Myths of Ixonia: The Slave Knights
The Myths of Ixonia Collection
Byrne followed Gael through the streets of Braekon. Gael was responding to a summons from the Diet of Braekon. A report from the coastal villagers had come into the city in the early hours and had panicked a few of the less fighting inclined members of the Diet. Byrne and Melka marched in silence behind Gael as the trio rounded a corner and walked into a wide open square. In the centre was a cylindrical building of sandstone with a domed roof. Twelve gargoyles, wings out-stretched and spears in hand, mounted the roof. The square thrummed with commoners, villagers, merchants, farm hands, and anyone with time to spare. Chatter was rife with talk of monsters, of brigands, of impending invasion. Byrne cleared a path, pulling his red hood over his head and shoving people out of the way. He reached a wall of black leather clad soldiers.
‘No slaves,’ a man with a cloak said from behind the wall of soldiers.
‘I know, Sergeant, I’m here every day,’ Gael said yanking his cape free of the crowd behind him. He turned to Byrne, ‘Find a spot to eavesdrop,’ he passed through the armed guards and vanished inside the Diet Chambers.
Byrne sighed and signalled to Melka to move around the building, the weight of his greatsword swaying on his back. He pulled his cloak tight around him and worked his way between the crowd and the soldiers, careful to shove the unarmed ones and avoid the black clad soldiers of the Diet; a small band of warriors owned by the Diet as a whole rather than the usual militias and armies of each individual member.
Byrne tapped Melka’s shoulder and pointed out a building behind the Chambers close enough to hear the echo. Melka nodded and forced her way through the crowd. People scowled and cursed but none shoved back, the red cloaks and greatswords enough to convince them otherwise. The pair slinked down an alleyway between the two buildings and turned a corner to be out of sight of the crowds. There was a door. Byrne turned the handle, locked. He checked down the alleyway and with a heavy shoulder bash was inside, the feeble lock skittering across the tiled floor. Melka rushed in behind him and swept the lower floor. Byrne closed the door.
‘No one here,’ Melka whispered hand hovering near the handle of her greatsword.
‘Can’t kill in the city. Fists only, like it’s a pugilist tournament,’ Byrne said flexing his knuckles.
‘I know, I know. Not really my strong point though,’ her eyes shifted around the room.
‘What?’
‘No stairs.’
Byrne searched the ceiling and found a rope dangling behind stacks of crates. He gave it a yank and a hatch opened above him, a ladder sliding out of it. He hurried up, fists at the ready. There were boxes and crates everywhere. Candles burnt down to the wick and the windows were covered with heavy cloth, ‘No one here,’ he called down to Melka.
Melka joined him and the pair found a ladder to the next floor up. ‘Chamber’s that side, right?’ Melka pointed to a wall to her left.
‘Yeah,’ Byrne said uncertain. He strode to the lone window in the middle of the wall and pulled back the curtain a smidgen. He waved for Melka to join him. The sash window slid open and the crowds chatter murmured below. Opposite was a small circular window into the Diet Chamber. There was no glass and the stonework was carved with all manner of intricate overlapping circles.
‘Thank you all for coming at such short notice,’ a loud, gruff voice said. It sounded like a whisper to Byrne across the alleyway. ‘I’m sure you have all heard the rumours outside. Seen the villagers who have came here camped outside the city walls. Whatever you have heard is wrong.’
The fifty Diet members broke into conversation.
The speaker went on, his voice cutting across all the others, ‘There have been sightings of demons. Not the kind of fiends that wander the world like animals do but things from the Rift. Sightings of strange creatures crawling out of the ocean at night. Of flying demons emerging from tunnels and caves and carrying people off. Villages being torched, commoners attacked, abducted, and worse. Men, women, children, it matters not to these demons.’
Pandemonium ensued. All Byrne and Melka could hear was a mess of demands, predictions, and sobs congealed in a great groan of human sound.
