The Eye of the Phoenix

[projectego]

Wow! I can't believe that I hadn't stumbled upon your fan fiction earlier, Darg. Excellent work, my friend. I look forward to what you have cooking up next...

+rep

[Darg]

Thanks Steve. I only hope the next chapter will be satisfying. Somewhere around this weekend a new chapter may be done.

[Darg]

Sorry it took so long, but here we have Chapter 9, the entry into Hook Coast. Enjoy!


Chapter 9~ The Enemy of Hook Coast

“Hook Coast in sight off the port bow!” yelled Finrar Vodruke from the crow’s nest high above the deck of the ship. It was very early in the morning and a thick fog still hung above the water, swirling about in unusual patterns and eventually dissipating before it reappeared again without warning. Veros was resting against the mainmast with Rufus Almonder, watching over him as he sat with a rather cross expression on his bruised face. He had persevered through the worst, but suffered various wounds from Kalon’s attacks. The rest of the crew, as Veros had recently discovered, was okay as far as wounds, Melinda only receiving a few scratches and Badris sustaining only a bruise on his back. The night had left everyone aboard shaken, and sleep did not exactly come easily. As for Kalon, he had not died, though he was badly hurt. His unconscious body was put in the extra bed at the now locked empty room at the end of the lower deck hall. Even though he was an evil man and served Jack, Veros could not shake the image from his mind of his limp body, his blank eyes staring off into space and most of all, the inescapable feeling that he had almost killed someone. Perhaps he was no fighter, but he was stronger than he had thought. He only hoped he was stronger to face the challenges that were inevitably ahead.

“Hook Coast off the port bow!” Finrar repeated loudly from his position atop the crow’s nest. Veros looked up to see the strange, short man balancing on the edge of the platform. Recently, he seemingly took up residence above their heads, somehow enjoying the view from the crow’s nest. Veros personally thought he was quite the nutjob and was off his rocker, but couldn’t help but notice that his feeling of freedom and altogether happiness was refreshing in such dark times of uncertainty. Tom Meldrinas shifted his position from the front of the ship to come beside Veros, resting on an oaken walking stick he had crafted earlier.
He looked wistfully out to the horizon, where the fabled lighthouse of Hook Coast rose out of the early morning gloom and fog, before he spoke, “Look, Veros... I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you to face Kalon. I was tending to Rufus and Rolf above deck... I am deeply sorry.”
“Don’t trouble yourself over it, friend,” said Veros, “I would have done the same thing.”
“You know Veros... You may not believe that you have the ability to take down Jack’s minions, but you have more than you ever thought. How you handled yourself was beyond impressive. Rufus and I could not stand against Kalon, and I was forced back. I worried that you may not have made it back after facing the man. Jack’s minions are no ordinary people. Jack’s fury and dark magic flows through their veins. They are strengthened by his lasting power and it is by this that he controls them.”
Veros suddenly thought of their present situation, asking a question that had been in his mind ever since Melinda had revealed it to him, “If they... Jack’s minions... are everywhere, then how can we tell who is one of them?”

“You don’t see their true appearance in our realm, as Jack has concealed them with a magic shape that can be bound to mortals. On the inside they are demonic constructions of Jack, fury and darkness in its purest form contained within a metal shell with magic holding it together. There is but one way to tell if they are truly one of Jack’s minions.” Tom explained, looking straight ahead to where Hook Coast slowly came into view.
“What would that be?”
A sly and rather humorous look crossed Tom’s face as he said, “Their magic form is not immune to the foulest of liquids,” Veros leaned in, his eyes filled with expectancy, “Bluegin.” The rather puzzled look that Veros gave Tom only made him laugh, loud and long. “It’s true. We proved it earlier this morning. It would seem that Rufus’s foul brew is good for something after all. It would appear that one of the ingredients has some magical presence that is strengthened by its even stronger substances. I wouldn’t know exactly, but if it works, I would keep some with you at all times.” Before he could say any more, the two realized something: they were already pulling into the dock of Hook Coast.

