The Imp Chronicles
Book I
The Kings Road
Prologue
The House of Ran
The Nether Lord swept a look around at the eager faces, "If it is blood you wantto hear about, and it always is, I have a tale enough to chill your soul.”
The House of Ran
The Nether Lord swept a look around at the eager faces, "If it is blood you wantto hear about, and it always is, I have a tale enough to chill your soul.”
The landlord’s house could hold no more. The heavy oaken rafters seemed to press down to hear the Nether Lords words. The only light came from a roaring hearth at one end of the hall that held the winter night at bay and a guttering torch over the landlords counter. The landlords many daughters pushed their way through the crowds with platters of sweet fall ale. When the Nether Lord stirred from the table nearest the fire a hush came over the assembled. Empty faces gazed back at his. Pallid smiles, glazing eyes, rumours; the storyteller's harbinger ran like mercury. The room ran quiet as the Nether Lord stood before the fire and raised his cup to the east, as is the way of his kind.
"For I have come from the imp wars beyond the Sea of Tears where I laboured hammer and shield in the service of the old king.”
His voice rang clear to the back of the hall. People climbed into the rafters or onto their fellows shoulders to have a better look. Not in a life time could someone recall the last time a Nether Lord had held forth at the landlord’s house. And this one, his finely wrought garment, and gold earrings spoke of one of rank. His twisted beard tucked into his broad belt, upon the belt hung a single stone knife, its blade broken. His singularly luminescent eyes burned beneath bushy eyebrows, his hair shot with silver and grey lay in braided plates down his back.
The Nether Lord drank deeply from a mammoth pewter tankard. His eyes held the room, "But what do you care of the old king.”
The Nether Lord listened distantly to his own words, he felt the years in his bones. The knots in his beard counted his fallen brothers. Could close his eyes and feel every scar. The landlord brought him another flagon of steaming mead.
“I will tell you the lay of the last battle upon the glebe. How in the fall of the House of Ran, the slaying of King Elsmore, two strangers crossing distant lands came to crossroads. In that night a legend began. I will tell of the deeds, the agony, the horror they witnessed, they who may redeem us all.
Leout the harlot, whore and no more, branded as the law demands by her father’s hand, slavers’ bait lost upon a field of green. Sinon, trim lead hand, child of a desolate queen, fleeing the cloisters' cell, nonage prince of Ran lost upon a rage of red. Upon the marches of Het-ron, they met in a league house. A house of empty faces, silent rooms, those who could flee had scattered before the Imp clans, chaff separated from the wheat leaving the grain to be crushed beneath the hobnailed boots. Those who were left alive writhed, shadows in dark forest or mountain cave only to be hunted, to be fed to the night birds. Humanity ran from panic into blindness in this shadow world.
Upon the southern slopes of the Red Hills laid this house of Ran, once these sturdy houses lined the Kings roads, a place of safety, of rest or cheer. Where the king’s messengers kept their horses, the stage coaches their warehouses and the smithies their shops. Now, this last island of humanity was at a near hysteria as the night aproached, a murder of crows danced on the roof. Within yet not far from the night terrors Leout and Sinon sat, watching the mournful tears and the demands for answers. They knew well what had befallen their land; butchery, crimson madness. In a corner the two travellers sat watched the veneer of civility slip into chaos, the gods forsaking them all. Though the stage was set they could not wait left that house and sealed their fate or none but they lived through that night lucky guess or second sight. None can say but one.
Through Imp legion, they passed and knew it not. Cloaked in darkness and ignorance they passed unnoticed through a storm. They had wandered slowly through the red highlands of in search of Haven's Passage but the gods have other uses for one such as they. Sinnon marked a path for the sanctuary of the temple grounds of Het-ron that stood just below the mountain pass. Here they might find shelter for another night. Hope turned to sudden dread as they peered down from the bluffs, born to bear witness to the last moment of an age. Upon the fertile plane they gazed, their perch inaccessible, inescapable. Looked but could not see, could not comprehend. The horror upon the Glebe, the furrow turned and seed lay down they saw upon the field the harvesters reaping their fate.”