‘Silence!’ Gael’s voice quietened the racket. ‘I will send a troop out to investigate. In the mean time we will provide for the refugees and summon as many soldiers as we can. But first let us know what we are fighting. Sound reasonable?’ Byrne’s master said with his typical casual cadence.
The grumbling voices of the Diet conferred. The members mostly wealthy merchants and tradespeople rich enough to own large swathes of land within the city of Braekon or the surrounding territories that stretched west to the sea. A few of the ruling council where like Gael, mercenary captains, owners of large slave armies honed and trained in the Arena and various pugilist tournaments held throughout Braekon who were rented out for warfare in distant lands. When the time came, however, these slave knights served as Braekon’s army.
After a long discussion that Byrne and Melka could not hear the original speaker said, ‘Gael of Braekon’s suggestion is accepted. Investigate the source of these reports so we can decide the next course of action.’
‘It will be done as Braekon wills it,’ Gael said the customary line as a show that he was implementing the city’s decree.
Melka sighed, ‘You know that means we’ll be marching off to the coast.’
‘I thought you loved the beach?’ Byrne said.
Melka made a sound of disgust, ‘No, the wind is constant, the damp cloys at you, and I’m always cold.’
‘Better than the city. Too many people.’
Melka grunted at that. ‘Well, better make it back to the master.’
‘Aye.’
The sands near Waymont shone a soft gold. Shells and pebbles piled up in small clumps. Rock pools with small crabs and smaller fish dotted the rocks further along the cliff side. Black and green seaweed clung to sand and rock alike. The sound of the sea rushed forth and retreated, frothy and insolent. Byrne kicked a stone feeling the sand in his boots scratching between his toes. One hundred of Gael’s slave knights wandered the beach armed with a greatsword and clad in silver armour all looking for one thing; evidence of a demon’s presence.
‘There isn’t anything that suggests demons, Byrne,’ Melka said. ‘The boys have looked for half a day. Let us get back to town and rest before returning to Braekon tomorrow,’ she pulled her cloak tighter around, her lips white and cracking.
‘No. Find something, anything, that tells us more than the commoners did.’
‘Like what Byrne?’ Melka flung her arms wide, her cape fluttering in the salt wind. ‘We have animals bones and innards strewn across the rock back there. We have a dead man in the shallows and a woman’s leg that way,’ she pointed under the arching cliff behind them. Wolves, dracons, hell even goblins would do this.’
‘Where the organs intact? Meat on the bone?’
‘Huh?’ Melka closed her eyes and thought, ‘No. Torn apart but not eaten. What does that have to do with anything?’ She pulled her hood to hide her eyes.
‘Everything capable of this attack would do it for food, except demons. They don’t want for food,’ he knelt down and picked up a pebble. He aimlessly carved into the soft, damp sand. ‘It’s demons. But we need to see one to confirm. We aren’t going to if we are here.’
‘What’s the plan?’ Melka sighed.
‘Take everyone back to Waymont. I’ll organise a watch out here starting from sunset.’
‘Alright,’ Melka sighed in relief. She cleared her throat and shouted across the beach, ‘Wrap it up. Back to Waymont!’
A few knights cheered from the other end of the beach. The one hundred traipsed back towards the ravine climbing up from the beach and to the plains on the cliffs above. Byrne looked out to the horizon, the deep blue sea swirled and waves crashed against the sand. He rubbed the pebble in his hand and threw it out into the sea. It skittered along the surface and then plunged into the sea. A wave washed to shore, the pebble with it. Byrne smiled and turned to head up the ravine.
A long single file line stretched up in the shadow of the ravine. Sharp and jagged cliffs rose on both sides. The ground was treacherous and at points the cliffs narrowed so much people had to walk sideways. Byrne reached the ravine and made a last sweep of the beach. Everyone had begun the journey back to Waymont where an unhappy townspeople had allowed them use of a few barns as a camp. Fortunately for the Waymonter’s Gael had not provided the slave knights with spending coin, only food and a paltry two kegs of ale.