Veros had heard tales about the amazing place that was Hook Coast, but nothing could prepare him for what it was truly like in person. The lighthouse which soared high above the bright streets of the frost-covered town was lit by a bright flame that had recently been implemented, or at least that Badris had said, having once visited the place to see his friend, Scorl the barman at the local inn. It was a pleasant place, full of beauty and wonder, and of course, the snow. Most of the likes of Knothole Glade had not seen the glistening white unless they had ever been in Oakvale during the long winter. Veros had only seen it once, a long many years ago in that very same city, truly a rare and amazing thing to behold. The Sea Wolf was docked near the old wooden harbor deck of Hook Coast, by a busy warehouse where various merchants strolled in and out, often speaking about local news and tales.

Finrar slipped over the edge of the crow’s nest, almost gliding down the rope ladder he had made to the deck, where he landed rather gracefully. Veros saw Melinda roll her eyes at the young, rather odd man, knowing that she was not exactly one to put up with his bizarre gusto that he withheld at all times, however unusual it was. Badris, clad in a thick woolen coat he had brought along, joined Veros, Tom and Rolf by the edge of the boat. They just looked out across the bay for a moment, taking in the brief serenity of the moment, before they were brought back to the most important issue of keeping warm. More accustomed to the humid setting of Witchwood, most of the crew were most surprised with the brisk weather change. Tom, however, being the seasoned traveler he was, was obviously just about immune to the cold, as it seemed the Hook Coast citizens were, wearing light fur coats and hardly showing any signs of reaction to the chilly air. Durig trundled up the lower deck stairs, carrying in his thin arms an enormous pile of coats and robes fit for the climate of the Coast.

“Thank you my boy. Hook Coast is colder than it looks, and these will be of much aid. Veros, take this.” Tom said, taking from the pile a thick, grey fur traveling cloak, a pair of wool mittens and a heavy, layered coat, setting them in his arms. He then proceeded to distribute the remainder of the assorted coats to the rest of the now-freezing crew, taking for himself a light jacket much like one that many Hook Coast residents were seen wearing and a pair of brown, knee high boots. With that, the company seemed rather well equipped to handle the weather, a new challenge amidst many. Rufus, what with still recovering, was to stay with the boat under the watchful eye of Rolf, who was also not feeling up to venturing out for the time being. Tom had already notified the local town guards, and Kalon, still unconscious, was swiftly hauled off to a ship convoy heading towards none other than Bargate Prison. Though he was indeed a horrible, malicious man, Veros couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. The prison had spawned many unpleasant rumors and tales, and as a child he had the images of its dark stone corridors and winding, shadowed passageways in his mind as his father relented its many secrets to him. How he had known, Veros could only imagine.

[Darg]

The first stop in their illustrious (or however you look at it) visit to Hook Coast was of course, the pub, the Dragon and Hobbe, a quaint place on the Northern end of town. Badris had made the decision to go there, primarily to check in on Scorl, his old friend. As they walked along the paved, frozen streets together, Badris spoke in his gruff voice, “Aye, this be a noble tavern ‘ere. This very same place be the pub where the legendary pirate Carstog Garisnof held council in durin’ the age of the pirate clan uprisin’. This same tavern ‘ere in Hook Coast was home to the assassin lord Jak DeRold fer two years when the Wars of the Bloody Skull were takin’ place.”
Durig shifted his shoulders uneasily before he said, “Sounds like a pleasant place...”

Actually, the place was surprisingly elegant, a tall, steeped wooden roof rising above the street with various designs of Balverines and warriors carved into its beautiful dark wood. Two wide, iron and ebony doors stood open, revealing the bustling interior of the tavern. Once inside, Veros realized how large the tavern actually was, with a tall arcing ceiling, about twice the size of the Knothole Glade pub. Veros guessed there were about thirty Hook Coast citizens inside. In one corner, a group of men laughed and drank heartily, leaning back in the comfortable seating that was provided. In the center of the pub, various tables were arranged with anyone from traveling merchants resting to fair maidens sitting about and incoherent drunkards wandering about. The table in the other corner of the pub caught Veros’ eye though. A motley band of nefarious-looking rogues, about six of them, were clustered around a round table, drinking and eyeing the rest of the room suspiciously. Suddenly, one of the rogues, a dark-skinned man with a black bandana wrapped around his head, fixed his gaze upon Veros. Something in the rogue’s eyes told him that he knew who Veros was and did not mean well. He brushed it off as a strange coincidence, but as he moved through the crowded room, he felt the rest of the group’s stare, watchfully monitoring him with cold gazes and dark eyes.