Of the glory, that was.
"About the low temple walls camped KingElsmore of the House of Ran. Gamtounge, potent heirloom, tooth of the House held in spotted hands waited to drink the blood of the foe as they moved out to meet the enemy. Around King Elsmore the lords own arm, the shield guard, dour faced men hand picked kinsmen all.
On the left Dormon his legion of spearmen, their spears' bronze heads shimmering in the morning sun. Not unlike a sapling forest, they stood upon a fire swept hill. Allied of blood and of faith, Solmen of the rich delta, bounty of the flood, holders of the ancient trident their stilted reed pavilions upon a moving land. Harvesters and fishermen of golden treasures come every man to block the way as wives and children fled to the Havens, the black ships awaited their pleasures. Rallying to Dormon's standard a thousand strong marching far from rivers delta to mountains pass, they sought to stop the flood before it consumes their children. Brought to the war counsel they were unlooked for help. Asked their boon Doorman stood tall and resolute; stand the ground stop the flood. To the last Sol, they would hold. In the morning sun the thousand stood upon a fire blackened hill, sun at their backs. Two hands upon the heavy shafts of their spears, banded Iron caps shod their heads, costly ring mail hung to their knees. Deadly scythers’ shoulder-to-shoulder practised, potent. Each passing minute was a victory as their families flew.
Upon the right stood Nordoth, grim iron fisted Nether Lord. At his back, a thousand hammers, their cold grey faces spoke of sudden death remembered blood. Bound by oaths, homeless children of the earth, delvers and diggers, miners and smiths, crafter and mercenaries, avaricious souls sworn to serve made an oath in blood with blood. To the Nether Lords the unfathomed western mountains. To the Solmen, yearly tribute unfailing promise of protection, bound by an oath. They sung their death song, of their hatred of their enemy, ancient bane. Nordoth had come wise before the king speaking long for forced marches to the narrow mountain pass but the King would go no further into the kindling dry pine slopes, only upon the Glebe did they find sanctuary from the Imps fires.
Upon the right stood Nordoth, grim iron fisted Nether Lord. At his back, a thousand hammers, their cold grey faces spoke of sudden death remembered blood. Bound by oaths, homeless children of the earth, delvers and diggers, miners and smiths, crafter and mercenaries, avaricious souls sworn to serve made an oath in blood with blood. To the Nether Lords the unfathomed western mountains. To the Solmen, yearly tribute unfailing promise of protection, bound by an oath. They sung their death song, of their hatred of their enemy, ancient bane. Nordoth had come wise before the king speaking long for forced marches to the narrow mountain pass but the King would go no further into the kindling dry pine slopes, only upon the Glebe did they find sanctuary from the Imps fires.
Denied by wild magic, bound by oath, on soft ground, fallow field the heavy cave shields had no brace of cavern roof or rock outcropping, no pinch point funnels to the killing holes. Oaken arms waited to swing mighty hammers as the Nether Lords sang as one, every minute closer to their doom, brothers of my beard.
Upon the centre noble Lord Hayden, captain of the line. Before him the short swords and shields of the king's knights purified with silver, blessed by the gods almighty, Shariest warriors’. Their heavy bronze armour stone towers beyond breaking their power a contrivance of the Shariests. Foot sore, exhausted, afraid, their riding boots sinking deeply into the Glebe they came exhausted to counsel returning rear guard riding to harrow and bait advancing foe. What remained returned on foot beloved horses rode to the ground in their escape. With their last strength, they would stand and fight on consecrated ground of the temple. The Shariest's sacrifices smouldered. They formed a wall before the king, their riding charge brought down to baser martial arts. Cumbersome metal brought to ground these where the legion of Sol.”
