Black Hart

To Kill A King

Chapter 1 - The Battle of Galden Field

For days now Captain Bermen Zladek had been on this gloomy field, although it seemed like years. The evil cloud of darkness had picked away at his spirit almost as relentlessly as the Dark Hordes had hacked away at his men - one by one, day after day, hour after hour.
Out of the platoon of Darullan Highland Scouts, that the ranger had led into the battle, only he and Jebru, his sergeant and friend, remained. Jebru was young, a natural tracker, almost as good as Bermen himself. He had fought alongside him, and the others now dead, in several battles, large and small on their way here from the Grand Duchy of Geoff.
“He has much to learn,” Bermen thought. ”Only his cunning and courage have kept him alive so far in this nightmare.”
Bermen glanced towards the unit of Dwer engineers from Sterich they had joined, fighting out on the armies’ west flank. They stood now in a series of trenches which the Dwerfolk, and their shorter Noniz cousins, had built in this place, that was once a golden meadow of rape seed. The trenches and their fierce occupants, who made up in bravery what they lacked in stature, had thankfully repulsed the enemy until now, albeit at desperate cost.
Bermen was much like the Dwerfolk - steadfast and stalwart, honest and strong as the stone they loved to craft. Their leader, Euch‘tir, from the Lortmil Mountains who had become a Major in the Sterish army, was a kindred spirit to Bermen, a last sign of hope in this desolation.
Euch’tir’s brother was by all accounts a general of sorts, Lord Teuch’tir of the mountain-fortress of Gilmorack. The Dwerfolk of Gilmorack were expected at this battle, but their forces had not, as yet, arrived to the fight. Bermen knew, for he had confided in him, that Euch'tir was deeply worried for the safety of his sibling, although he did not convey his worry to his men.
"Fight hard, boys," his voice boomed out throughout the trenches in moments of eerie silence. "Tomorrow we shall all stand before Clangeddin Silverbeard and shout, ‘Take me in your army, and let me do real battle for you, father! And we shall go with him to battle the giants of Grolantor. We shall fight, and sing, against more worthy foes than these pathetic beasts!"
He spat at the mention of the giants, before starting to sing in his deep, beautiful voice, one of the many Dwer songs that Bermen had come to love in his brief time with them. These warriors even sang as they fought, as they died, as they drew their last breath.
Suddenly, a cry went out from the left, and the sounds of battle were heard. A hundred Dwer crossbows sang out, then the unsheathing of swords and the clanging of metal, as the Dwerfolks' songs drowned out all but the most horrific of their enemies' screams. Through the thick, dark cloud, Bermen could not see the foe as yet, although he knew the fight was less than a half mile from him. Silently, he stood at the ready in the trench, bowstring taught, waiting for one glimpse at the foe to let loose an arrow.
An unexpected noise from behind made Bermen spin around, as a massive club came down on his sergeant's head, sending him hurtling to the ground. Bermen’s arrow was loosed before his friend’s body landed, speeding to the hill giant that crushed his friend so easily. In the same fluid movement he dropped the magical bow, knowing he must draw his sword or die also!
Wounded by the arrow, it raised the club again, and Bermen drew his massive sword, ‘Gottflinder’, just in time to parry the awesome blow. Hacking at the beast, who towered above him outside the trench, Bermen struck its left foot, which was at his eye level. To his surprise, and the giant’s utter horror, the blade bit clean through one leg, and half into the next. Its foot severed, the pathetic creature fell towards him, and he barely managed to jump out its way to avoid being crushed.
For a moment it lay there, feebly trying to get up. Its back turned, Bermen thrust his magical blade deep into it, and with a mournful howl it bled its life into the muddy waters of the trench, mixing with that of Jebru.
Jebru!