Finally, Veros and the group had prevailed through the thick crowd and emerged in front of the bar, empty save for an obviously inebriated middle-aged man and a thoroughly busy barmaid, carrying about fifteen drinks at a time. Behind the bar, stood the burly barman and Badris’ friend, Scorl. He was surprisingly finely tanned, and had deep hazel eyes (or eye, seeing as one eye was missing, a weathered patch concealing it) as well as a light brown short mustache. Scorl wore a simple barman’s garb, much the same as Badris usually wore, except he wore a bulky leather coat that had seen many days over his barman attire. Badris immediately leaned over the bar and shook his friend’s hand as he said, “Scorl me old chum, how are ye’?”
Scorl’s tanned face lit up with a wide grin as he responded, “’Ello there Badris! I heard from one of them travelers named Nibren that you’d be headin’ out this way. I ‘aven’t seen yer face fer ages it seems. Mind introducin’ yer company here?” Veros noticed for a moment that bad grammar seemed to be a trait in many barmen, but didn’t say anything.

“Well, I’m sure you know the whole reason of this here venture, Scorl. This here’s Veros Bantain, the man o’ the hour for his efforts on board the ship out there. That over there’d be Durig, my apprentice back in the Glade. Then there’s Melinda Germain, the scholar o’ this whole lot I’d say. And not to forget Tom Meldrinas, our guide and leader I suppose you’d call ‘im. Then last but certainly not least, there’d be Finrar Vodruke, the mage o’ the group, or so I’ve heard. These make up our group ‘ere along with two others aboard our fine ship out there, the Sea Wolf.” Badris explained, gesturing towards the appropriate people as he spoke, Scorl occasionally nodding his head.
“I’ve heard about this lot, especially the beautiful Miss Germain there,” Scorl’s eyes seemed to have a brief glint of wistfulness in them. Melinda had a brief look of surprise and almost blushed… Did Scorl have something for Melinda? Veros felt a fresh wave of disturbing thoughts, but quickly forgot them to prevent cringing in distaste, “Well, I’m sure you all are rather tired from yer recent journey. That there Sea Wolf must be a grand vessel if it made it here within a day m’ friend. Not many ships kin make it even as far as the outer buoys without reaching at least three days on the open water. From what I can make outta that window there, I see it sittin’ out on the harbor. Looks like a fine sea craft if I’ve ever seen ‘un.”
“Why thank ya, m’ friend. I was told by Rolf, one of the Oakvale crew members, that this ship ‘ere was built by some of Albion’s finest carpenters and first sailed on the first day of summer for good luck, and ever since that day, it’s been a darn legendary ship. I don’t intend t’ argue with ‘em,” Badris responded.