Upon the centre noble Lord Hayden, captain of the line. Before him the short swords and shields of the king's knights purified with silver, blessed by the gods almighty, Shariest warriors’. Their heavy bronze armour stone towers beyond breaking their power a contrivance of the Shariests. Foot sore, exhausted, afraid, their riding boots sinking deeply into the Glebe they came exhausted to counsel returning rear guard riding to harrow and bait advancing foe. What remained returned on foot beloved horses rode to the ground in their escape. With their last strength, they would stand and fight on consecrated ground of the temple. The Shariest's sacrifices smouldered. They formed a wall before the king, their riding charge brought down to baser martial arts. Cumbersome metal brought to ground these where the legion of Sol.”
Of the bitter enemy that faced the Sol.
“It will be told through the days of your houses of Sol of the isle of Isal, of the Sea of Tears that surrounds that blessed rock of the coming of Osiric, clan of the Sobota, of his Imp legions that swept away the north, he who made the Nether Lords homeless, the Nyktos fearless, Osiric the unforgiven.”
A gate slammed upon its hinges in the night breeze.
"The Imp Lord came and none withstood him. He did not sleep or rest from evil. His malice unsated the light of hunger never grew dim. He walked the land, his lands of empty roads. The farmers plough lays rusted. The sky ran red with consuming fires. Nothing was spared from Osiric's wrath. He would suffer no artefact to remain. Livestock was butchered and left to fertilise the earth. Crops burned to allow the seeds of the old world long dormant to bloom again. Osiric's hatred turned to crimson upon the bell towers of the temples, old as the Imps' humiliation. The steeples mocked him. Under ringing hammers, the very stones were shattered and spread upon the fields. No atonement no shard remained, when Osiric was done they never existed. Cleansing fire before him wild fire magic unquenchable, no tactic negated it, no army withstood it. Symbol of a new order, the scorched ground lay at Osiric's feet. Forgotten foes, ancient hunters of the dark exiled by the Oath of Lunaticus to the Thule. Their malice returned on us seven fold as the watchers slept lulled by the words of Tantalus. Imps swept their lands clean until only one hope one battle remained, that they might stop him at Het-ron.
Before Osiric the clans formed, riding upon fiery chargers, black as pitch, steaming, pawing, and eager for battle bred beyond reckoning for the clansmen of the Sobota. The Imp now risen from the ashes of their ruin, their forefathers’ lances in eager hands, youth hard with anger unwilling to accept the oaths of their elders’, callused hands hard upon the lances shaft. Ancient arts remembered. All will be avenged; not one shall live, not one. Their eyes turned to Osiric-ra. High on a knoll ablaze with banners and pennants sat Osiric-ra clan of the Sobota, the unforgiven, his pavilion a proud ship streaming in the shifting breeze pulled by a hundred of the kings own men , captured and blinded, they struggled beneath the lash. Matriarchs of the clans pressed the decks cackling for blood, children of the night upon a field of light.
On Osiric’s left the wild Mankins, the Centaurus. Their torsos naked to the wind their chestnut flanks rippled with movement. Over every face a mask of wild demons. Upon their shoulders were bows of ash wood, on their backs quivers of black and scarlet shafts. Timid dwellers of the deep forest, masters of the black arts sacrificed to the wild spirits of forest and rock. Anarchists of nature, hunters, gatherers, fletchers, and necromancers wild on their bowers of leaves. In the years since the Sol had arrived they had been hunted and destroyed, offenders of the purity of the image of the gods’. Their forefathers beyond reckoning, old as twig and leaf itself, tribes of family needing no captain, independent, fierce. Banded together for war and retribution an ancient and kingly race allied against common foes. In battle, the last five hundred stood together. Too few even now to sustain a healthy lineage doomed to fade away by the hand of Solmen. Retribution! Knowing no martial arts beyond the hunt they thought it better to die in fiery battle than slowly watch the ends take them all. They waited, hunting horns at their lips a glorious day to avenge the iniquity of their fate.