On the far side of the battlefield, the battle had fared well for Eloi Brand.
“Perhaps too well,” he thought as he entered the darkened woods, where he had left his donkey, Bray, tied to a pine tree.
From the dead and dying, some mercifully despatched by his own blade, the half-orc had gratefully rescued enough treasures to fill every pack, pouch and sack he could possibly carry. Jewels, gems, coins and a few other items he suspected to be magical, so much he could barely manage to carry them all.
It was almost nightfall on the third day he had been involved in this battle. Or it would have been if Eloi’s innate infravision, from his Euroz father, could see the sun through the dark cloud that swamped the field of battle.
“The sooner I am away from this place, the better,” Eloi thought.
He was brave at times, but had a keen sense of self-preservation, to say the least.
Suddenly, as Eloi approached the clearing in the woods where the faithful Bray patiently waited, the sky seemed to get brighter, the cloud parting and the feeble evening sun broke through. A great din arose from the nearby battlefield, and it was obvious that something important had happened.
Eloi approached the donkey and loaded up his spoils - it was definitely time to leave.

Bermen cradled his friend's battered head in his arms, as his life's blood poured over him. Jebru tried to speak, the words bubbling out through the bloody froth that filled his mouth. The bubbling stopped. The eyes were lifeless. Bermen sat for what seemed an age, staring at this boy, tears running silently down his face.
"Bermen," the voice floated in from the silence in his mind. "Bermen!"
The Captain looked up. It was Euch'tir.
"We must draw back, they are too much and we cannot hold them any longer. Go to my men on the left flank and tell them to withdraw," the Dwarf ordered.
Seeing that the stunned Bermen was not moving, he shouted, “Now!”
His shout stirred Bermen, who leapt out of the trench, grabbing his bow as he went. Off he ran, to the left where the outermost trench was. To the right, as he ran he saw a High Jebline fighting with a Noniz, the Noniz heavily wounded but fighting for his life. Without stopping, Bermen drew and notched an arrow, pausing for a split-second, during which he drew, aimed and let it loose, continuing on without waiting to see if it found the target. Before he had released it, Bermen already knew it would find its mark!
The hobgoblin stood over the wounded Noniz, raising its battle-axe to deliver a death blow it would never make. As the arrow struck its chest, piercing its armoured plate, the hobgoblin was thrown back writhing in the blood-red mud for a moment. The Noniz picked himself up, waving an unseen salute to his saviour, and slowly started back to camp.
To the rear, Bermen heard a Dwerish horn sounding the withdrawal as he reached the final trench. Too late - all the troops within it, and several around, were dead. A few hill giants lay dead in the mud nearby. Whispering a brief prayer, Bermen paused only a moment before heading south, back to camp for what would inevitably be the final stand of the men of the Sheldomar, and their demi-human allies.
As he ran, the mud dragging at his feet, Bermen noticed that the sky seemed to be getting lighter. At first he put this down to tiredness, but then he realised that the Dark Cloud that had obscured the sun for three days now was actually lifting! The mages must have ended the Dark Magyks that held it together, unless the Heroes sent to kill the Drow Queen Lolth had succeeded in their task.
Now able to see where he was going, Bermen quickly caught up with his Dwer companions. They stood regrouped on a small hill, but half a mile from the trenches, where he could see bands of giants, ogres, euroz and other humanoids trawling the bodies for food and treasures.

As Eloi prepared to lead Bray out of the clearing, walking the donkey as it was too heavily laden to hold his not insubstantial weight as well, there was a crashing and howling from behind and he deftly span around to see what caused the commotion.
Through the undergrowth, an oversized ogre-mage plunged, wild anger in his eyes, cuts, and gaping wounds oozing blood from its massive frame. Arrows and even a dagger lay embedded in its flesh, and it crashed into the clearing but ten feet away, oblivious to the rogue’s presence.
Lifting the giant spear he held in both hands, the ogre-mage turned and howled in rage at the two human knights who followed him. As the ogre plunged its spear clean through the first knight's chest, piercing his chain armour as though it were made of butter, the second thrusted his two-handed blade deep into the ogre's belly. He twisted the embedded blade to free it, but as his comrade fell to the ground, the ogre lifted the spear high and brought its butt crashing down on his helmeted head. The knight staggered back, dropping his sword, which fell to the ground, and collapsed in a lifeless heap.
The ogre took a slow step back, turned and looked at Eloi, reaching out his hand as if in need of help, and also crashed to the ground.
In astonishment, Eloi was about to leave when a glint from the ogre's neck caught his avaricious eye. He gasped as he gazed upon the massive ruby on a golden chain that hung from its neck.
Tying Bray to the nearest tree, he cautiously approached the ogre's body, trying to move as quietly as possible. He pulled out his small mirror and held it over the ogre mage's mouth and nose to check for breath. As he turned it around to check, the monster’s eyes flickered open, and before the scoundrel knew what was happening, a massive hand reached out, grasping around his thick neck, whilst its other was pushing off the ground to help the beast stand up.
Eloi’s mirror fell to the floor with a crash as he pulled at the ogre’s huge digits with both hands, trying desperately to prise them from his neck as he felt the life drain from his body.
“Oh fuck, this is really it!” he thought, and the forest scene started to grow dim as Eloi’s neck was quickly crushed.
Suddenly he was flying through the air, heaving to get some breath through a crushed windpipe. As he crashed painfully to the ground, Eloi saw the lance-tip protruding from the ogre's chest. Giving in, Eloi Brand lapsed into unconsciousness as an armoured figure approached him and all went dark...