Screaming echoed down the ravine. Shouting followed. Swords were raised up ahead as some dark winged beast darted between the knights. Byrne squinted trying to catch sight of the creature but saw nought but a shadowy blur. ‘Demon! Demon!’ Those ahead cried out.
An ear piercing shriek split Byrne’s skull. He ducked and reached for his sword, the black steel greatsword slipped from its scabbard eagerly. Byrne turned and swiped without looking. The sword bit into leathery flesh. A flying creature shrieked and leaped into the air, one wing torn. It struggled to keep flight. The demon retreated to the sea and landed. White and pink skin stretched over a body with too long limbs and too little muscle. Bones protruded through the skin on the skull and shoulders. Red skin held all white eyes. The monster shrieked feeling at the slash Byrne had given its wing. It screamed and launched at him. Byrne held his sword in both hands and charged. With a quick two strikes he severed a wing and an arm. The demon writhed on the ground. There was no blood. It slammed the sand with its stump and flapped its single wing to no avail. Byrne placed his boot on its’ shoulder and shoved it into the sand. It screeched and ate sand. He plunged his sword through the back of its neck. Bones snapped and cracked and the demon fell still.
The sea swirled and sunk. A great dip appeared close to the coast, the tide swelled and then parted. A black portal burst open and three more demons emerged, screeching at Byrne. Behind them a mass of arms crawled out, interconnected and covered in fur. Byrne swallowed his pride and ran for the path out. He raced up and up towards the slave knights that had broken free of the demon ahead. He leapt a rock, blood splattered across it, and clambered over three dead knights. Blood soaked patches of sand littered the ravine path. He reached the peak to find the slave warriors fighting not one demon but many. Some had wings, other appeared like decaying dogs, more stood on two legs and had the heads of bulls or crows.
‘Run for Waymont! Do NOT stand and fight!’ He ordered hoping clear direction would hold the knights together. He was no commander, only favoured by Gael and trusted by many of the other slaves.
Those near listened and fell in behind Gael who ran across the plains shouting for others to join. For each red cloaked warrior that ran, two fell. Melka appeared at his side, arm coated in blood, ‘Not mine, someone else’s. They didn’t make it,’ she panted and ran.
Byrne half heard her as he shouted out across the plains for his comrades.
‘Byrne! Behind us!’ A voice called out.
Melka and Byrne turned to see the demons had chased them, the ones able and wanting. Three flew and one bull-man charged headlong at them. The demons’ were gaining. ‘We’ll have to fight,’ Byrne said.
‘If we stop more will follow,’ Melka said.
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’
‘Guess we take the chance.’
‘Halt! Turn and form ranks,’ Byrne shouted. The forty or so knights who followed him spread out into four rows of ten. The front row held their swords out ahead, Byrne in the centre. Those on his left and right drew close, shoulder to shoulder. Byrne counted his breaths and theirs. Focussing on the rhythmic sounds of controlled breathing.
The bull headed monster bellowed and batted a flying demon out of the air. Mud erupted as it careened into the earth shrieking. It rose, shaking dirt from its leathery wings, red eyes pulsing with anger. Squawking the beast took flight keeping a distance between itself and rampaging bull.
Byrne assessed the bull. A pair of large horns curled around its head, chipped and craggy. Black eyes burned with decisive fury, spittle hung from the corners of its snout and frothed as it roared. Seven fingered hands clutched a serrated axe as long as Byrne was tall. Blood clung to the blade in the pits and grooves of battle. Hooves pounded the earth, spraying up mounds of mud and dirt. Byrne’s tightened his grip till his knuckles where white.
The ground shook beneath them. The airborne demons climbed higher before tucking their wings into the bodies and diving. At the same time the bull began to swing his axe in large arcs side to side.