On Osiric's right, the accursed Urceolate the Nyktos King, in Urceolate's hands death, in his mind hunger his countless spawn feasting on Imp clan’s power. Grubs that burrowed beneath the deep northern frost seeking sleeping pray coming out into the sun only during summer season for the rut, orgy upon the mound mad with the rapture of the feast. Maggots upon the flesh of the earth, the wriggling flesh, befoulers, Nether Lords bane. Like ants upon a nest one mind, collective thoughts through the warrens all supplication to the potent king, orgy of the living soul. Fawning over their king's pleasure their pale forms worms upon the plain. Endless hungers of the senses devouring them all hunger unstoppable. Soul eaters. In the hills above the plain, their bare hands eager for flesh. Like starlings upon the earth they moved. Pin prickled with spit spears in granite hands, the devouring tide waited; drool slipping from gaping maws.
A gate slammed upon its hinges in the night breeze.
"The Imp Lord came and none withstood him. He did not sleep or rest from evil. His malice unsated the light of hunger never grew dim. He walked the land, his lands of empty roads. The farmers plough lays rusted. The sky ran red with consuming fires. Nothing was spared from Osiric's wrath. He would suffer no artefact to remain. Livestock was butchered and left to fertilise the earth. Crops burned to allow the seeds of the old world long dormant to bloom again. Osiric's hatred turned to crimson upon the bell towers of the temples, old as the Imps' humiliation. The steeples mocked him. Under ringing hammers, the very stones were shattered and spread upon the fields. No atonement no shard remained, when Osiric was done they never existed. Cleansing fire before him wild fire magic unquenchable, no tactic negated it, no army withstood it. Symbol of a new order, the scorched ground lay at Osiric's feet. Forgotten foes, ancient hunters of the dark exiled by the Oath of Lunaticus to the Thule. Their malice returned on us seven fold as the watchers slept lulled by the words of Tantalus. Imps swept their lands clean until only one hope one battle remained, that they might stop him at Het-ron.
Before Osiric the clans formed, riding upon fiery chargers, black as pitch, steaming, pawing, and eager for battle bred beyond reckoning for the clansmen of the Sobota. The Imp now risen from the ashes of their ruin, their forefathers’ lances in eager hands, youth hard with anger unwilling to accept the oaths of their elders’, callused hands hard upon the lances shaft. Ancient arts remembered. All will be avenged; not one shall live, not one. Their eyes turned to Osiric-ra. High on a knoll ablaze with banners and pennants sat Osiric-ra clan of the Sobota, the unforgiven, his pavilion a proud ship streaming in the shifting breeze pulled by a hundred of the kings own men , captured and blinded, they struggled beneath the lash. Matriarchs of the clans pressed the decks cackling for blood, children of the night upon a field of light.
On Osiric’s left the wild Mankins, the Centaurus. Their torsos naked to the wind their chestnut flanks rippled with movement. Over every face a mask of wild demons. Upon their shoulders were bows of ash wood, on their backs quivers of black and scarlet shafts. Timid dwellers of the deep forest, masters of the black arts sacrificed to the wild spirits of forest and rock. Anarchists of nature, hunters, gatherers, fletchers, and necromancers wild on their bowers of leaves. In the years since the Sol had arrived they had been hunted and destroyed, offenders of the purity of the image of the gods’. Their forefathers beyond reckoning, old as twig and leaf itself, tribes of family needing no captain, independent, fierce. Banded together for war and retribution an ancient and kingly race allied against common foes. In battle, the last five hundred stood together. Too few even now to sustain a healthy lineage doomed to fade away by the hand of Solmen. Retribution! Knowing no martial arts beyond the hunt they thought it better to die in fiery battle than slowly watch the ends take them all. They waited, hunting horns at their lips a glorious day to avenge the iniquity of their fate.