All while this was going on, Veros could not escape the gaze of the corner table where the roguish-looking band sat. He got the sudden urge to ask Scorl something. He leaned on the bar, his back partially facing the barman as he pointed as inconspicuously as he could at the corner table and said, “What could you say about that lot, Scorl? They keep staring at me or something.”
“You see that there bunch here and only at night if you’re up in the darkest o’ hours after midnight an’ before dawn. That’d be them thugs of,” he lowered his tone even further, “Wyverd Wickstad, the local gang leader if I’m not mistaken. Nasty lot,” Scorl lowered his voice so it only seemed like a faint growl.
“Wyverd Wickstad? Who’s…”
Almost before he finished his sentence, Scorl answered quickly, as if it was not something to speak about in broad daylight, “Don’t say that name s’ loudly, Veros. Wickstad may not be a very impressive name mind ya, but it commands a lot o’ fear around Hook Coast. ‘Is family’s been in this city fer over a decade, a very secretive, very quiet sort. Never seen one out in the day back then, before even Wyverd was born. They say that Wyverd’s family was a group o’ Skormm acolytes, thieves and ruthless bandits. I m’ self think it’s all true, but some in town refuse to believe it at all. They haven’t been ‘ere as long as I have. Wyverd is the oldest son of the new generation o’ Wickstads, dark and mysterious. He’s got Will in his blood, and commands it with ease. He’s pure evil and I know it. The man’s organized ‘is own band of thieves and thugs in Hook Coast, an’ none dare to challenge ‘im, much less his thugs. He’s the enemy of Hook Coast itself. If they want somethin’ from you mate, you’d best watch yer back while there isn’t a dagger in it.” With these rather disheartening words, Veros turned back around, only to realize that the group was eyeing him even more intently, only one thing was different- their blades were drawn.

“Veros, they want something from you,” Durig said, his eyes wide.
“I know,” he said, “my life.” Veros looked over and noticed that Tom’s grip was tightening on his ebony bow. If Tom had reason to be worried, so did the rest of them.
“What do ya say we do, Scorl? This ain’t good here,” Badris said, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice. Wickstad’s cronies were already up out of their seats and weaving their way through the crowd of tavern goers. The question now was fight or flight.

“Slip yer way out the back door while ya can!” Scorl hissed under his breath, motioning with one beefy hand behind the bar to the left. They quickly chose flight. Veros wasted no time, and neither did his group, hurriedly sneaking out the back way. Wickstad’s minions were hot on their heels, weapons drawn and eyes set on their goal. Their eyes were vicious and bloodthirsty. This was definitely not good.

[Eclipse]

once again you impress me with an awesome story +rep for both posts

[Darg]

Thanks. I was wondering if someone was going to post sooner or later. Just don't give up on me and there will be a new one out soon... maybe even today if I'm lucky.

[droded]

Sorry Darg for not posting recently. I've been sidetracked by the other forum...

[Darg]

Originally Posted by droded

Sorry Darg for not posting recently. I've been sidetracked by the other forum...

Curse you Asscreed! If I can just get on later today, I may be able to post the next chapter...

[Darg]

Here we are at installment 10 of the saga. Prepare for the part where things get a little interesting...

Chapter 10~ The Hope of Hook Coast

Veros’s heart was beating hard against his chest as he bolted out the tavern back door. What were they going to do now? A fight was imminent, no matter what. They would stand their ground and see what they could make of the situation. The band of six henchmen burst through the door of the tavern, blades ready, all except for two thin men with black crossbows. They looked almost amused, as if they could easily beat the simple band of Knothole Glade townspeople. They were wrong. The fight broke out, Badris throwing the first punch with such force that it knocked a crossbowmen off his feet. Veros supposed it was due to the fact that he regularly dealt with disorderly drunk people on a regular basis, but was too busy at the moment to contemplate this. He whipped out his katana, swirling it with surprising grace and chopping one of the front minions with a crushing blow that pierced through his heavy leather armor. The blow drew blood, but the enemy hardly noticed this mere obstacle, pulling his ragged cloak over the wound and leading the band forward.

The man that Veros had smote shouted as he held his blade out, “Serve Wyverd, the lord of Hook Coast, or die by the blade of his dark soldiers!” With this rather chilling message Veros readied himself for anything. In a blue flash that lit up the back wall of the tavern, all six of them materialized an energy shield that wrapped close to their body and prevented most attacks. This was not looking good at the moment. Veros looked to Tom, a worried look on his face. He surely had something up his sleeve. And indeed he did. With a wry grin on his face, he flicked his wrist upward, the six focusing on a small crimson bundle before it fell to the snow-covered ground.
“Fall back!” he shouted, diving away and taking Veros by the collar in his amazingly strong grasp. The bundle seemed to shimmer for a brief moment before it burst with a shining aura of magic power. The energy shields protecting the minions wavered a bit and became a weaker shade of blue. The six of them seemed quite phased and weary. Veros then realized what the bundle had been: a secret device used in times of war called a Willbreaker. It was meant to release a strong quantity of raw magic energy into many targets and overload them, eventually draining and deteriorating their Will completely. This would give them the jump on Wickstad’s thugs significantly.