Euch'tir moved towards Bermen as he approached.
"Dead, then?” he asked.
Bermen nodded.
“I had feared as much,” the Dwer continued, “But the news is joyous! The Heroes were successful. Look over there!"
He pointed to the east, where among the banners of the Sheldomar forces, at their command tent, the banner of Lord Aranon of Oakhart, leader of the Heroes and Bermen’s good friend, was flying in the fresh breeze.
His heart lifted.
"There is still much battle to be done, good ranger,” Euch’tir exclaimed. ”Take a company of my Dwer, and help me to drive out these Hordes from our trenches!"
Bermen turned to the warriors he was given, and, out of key, but in a loud, strong voice, sang out the first few lines of one of the few Dwer songs he knew.
Smiles came to their faces, and before he ran out of words, they joined in. The whole company was singing and marching to the foe, to give them battle and death once more.

“I don’t need this,” Akhan thought as he surveyed the battle to the north of the Keoish capital. ”I’ve done my bit for the good of the Flanaess!”
All around him people and monsters were fighting, dying for their cause. Soldiers battled with Euroz, Jebli against peasants armed only with pitchforks and rakes, all spilling their lives for the sake of the land they call home.
As his head cleared, Akhan remembered the past events only too well. With the death of Lolth, her magic dissolved, now he was thrown headlong back into the battle that had been raging while he and his companions had fought through Lolth's DemonWeb. Nearby he could see his friend and blood-brother, Sir Thanoin Varkrunden cutting a swathe through a band of goblins that had pinned down a feeble group of local militia.
“But that is his way!” he thought. ”Not mine!”
With a furtive glance, Akhan slipped quietly into a copse of wounds, feeling a slight pang of guilt as he did so.
“I have to stop listening to that damned paladin,” he thought out loud. ”I'm developing a fucking conscience! Anyway, the battle is over, and I’ve played my part.”
Finding a bush far from view of the battle, Akhan sat in the cover there, listening to the screams and sounds of battle. He removed his hat with the large purple feather, to help him hide there, and, looking around, realised that the darkness which had consumed this place when he arrived was passing. Sunlight was finally breaking through, although it was late and would soon be dark again as the day drew to a close.