On Osiric's right, the accursed Urceolate the Nyktos King, in Urceolate's hands death, in his mind hunger his countless spawn feasting on Imp clan’s power. Grubs that burrowed beneath the deep northern frost seeking sleeping pray coming out into the sun only during summer season for the rut, orgy upon the mound mad with the rapture of the feast. Maggots upon the flesh of the earth, the wriggling flesh, befoulers, Nether Lords bane. Like ants upon a nest one mind, collective thoughts through the warrens all supplication to the potent king, orgy of the living soul. Fawning over their king's pleasure their pale forms worms upon the plain. Endless hungers of the senses devouring them all hunger unstoppable. Soul eaters. In the hills above the plain, their bare hands eager for flesh. Like starlings upon the earth they moved. Pin prickled with spit spears in granite hands, the devouring tide waited; drool slipping from gaping maws.
A shadow passed over them all, Beldame's Brood, carrion fowls. A black cloud that blocked out the sun. The horses screamed in terror. Their riders mastered them with whip and spur. Beldame, the counter charm, heir to nothing queen of Oblivion. Carrion hag, she jackal where Osiric went she was sure to follow feasting on his revenge. The seer, the hand in time, augur of men's lives only the crows to torment her daughters, her bi-blow only the crows would dare spoil with them over the carrion of the unforgiven. And still the crows came pecking. Feast of endless life. Damn the Ghule! Beldame the harpy queen descended in a shower of blackness before Osiric, clan of the Sobota. Prostrating herself upon the ground giving troth for the bounty to come blood for blood, the promise, her dark blood upon a slab of stone all eyes turned. The black sign as the moon slid over the sun, Beldame shrieked and lifted into the sky.
The Nyktos roar rolled through the valley like thunder; maggots upon the flesh of the earth. They chanted. They fasted, sacrificed, chanting. Imp marshals had gathered the Nyktos hoard into the wind swept hills. Through the endless nights the Nyktos fasted. Sacrificed, chanting. Thus the Nyktos stayed until hunger drove them to madness. The Nyktos gave the benediction to their father until their hunger drove them to madness. The insanity of starving beasts united them in oneness. Imp lords on fiery chargers whipped advancing Nyktos, to hold them back. They could not be held. The breeze shifted. They could smell the Solmen could smell their flesh, their sweat, their fear. The breaking of the fast the smell of the smouldering sacrifices. The Nyktos drooled, gnashing their sharpened teeth. Their hunger consuming them their chanting grew to screams. Hunger beyond reason, beyond thought, their hands clenching, nails biting into flesh. The bodies of the fallen would be devoured for that is how a Nyktos horde travels, on its stomach. The fleshes of the bear or Sol, horse if Imp lord would allow. Only Nether Lords hide they found too tough for them to eat.
Crows gathered for war, the rooking. Never in a century had their children been so plentiful. They hung upon the trees like rotting apples. Corrupt upon the fruit of vengeance given wholly to gluttony, their voices a crescendo. Taunting all sides ‘to war, to war’ and there was war, war without pity, without remorse.
The Nyktos roar rolled through the valley like thunder; maggots upon the flesh of the earth. They chanted. They fasted, sacrificed, chanting. Imp marshals had gathered the Nyktos hoard into the wind swept hills. Through the endless nights the Nyktos fasted. Sacrificed, chanting. Thus the Nyktos stayed until hunger drove them to madness. The Nyktos gave the benediction to their father until their hunger drove them to madness. The insanity of starving beasts united them in oneness. Imp lords on fiery chargers whipped advancing Nyktos, to hold them back. They could not be held. The breeze shifted. They could smell the Solmen could smell their flesh, their sweat, their fear. The breaking of the fast the smell of the smouldering sacrifices. The Nyktos drooled, gnashing their sharpened teeth. Their hunger consuming them their chanting grew to screams. Hunger beyond reason, beyond thought, their hands clenching, nails biting into flesh. The bodies of the fallen would be devoured for that is how a Nyktos horde travels, on its stomach. The fleshes of the bear or Sol, horse if Imp lord would allow. Only Nether Lords hide they found too tough for them to eat.