Veros decided to lead the charge against the enemy, roaring, “Get them!” and flying into the midst of the beginning battle, his blade soaring through the air already. Tom held his ground beside him, firing accurate shots into the small crowd of minions and occasionally shifting his position. Veros heard the almost satisfying crack of the nearest henchman’s neck as he smashed the blunt edge of his katana against his head. He turned around to be pelted with small wisps of flame bursting from another thug’s fingertips. The Willbreaker had worked, and their magical energy had been even more damaged than Veros had every imagined. He took the worst of the weak magical blow and thrust his fist out into the minion’s gut, doubling him over. He seemed to be improving as a fighter… Tom suddenly came into focus, slashing all around him in bold circular motions with an obsidian cleaver, tearing through armor and pushing back the three that surrounded him momentarily. Then, almost out of nowhere, Badris and Melinda jumped into the fray, Badris knocking henchmen on their sides with blows from his solid, hardened fists. Melinda was no fighter, but she could use various spells to her and everyone’s advantage. She raised her hand and cast what appeared to be a healing spell… and it was.

Veros suddenly felt fresh reinvigorating energy flowing through his veins from the spell and felt suddenly compelled to continue on. But even with this new feeling of hope, he realized the group was losing their strength fast. Badris seemed fatigued from hurling away jaw-breaking punches and had a gash across his forehead with dark blood partially staining it. Melinda had even sustained a few blows, her robe torn in several places and a bruise on the right side of her face. Tom still seemed defiant and almost invincible in the face of his enemies, though through it all, Veros could see he was slowly becoming more and more exhausted. That wasn’t a good sign. Out of nowhere in the midst of this setback, a fluorescent shard of electric blue exploded through the air and sent four of the thugs off their feet and sprawling onto the charred snow. What had just happened? Veros thought, looking up the incline behind the tavern to where Finrar Vodruke was standing atop a tall snow bank, his fingertips still luminous with the magic residue. So that was where he had gotten to. So the rumors were all true: Finrar the town eccentric once thought to have been crazy by most of the population in Knothole Glade, was in fact quite the sorcerer.

Yet he was not done! He flew straight into a flurry of attacks, launching fireball after fireball into the remaining two minions with lightning fast speed and accuracy. They were laying on their backs in the snow, unconscious in an instant. Badris’s jaw seemed to drop and Melinda’s expression seemed anything but unsurprised. Durig, who was quietly standing by, seemed appalled beyond words, but in his usual manner, Tom seemed passive but proud of Finrar. One of the crossbowmen forced himself to his feet with his injured arm, spitting blood out of his mouth as he hissed, “You may have won the battle, but you cannot possibly win the war. Wyverd will find you.” Almost as if on cue, the rest of them rose off of the frozen ground and sprinted away. None of the company followed them. Then, for what seemed like an eternity, especially for Finrar, they all stared at him amazedly.
He just looked a bit embarrassed and shrugged, saying, “Hey, it’s in my blood.”

After that dangerous encounter, the six of them entered back into the pub to find that the occupants were turning their attention to them almost instantaneously. Veros suddenly realized that they looked like they were nearly mauled by Balverines, most of them wounded with tears and scratches across their body in various places. Scorl turned to them, an astonished expression on his pudgy face, “What in Skorm’s bloody name ‘appened to you all out there? We all heard the sounds comin’ in here and were all worried. We were all about to call them guards outside o’ here, but after all, even they’re ‘fraid of Wickstad’s henchmen.” Veros almost felt sickened at the city. It was seemingly run by a psychopath Skorm-worshiper and no one in the city would do anything to stop him- not even the guards. It seemed to be the story of Veros’s life.

