rout or no they have been careful to maintain patrols to stop our scouts and after that trick with the invisibility I wouldn’t trust what I see by daylight. Of course they might want us to think that…”
“Let’s not double guess ourselves. We need decisive action. However we can’t simply march into them in the hopes of hitting their camp. We simply don’t have reliable information.” Griffon reasoned. “We held them back today, they are broken, and that should at least buy us time whilst they regroup. Perhaps even encourage them to hold siege rather than attack again”
“It is unlikely my liege. They know we cannot hold them.” Deanston tapped his finger to his lips thoughtfully. “Even if they did, our supplies will only last so long, and Conrad may have troubles of his own to attend with.” Ikkan nodded in agreement, refilling his bottle from the barrel Pern carried on his back, the mule quietly standing behind the dwarfen commander.
Griffon stroked his chin, the growing stubble further shadowing his face as he chewed on his lip. “What about the ghostwalkers? Can they scout for us?”
“Already have. They met with the same results as our previous scouts. They did not return.” Ikkan answered sadly with a long sigh. “We could send scouts to the East, check the hills there.”
“There is no need.” Jarren interjected. “Their camp is in the Western fields.”
“How can you be so certain?” Balix muttered with some annoyance.
“The ley passing through that region is being manipulated, and strongly. The Kuunsi are using the tribesfolk as expendable manpower. There won’t be many Kuunsi and they won’t wander alone near a battlefield. If they are camped there then the orcs will be with them.” He explained, still sitting in the corner.
“Then what are we waiting for? Hit them now! While we still can!” Deanston declared elatedly. “We have the initiative, along with their morale battered. We can win this before dawn.”
Griffon folded his arms and considered for a moment. Deanston had a fair point, but there was something else that bothered him. The others seemed to agree with the Paladin marshal, looking to Griffon for a final decision. He glanced over their faces, only Balix seemed hesitant about the idea, though Phorest seemed concerned with something also.