Crows gathered for war, the rooking. Never in a century had their children been so plentiful. They hung upon the trees like rotting apples. Corrupt upon the fruit of vengeance given wholly to gluttony, their voices a crescendo. Taunting all sides ‘to war, to war’ and there was war, war without pity, without remorse.
Upon the knoll Osiric clan of the Sobota, the unforgiven danced upon the green; the glee, the laughter, the madness. A shadow passed over from the dark side of the moon, the eclipse as Beldame had promised. The Imps cheered as the day turned into twilight as the terminator swept across the fields towards the Sol king.
Crows flew in cyclones crying to the Gods ‘to war, to war’
and there was war, war to the knife.
and there was war, war to the knife.
The battle was upon them all. The night crawlers came, the Nyktos descended as wave’s crash upon a beach. They drove toward the king, paradisea within their reach. The feast, screaming for blood wild animals beyond count moving like a flock of birds the Nyktos came without pity. Action reaction, one drive, one purpose, the feast. Before them the Sol stood at their prayers.
What passes through the minds of Sol when crimson madness is upon them? Where doom is in nominate, do mothers smile or father's words pass before them? Can they feel their children hands in theirs? How does that which brought them hold them still, steady their hands, still their hearts an inner eyelid that closes upon the future? Do they live in that moment more fully than those long years under the sun of their youth?
It was not so for the Nether. Grim Lords bound by oath, singing with a thousand voices they walked row upon row shoulder to shoulder advanced to fall upon their ancient foes. Eyes wide open to their fate. Before the first hammer fell, the wild Mankin tribe came. In their hands where bows of Ash wood, at their back a quiver of black and scarlet shafts, hunting horns opened the heavens. Enchanted by black arts their arrows volleys screamed in anger as they took flight. The shafts fell like hail among the grain. Nordoth, my brother, bound by oath, cursed the Solmen, damn their weak flesh. The Nether Lords bowed before their oaths. Damn the solmen, damn their weakness.Nordoth turned on a trumpet call to face the dark archers. The Mankin, enveloped in the trees caught my brothers between the hammer and the anvil. Charging towards Nordoth the Mankin grabbed five arrows in one hand releasing them in quick succession with unerring accuracy swerving just beyond the hammer's toll. Again and a gain they turned and attacked .The Solmen archers were too few to counter. The Nether Lords retreated behind their shield wall cursing. With a grim smile, Nordoth picked up a bone of the earth and dealt back with bone breaking accuracy. The Nether Lords cheer lit up the valley as they scrambled for bones. At once, the sky was full of missiles the Mankin fell under the deluge retreated beyond the stones shattering range. The Nether Lords did not have time to rejoice. A horn called a charge. Imp clans broke from hidden ground they flew upon the fiery black chargers, masters of metzeln, art of warfare. Osiric-ra’s son in the lead fell upon them at a stirrup charge breaking through the line. Nordoth saw his doom He closed his ranks leaving the kings flank open. Five hundred Nether Lords screaming their curses at he king, turned, rushed headlong into the maw of the Nyktos to face the maggots on this rotting flesh broke their oaths sealing their doom. Separated and cut like cattle they perished in a tide of blood.
Noble Lord Hayden, captain of the line, headman, before him the short swords and shields the king's knights horseless exhausted afraid rushed to fill the void. Caught in the sudden vortex the Nyktos were upon them among them, chaos, and screams. The ground ran black with blood.