“Why doesn’t anyone do ANYTHING?” Durig shouted, surprising the rest of them thoroughly, “What is wrong with Albion when no one will even stand up for anything in their own hometown? When no one will fight against evil anymore?” The pub’s occupants seemed to be focusing all of their attention on Durig. Even the incoherent drunkards milling about stopped what they were doing to lean on anything around them and listen, “I remember old tales of Hook Coast from my childhood and how it was a great city of heroes and legends. Where has all the heroism and the valor gone to? Where are Albion’s saviors? If Hook Coast cannot stand up to Wyverd Wickstad, then we will!”

“Hold it just a moment there sir!” came the deep accented voice of a town guard stepping into the tavern. Varying levels of distasteful looks met the guard, a sure sign that this was not the moment to interrupt. The guard however, had something to say still, “Who might you and your company be?”
Durig fixed him with a look that Veros could not define before saying with an unwavering voice, “I am Durig Champlain of Knothole Glade and these are my friends. Who are you and what business do you have with me?”
The guard seemed taken aback, as if he had previously underestimated Durig before he said, “I am the Company Captain of all Hook Coast watchmen, Lewis Dehoode, and by what I have seen and heard, it would look as though this is finally the time.”
“The time for what?” Melinda chimed in, an obvious tone of insincerity in her voice.
“The time to strike back. If your lot can fight back some of Wickstad’s worst minions, then you can help the guard and I take on him I expect. The people just here in the pub have noticed your actions and I know that it is finally time. We’ve been waiting for this opportunity to come ‘round for far too long and with your help I know we can triumph. This may sound strange and all, but what this place needs is hope… and courage. And I think you have it. What d’ya say?” There was a long silence. Not only were they getting their selves involved with a race against time and Jack of Blades himself, but they were going to face the threat of a deadly master mage and his henchmen on the way. Avoiding peril was one thing, but plunging head-first into it was a totally different concept. For either hope and courage or failure and death, this was going to be interesting.

[Eclipse]

love the new edition hope to here more +rep.......again

[Darg]

Why thank you. I'm glad someone's an avid reader. Chapter 11 is well underway with almost 7 pages I think. May my overachieving mind have mercy on your soul for when you read it...

[Eclipse]

sounds like fun cant wait to read it and yes ur right i love reading ur stories

[Vegeta]

Wow I love them +rep please do keep them coming.

[Darg]

Wow. I'm glad you like it. Hopefully this weekend I'll be able to post the next chapter. There will be plenty more before the end.

[Darg]

Happy St. Patricks Day everybody! Here is installment 11 of my saga. Alot of stuff happens in this one, so I hope it's not too boring. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 11~ A New Darkness

It was an hour after noon and the sun was resting a bit above the horizon, casting long shadows across Hook Coast. In the shadow of the town garrison, Veros and his company were introduced to the town watch by Lewis Dehoode. There looked to be about twenty of them, all clad in dark Hook Coast uniforms with brimmed hats that shaded their faces. Lewis introduced them to the other company leaders, “You see this lot ‘ere? This first one here is Johnny Welron,” he gestured towards a stout young man with a few scars on the left of his face, “he is the company head of sharpshooters, third in command to me. This,” he pointed to a gaunt dark-skinned man with dark eyes, “is Aroj’ Dughren, a foreigner in the service and fourth in command company head of the pikes. Last but certainly not least is the loyal Rich Silmanor of the East,” he spoke in regards to a brawny-looking middle-aged man with long blonde hair and a thick mustache, “He is second in command to me and is the company head of all swordsmen. You won’t find a better fighter in all of Albion as far as I’m concerned. Now, right… Here’s the plan.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Dehoode pointed out his plan, taking into account every detail of where and when to strike. Veros had gathered that Wyverd Wickstad’s mansion rested atop the tallest hill in town, overlooking the upper housing district. The mansion was heavily armed with experienced guards, hired from various traveling mercenary caravans. They were deadly as the night was dark, Dehoode had put it. The plan was simple, though it would be difficult and without much time to react in the case of a counterattack. They would traverse the back streets of the housing district and flank the mansion during the nightly break the guards were known to have. They could infiltrate the west wall by creating a fissure in the rock surface. It would seem that Aroj’ Dughren the foreigner, knew quite a bit about excavation, having been once a miner of the ancient pits of Suristloc’ of his homeland. Veros wondered if this was true, but he would soon find out. The second phase of Dehoode’s master plan was to assault the western inner halls, entering through one of the two-story tall thin steel-framed windows. It was said by Dehoode that the western halls were isolated from access to the other exterior walls due to its sheer rock walls which protected it from any type of siege weaponry. The windows had no such protection, Wickstad being the one to choose aesthetics over logic, something that Veros could understand in the man, seeing at what he had already done.