Fighting his way towards the Seven-Heroes Standard, Aranon found himself constantly pushed back again, as the Knights of the Watch he fought alongside tried to breach their line. This magical flag was the banner around which Iuz and his hordes rallied, giving great confidence to those vile creatures who served Him, who fully believed in its legendary magical powers.
Then Aranon saw him - Lord Mizchyn Kyar, the Cambion son of the Warlord, Aranon’s one-time mortal enemy. He also picked out the remaining two Knights of the Order of the Dragon, in the Iuz ranks, their dragon armour fending off the blows rained on them by the human soldiers fighting for their very existence.
And then, suddenly, it happened!
A figure in White Dragon armour approached the defenders of the Standard from behind the line - it could only be Emarill Kyar, the Warlord's human daughter. Unchallenged she walked calmly up to the evil flag, and, with one hefty strike from her enchanted falchion, cleft the Standard in two!
With a mighty roar the magyks within the vile Flag released, sending out fire and casting down all around it!
When Aranon could see again and the smoke cleared, the path between him and the inner ranks was clear. A hundred yards ahead, the white-clad figure pulled herself to her feet, her white armour now stained deep red with blood from those lying dead around her.
Seizing the opportunity, Aranon and the Knights attacked the remaining Hordelings, but to his surprise they turned and ran, terror in their eyes at the loss of their sacred icon! Aranon cut them down as they fled, and made his way surely towards Emarill. Then it became apparent to him where she was headed - and why!
As he watched, she pulled the helmet from her head, dropping it feebly to the ground. Her face was saturated with deep, sharp pain, and Aranon could clearly see that she was bleeding from a cut on her head. She stumbled over to her half-brother, Mizchyn, who writhed in agony on the body-strewn ground, a shard of the shattered standard embedded in his stomach. He looked up.
"Help me, my sister!" he bellowed, holding out his left clawed hand.
He had no idea what had happened at all.
The right hand clutched at his deep, dark wound from where black demon's blood spewed forth.
She reached out to him with her left arm, clutching his forearm in a strong grip and helped him stumble to his feet, bent-bodied and head hung so that his seven-foot frame reached but five feet from the ground. Then, from her right arm Aranon saw a drawn short blade - without a sound she raised it above her head, holding her target steady, and brought it down onto his exposed neck!
With a gurgle, his head snapped back, and as his life flooded out from his neck she struck again, almost severing it completely as his body dropped to the battlefield. Aranon stood shocked and speechless only ten yards away. She turned and stared straight at him with her deep blue eyes, and he could see the fire of hatred still burning there!
Aranon recalled his time in the dread lands of Iuz, mostly spent as a prisoner of Emarill when he was caught spying on her in an attempt to learn how to destroy her father. It was then he discovered that Mizchyn's mother, a demoness, persuaded their father to sacrifice Emarill's mother and take her as a lover. Aranon could not help but feel responsible for what was occurring now, as he had told her this truth, and she had allowed him to escape when the chance arose. And now she had exacted her vengeance.
Suddenly Aranon was spinning, tumbling to the ground, a dull pain in his back. He rolled back up to his feet, turning to see one of the DragonKnights standing before him. His blue dragon armour was covered in sticky red blood, and his right arm hung crushed and limp at his side. The left side of his helmet has been rent off by the blast, and his scorched face beneath was burnt into a demonic grin. In his left he held the mace with which he had just struck the priest.
Lifting his quarterstaff, Aranon moved slowly to deflect it.
“This is almost unfair,” he thought as he smoothly changed its direction, pulling the staff swiftly round.
With a step back, he delivered the crunching roundhouse blow to the Knight’s right knee.
The knee crushed, he dropped like a stone, his feeble swipe with the mace glancing off the ground as he fell. The remains of his helmet rolled off his grim head, and, continuing his movement, Aranon brought the other end of the staff down on his vacant face.
The danger gone, he turned back to face Emarill, but she was gone, her short sword stuck through the black heart of her half-brother.

From afar, Akhan heard a thunderous bang, and then the battle seemed to be drawing distressingly near.
Suddenly he became aware that there was someone, or something, in the woods with him! Looking left he saw a pair of expensive leather boots moving slowly towards the centre of a small clearing in the copse. The feet stopped, turning slightly, and a voice spoke in a strange language. Another voice, clearer and better pronounced, replied, and it was then he realised the language was that of the Drow, the Dark Elves of the Underdark!
The first voice, well spoken, reverted to the Common tongue.
"You have twice failed,” the voice whispered. “I set up the King for you to kill, and you let him escape. Now the heroes are returned, your goddess-queen is dead and the battle is lost. What shall we do now?"
The second voice spoke, with a strange lisp and accent that made Akhan sure that this one was the Drow.
"You mutht hide uth.”the Drow said, somewhat louder than his ally. “We will thtay in the thity until it ith thafer to travel. Then you will arrange pathage tho that we may return to the UnderOerth, and there amend our planth."
His voice made Akhan’s skin crawl. After months fighting the Drow and their Goddess in the Demonweb Pits, he would gladly never have set eyes on another dark elf in his life.
His innate curiosity got the better of him, however, and he turned slightly, now fully able to see the Drow. There were in fact two of them. The other figure had its back turned, but Akhan could not make out much more in this twilight.
As he turned, a twig cracked underfoot and the nearer Drow span to face him. Quickly realising he was discovered, heart pounding, Akhan sprang to his feet, ready to run off and let his magical boots put some distance between him and these foes.
Instead of speed, Akhan could only watch in slow motion as the second Drow raised his arm. By the time Akhan realised there was a hand-crossbow at the end of it, she had released a bolt from it. Akhan’s vision halved and a searing pain burnt from his right eye. Fighting the crippling pain in his head, Akhan managed a burst of speed, crashing through the dense undergrowth and out of the woods.
Raising a hand to his face, Akhan felt the Drow crossbow bolt in his right eye socket, but the pain had actually started to fade. In fact a numb sensation was creeping quickly through his whole body.
“Poison!” he realised. ”I don’t deserve to go this way.”
Akhan’s legs buckled and he was now crawling in the dirt. He could hear the battle raging all about him, feel beings brush past him in his own personal darkness, as he slipped easily into the sleep of the dead.