It was not so for the Nether. Grim Lords bound by oath, singing with a thousand voices they walked row upon row shoulder to shoulder advanced to fall upon their ancient foes. Eyes wide open to their fate. Before the first hammer fell, the wild Mankin tribe came. In their hands where bows of Ash wood, at their back a quiver of black and scarlet shafts, hunting horns opened the heavens. Enchanted by black arts their arrows volleys screamed in anger as they took flight. The shafts fell like hail among the grain. Nordoth, my brother, bound by oath, cursed the Solmen, damn their weak flesh. The Nether Lords bowed before their oaths. Damn the solmen, damn their weakness.Nordoth turned on a trumpet call to face the dark archers. The Mankin, enveloped in the trees caught my brothers between the hammer and the anvil. Charging towards Nordoth the Mankin grabbed five arrows in one hand releasing them in quick succession with unerring accuracy swerving just beyond the hammer's toll. Again and a gain they turned and attacked .The Solmen archers were too few to counter. The Nether Lords retreated behind their shield wall cursing. With a grim smile, Nordoth picked up a bone of the earth and dealt back with bone breaking accuracy. The Nether Lords cheer lit up the valley as they scrambled for bones. At once, the sky was full of missiles the Mankin fell under the deluge retreated beyond the stones shattering range. The Nether Lords did not have time to rejoice. A horn called a charge. Imp clans broke from hidden ground they flew upon the fiery black chargers, masters of metzeln, art of warfare. Osiric-ra’s son in the lead fell upon them at a stirrup charge breaking through the line. Nordoth saw his doom He closed his ranks leaving the kings flank open. Five hundred Nether Lords screaming their curses at he king, turned, rushed headlong into the maw of the Nyktos to face the maggots on this rotting flesh broke their oaths sealing their doom. Separated and cut like cattle they perished in a tide of blood.
Noble Lord Hayden, captain of the line, headman, before him the short swords and shields the king's knights horseless exhausted afraid rushed to fill the void. Caught in the sudden vortex the Nyktos were upon them among them, chaos, and screams. The ground ran black with blood.
‘To the king, to the king’, the crows laughed and danced.
The Nyktos fell upon the shield guard and they upon their knees. Hands clasped over ears, silently screaming to drown the noise of their brethrens screams. As swords rang, shields buckled soldiers quailed. Their hands forgetting their swords the ground befouled by their excrement. No time for forgiveness, the Nyktos were upon them tearing flesh from living men cramming their mouths. Hayden drew back, mastering his troop. In succession spit spears fell upon the shield wall down the line like windmill thunder. The wave crashed upon the beach. The wall faltered but held though Hayden fell. The next wave advanced.
The Nyktos fell upon the shield guard and they upon their knees. Hands clasped over ears, silently screaming to drown the noise of their brethrens screams. As swords rang, shields buckled soldiers quailed. Their hands forgetting their swords the ground befouled by their excrement. No time for forgiveness, the Nyktos were upon them tearing flesh from living men cramming their mouths. Hayden drew back, mastering his troop. In succession spit spears fell upon the shield wall down the line like windmill thunder. The wave crashed upon the beach. The wall faltered but held though Hayden fell. The next wave advanced.
Dormon and his legion of spearmen their spear's bronze heads shimmering advanced upon an open the enemies opening flank as the king ordered the shield wall to wheel to the left. The Nyktos fell under the scythe, so focused on the king they saw little else, for a moment the tide turned as Dormon waded into the hungry flood. In measured strokes, Dormon’s legions reaped the battlefield, the names of their children upon their lips. A wall of cutting flesh but they were too few. From his pavilion Osiric saw his chance and called to his cavalry. The Imp clans charged down the slope throwing their weight into Dormon’s advance. Overmastered by their foe; by numbers, by the enemies hunger the solmen fell beneath the hooves in each other's arms, oaths fulfilled.
The crows laughed and danced.
The soil of the Glebe has heavy and sticky with blood. Even as they set the final wall around the old King, the bulwark crumbled under the weight of the hungry tide. Though they struggled against it, it was in vain. The Nyktos chanted like mad things seeing their prize the king, the king. The King signalled to the heralds horns lifted to trembling lips sounded the last lament, the king is dead the king is dead and so passed the House of Ran.”