The third and final stage of the plan would be to secure a foothold in the north barracks, clearing it out with Rich Silmanor’s band of expert swordsmen before Johnny and his archers could sweep out any reinforcements from the garrison balcony overlooking the hall where they could be concealed. The pikemen could hold the garrison while the swordsmen, Veros, and his company, proceeded to capture Wickstad and his keep. It sounded crazy and dangerous if anything at all to Veros, but he willingly followed along. Sooner or later he would have to face evil far greater than he could ever imagine, so he had better start with this. Already off on the perilous expedition, the whole troop of fighters, Veros, Tom, Badris, Melinda, Durig, and Finrar, were on their way through the housing district. As before, Rolf Halmund and Rufus Almonder stayed behind to watch the ship, the two of them still resting up from their encounter with Kalon.

Lewis Dehoode’s loud accented voice broke the silence that had fallen upon the band, “That would be it over that yonder hill. It’s been a dark omen and reminder of his evil to this town for far too long and as soon as we take it, we’re going to burn the damned thing to the ground.” Veros turned his head to see the dark shape of the mansion looming ominously above the city, lights emanating from its vast dark form, pulsing and giving it the image of a breathing creature, a bloodthirsty beast. Veros would not much mind it being torn down. Beside him, he could hear Badris murmuring under his breath. He did not like this situation any more than Veros did, but soon it would be over and they could continue on. Or so he hoped.

“This way, men,” Lewis said as he led the company down a series of narrow alleyways blanketed with snow into an open courtyard as the shadow of the falling dusk approached. The courtyard was not visible from anywhere in town, a secret opening with a frost-coated tree in its center, masking their approach on the fortress above them. An iron-rimmed gate at one end of the courtyard held a cobblestone path, weaving its way through a forgotten grove of ancient Arkroot trees, tall, strong, with deep roots and spindly branches, weaving what seemed like a ceiling of frosty green above their heads. Somehow, Veros believed this path was made exactly for this purpose, some unknown time by some unknown force, but it was the perfect cover for the assault. Almost like a shield defending them from the eyes of the last remaining guards on the wall before their rest, the grove was shadowed and concealed their every movement. They followed the path for a short amount of time, reaching a denser, darker thicket that edged around the walls of the Wickstad mansion.

With Dehoode moving his men into position, they stayed close to the cold gray stone wall, Aroj’ coming to the front to face the wall. In an instant, he already had pulled out a burlap sack filled with any instrument imaginable, taking what looked like the bent edge of a shovel and wedging it between the bottom stone and its base. He pulled out a small, broad hammer with a long, thin stud on its end, tapping it along the outline of the boulder with quick intervals and skillful accuracy. He delicately placed the hammer in the sack, drawing out a complicated mechanism with various levers and one long, razor edge that shone in the light of the ascending moon. Pressing his fist sideways against the frigid stone wall, he forced his knuckle down on a lever, the blade extending to a limit and locking securely into place. He forced its edge deep within the dents made by the broad hammer, drawing it along in various patterns for a few minutes before he revealed his final instrument. Out of the sack, he pulled a heavy-looking bronze mallet with iron-tipped studs on its blunt edge, looking almost like a vicious warhammer. Gracefully, he swung it underhand with a long stroke, striking the block just enough to where it burst free of its mortar holdings and collapsed inwards in a small cloud of dust. The company would have cheered, was it not for the present situation, but Veros saw Lewis clap Aroj’ on the back heartily before they passed into the gaping hole. Veros had to admit, he actually did have some skill.