As twilight came, Bermen was still fighting, the Dwerfolk never wavering in their relentless onslaught. To the east there was an almighty bang, and cheers went up in the ranks of the humans and their allies.
Within minutes the cry went out.
"Iuz, it is Iuz. The forces of Iuz are routed, the battle is won!"
The battle had eased somewhat, and it seemed to Bermen that the enemy were coming less and less by the minute. And then, again from the east, the sounds the horns and drums of a Dwarven army.
A smile came to Euch’tir's face.
"My brother!," he yelled for all to hear. "The Dwerfolk of Gilmorack are here!".
He listened to the noise intently for a moment. "And they bring an army from Celene too."
Despite Bermen’s dislike of the Olvenfolk and their state of Celene, this could only be good news, considering the desperate state of their soldiers.
It seemed only to be minutes before the fields in front were filled with the Dark Hordes, running into the night to make good their escape. Euch'tir shouted to Bermen, then turned his force back towards the Royal City of Niole Dra, content that they had done their share, and adamant that they would now get the rest that they so badly needed.
On their way back, a company of fresh Olven cavalry passed by, on their way north to harry the enemy far from here. Bermen joined in as the Dwer yelled out good-hearted banter at them, telling them that the men's work was done, and now it was up to the boys to do their cleaning up. The Dwer had no love for the Olvenfolk, but their hatred did not quite run so deep as Bermen’s.
Bermen joined the main queue of tired and wounded heading into the city.
As he neared the city, Bermen thought he could see Lord Aranon, but a hundred yards ahead of him. He shouted and tried to make his way towards the priest, but the noise from the crowd drowned out his shouts, and the bustle of people prevented him from getting near.
Bermen headed to the seedier Tarskling area of Niole Dra, outwith the city gates. There he was lucky to find respite at an inn called the Wolf and Halberd, and within moments of entering his room had fallen into a deep exhausted sleep.

Standing there in disbelief, when Aranon regained his senses the battle was a few hundred yards away, and he could see his companions, the Ranger Lord, Lancer, and the Schnai barbarian, Sheyr Bn'Griz, now fighting alongside the Knights, cutting a swathe through the fleeing Hordes. He had lost sight of his companions when they were thrown back to this place, as Lolth’s magic dissolved on her death and the stuff that made up her DemonWeb had turned back to the stuff of chaos.
From behind him, he could hear the horns and drums of a Dwarven army, then the reply of the battling army, letting Aranon know that reinforcements have arrived. Aranon stood there, exhausted, wounded and shocked for some time.
The Dwarven army, and an Olven force too, passed by after what seemed like an age but was probably minutes, jolting Aranon into action. He turned and slowly headed back to the city of Niole Dra to rest and recover, joining the lines of wounded and dying entering the city, and making his way to the Royal Palace.
There Aranon made his way to his room unchallenged, removing his armour and collapsing on the bed. Exhausted, as he drifted into a deep sleep, suddenly he jumped awake, heart pounding, instinctively grabbing for his staff.
From the wardrobe by the door there came a soft, muffled sobbing sound.
Cautiously, Aranon crept over and opened the door, and there before him lay Emarill, her armour gone, covered in blood from the wound in her head. She glanced feebly at Aranon sobbing into her robe, which she had pulled to her face.
"I...” she sobbed. “I have...nowhere else to go."

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