The Nether lord bowed his head in silence until at last he took up his flagon and his story again.
The soil of the Glebe has heavy and sticky with blood. Even as they set the final wall around the old King, the bulwark crumbled under the weight of the hungry tide. Though they struggled against it, it was in vain. The Nyktos chanted like mad things seeing their prize the king, the king. The King signalled to the heralds horns lifted to trembling lips sounded the last lament, the king is dead the king is dead and so passed the House of Ran.”
The Nether lord bowed his head in silence until at last he took up his flagon and his story again.
“Upon the battle plain, Sinon and Leout gazed, inaccessible, inescapable. They looked down from the ledge their eyes opened. What of mercy, what of valour, what of honour, forgotten consumed swallowed whole. Stolen from lethargic hands the squabbling children brought before the corporal tested and found wanting. Stone prison minds. The air was full of the shrieking of the wounded being dragged to the feast. Their stomachs slit open, organs cut from living flesh, the heads of the dead piled upon the tables, the feast. Without pity, the passion of the feast. Urceolate brought before Osiric, the unforgiven, the King's severed head, the circlet of his crown propped on blood matted hair. Urceolate took the sopped hair of the king in his hand and with a deft knife hand peeled the scalp back easily. From his belt he took a stubby cudgel and cracked the kings skull like an egg pulling away the broken fragments of bone, he presented the kings head on a wooden platter before Osiric. Osiric dined on the custard of Elsmore’s intellect and so much of the king’s power passed on to Osiric. Only Gamtounge escaped Osiric's grasp ancient tooth of the House hereditary blade King Elsmore seeing the truth sent the sword away with his Captain who fled toward the pass and into oblivion. The great prize was lost to Osiric.
Leout and Sinon shrank under the weight of what they saw. Time laboured at his wheel. They could do naught but wept at that bitter sight until fear took hold of their heels and they fled wildly into the western slopes. Upon that high plateau, they passed through Imp legend and knew it not cloaked in darkness and ignorance they passed unnoticed as the forest closed about them. The SpiderForest, they travelled back through the Vail of Talus the path of Tantalus. Upon that unblessed path, they wondered seeking shelter, deliverance from cold stars. Strange travellers crossing that distant land unguided, lost. Upon a midnight glade they stumbled, cold pinnacle of stone, last chance or none at all. Exhausted upon the doorstep they fell, banging on the door of the keep.”
The Nether Lord went quiet the crowd breathing at his rhythm, silent thoughts. "So ends the lay of the Last Battle upon the Glebe. Pray for those souls, as is the way of your people for our doom lies in their death. For now the keen eye of Osiric, the unforgiven, is turned to the south and the lands of all Houses are at peril.”
Leout and Sinon shrank under the weight of what they saw. Time laboured at his wheel. They could do naught but wept at that bitter sight until fear took hold of their heels and they fled wildly into the western slopes. Upon that high plateau, they passed through Imp legend and knew it not cloaked in darkness and ignorance they passed unnoticed as the forest closed about them. The SpiderForest, they travelled back through the Vail of Talus the path of Tantalus. Upon that unblessed path, they wondered seeking shelter, deliverance from cold stars. Strange travellers crossing that distant land unguided, lost. Upon a midnight glade they stumbled, cold pinnacle of stone, last chance or none at all. Exhausted upon the doorstep they fell, banging on the door of the keep.”
The Nether Lord went quiet the crowd breathing at his rhythm, silent thoughts. "So ends the lay of the Last Battle upon the Glebe. Pray for those souls, as is the way of your people for our doom lies in their death. For now the keen eye of Osiric, the unforgiven, is turned to the south and the lands of all Houses are at peril.”
The room gulped for air. The Nether Lord finished his mead wiped the foam away from his beard with the back of his hand and stumbled through the crowd to the door and into the cool embrace of the frozen night.
The charm.
The charm.
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