A short walk away from the inner side of the wall yielded two identical iron-rimmed windows with various interlaid jewels and images. “It’s time to get to it boys,” Lewis grumbled before he hefted his dark greatsword in the shrouded night and swung it with all his might, shattering the window with an almost satisfying crash of glass spraying into the richly decorated west halls. The operation was underway. The noise of the window being destroyed was not ignored; a patrol with crimson armor on sprinting up, only to realize that he was vastly outnumbered. They were on the attack, coming in through the gap in the window like a swarm of locusts hungry for victory, sweeping through the hall and taking on any opposition. Veros felt a sudden surge of energy, of confidence and valor that he could even feel with the strength of the guards and the intensity of the moment. More of Wickstad’s guards, well-trained minions with darkened blood-red armor on, poured in through a door atop a wide staircase, circling down it to come face to face with the ready fighters. Veros plunged right into the midst of the battle, his katana swirling in a long arc to find its mark on an overconfident minion’s arm. The soldier squealed with pain and fell back into the throng of his oncoming allies, being run down by the heavy scarlet boots of Wickstad’s greatest fighting force they had faced yet.

The rogues at the tavern were as nothing compared to these guards, wielding master-forged ebony weapons with deadly accuracy. A guard fell beside Veros, struck by the blow of an enemy pikemen. Veros took his opportunity and swung wildly at his enemy, slashing him across his back and through his thick, layered armor. He collapsed in a heap, unconscious at the foot of the stairs. Johnny Welron, the sharpshooter commander was faring very well, staying out of the battle’s midst and firing shots with perfect accuracy into the enemy horde with an oaken crossbow. Four of his men flanked him, each firing madly with their yew bows, their shots arcing overhead with a faint swhish sound to find their marks. Veros spun about after felling another minion, only to feel the cold rush of pain snap through his body, the nearest enemy laying his armored fist hard across his face with such force that dark spots shone in his vision and he tumbled head over heels down the staircase. Before he knew it, two more of the deep red soldiers were upon him, battering him with their weapons. Tom, anticipation and anxiety in his eyes, broke free of the ensuing battle, trundling down the stair at such a high pace that his hair swept back around him, stopping short and flailing all his weight in one blow. His blade cut through the air, slicing one of the minions with a crushing blow that gashed his chest. The second soldier faced a head-on rush of sheer power that Veros could have never expected from Tom. The limp body of Wickstad’s other minion flew through the air with such force that it crumpled against the opposite wall with a sickening dull thud.

Tom’s outstretched hand helped Veros to his feet as he spoke, “Veros. Are you okay, my friend?”
“I’m fine,” he spoke, his head throbbing with every word that he spoke. Suddenly, Tom’s gaze dipped a little and his expression turned to one of worry.
“Veros,” he said, a fearful tone in his usually straight voice, “You’re wounded.” Veros looked down to see that indeed, the dark crimson hue of blood could be seen trickling from a deep slash in his side. “Here.” Tom tore off a part of his long, flowing green cloak, tying it around his middle tightly to curtail the blood’s flow out of the wound. Veros seemed more rejuvenated from what had just happened with his wound covered, but he was even more grateful that Tom was there. It would seem that he needed someone to account for his recklessness. Getting up into a standing position, Veros noticed with amazement that the first phase of the battle had been successful. Scores upon scores of red-clad pawns lay dead, strewn about the room in puddles of equally hued blood. It was an unpleasant scene, but they had done it: they could make it through. Only two guards were down for the count, both of them staying behind in the hall, where no reinforcements could reach them unless they confronted the full fighting force. With a heavy guard’s leather boot, Lewis burst open the door into the garrison, ready to take on anything that came his way. Of course, more minions waited inside, though their force numbered about only a third of the original party, but still dangerous and murderous as ever. One other thing caught Veros’s attention: a strikingly blue ‘A’ written in some strange script on their chest plates.

Continued on next page...