‘HOLD!’ Byrne said and watched the axe swing left then right, then left again, like a pendulum. He counted to three and shouted, ‘Now!’ He ducked and sprinted forward aiming his sword at the bull’s massive thigh. A clatter of steel rumbled behind him with cries of pain. Harpy like shrieks clawed at his ears. The edge of his greatsword bit into flesh creating a long gash in the bull’s thigh. The bull roared. Byrne felt the back of the beasts hand across his face. His jaw cracking and his vision blurring from the impact. He flew through the air and skidded across the ground. Forcing his eyes open he pushed himself to his knees. Stomach threatening to divulge yesterday’s lunch he stood using his sword as a cane. He pinched his temples, his sight returning in patches.
‘Byrne! Look out!’ A voice shouted.
Byrne turned to see the bull stalking towards him, steam rising from its nostrils. Byrne lifted his sword and planted his feet in the muck. His jaw ached. Gael would want to hear about this, the Diet needed to hear about this. Demons appearing from portals within the sea, it defied everything they knew about the barriers between the Rift and mortal realm. Byrne wiped his mouth, his hand becoming slick with blood. ‘Can’t die here,’ he told himself. He spat a wad of blood and stared into the demon’s eyes. He ran at the beast. He saw the axe swing down and leapt onto the blade using it as a platform. The bull huffed and snatched at Byrne hoping from the blade up to the beast’s head. He avoided the hand swiping for him and slashed at its eyes. His sword caught on the hard, slick tissue of the beasts eye. The black orb burst and oozed a pale liquid. The bull demon wailed and thrashed, falling to one knee and swung its axe wildly.
Byrne landed beside the beast and strolled a safe distance around its blind side. The beast turned and twisted in the soil gouging deep trenches around itself. It swung its axe in chaotic loping arcs. Byrne circled around to its rear. The axe rose, fell, and lodged itself in the ground. The demon howled. Byrne sprinted up to the monster’s neck and drove his greatsword into the soft flesh near its spine. He drove the blade thirty inches in and pressed his full weight onto the hilt. The blade carved through the demon’s vertebrae. Byrne rammed himself into the sword a second time, the steel groaning. The demon reeled and shrieked and clawed at its back. Byrne grunted and broke into a roar as he slammed his shoulder into the sword once more. There was a sickening crunch and the sword cut through the last chunk of the bone. Byrne slipped on the ground, now slick with blood. The demon fell limp, a low whimper escaping its lips.
Byrne lay on the earth feeling the blood and soil curdle in his hand. He recalled the hardest fights from the arena and remembered some beast from far south whose hide was impenetrable and tusks could gut you through plate armour. Dark clouds hung over head. He nodded to himself, yeah this was harder.
‘Byrne! Get off your arse and run!’ Melka shouted.
Byrne rolled onto his side and pulled himself up with help from the demon’s corpse.
‘Look!’
Byrne tracked Melka’s pointed finger back towards the beach. Dozens more demon’s chased them and not just bullmen or winged things. Giant insect creatures and land octopi skittered and dragged themselves along the ground. Half formed beastmen loped, bones twisted between human and wolf and covered in tufts of fur. Byrne retrieved his sword and ran.
Melka sprinted off ahead of him, along with fifteen of Gael’s slave knights. Fifteen, out of one hundred. Byrne ran harder.
Braekon loomed in the distance. The rising sun scorched the eastern sky and wispy white clouds fled across the sky. Dew gathered on the fields while birds of all kinds feasted on insects. Farmers roused themselves and their work animals for the long day ahead sowing the next harvest.
Byrne’s feet ached and his jaw still throbbed from where the demon had backhanded him. A tooth felt loose but it hadn’t fallen out, he figured that was a good sign. Melka nursed a possible broken arm. The other fifteen had scraped by with a couple of flesh wounds and one dislocated shoulder. Everyone else had died in the skirmish. We weren’t even outnumbered, Byrne thought dreading how he would explain it to Master Gael… hell to the Diet. That wouldn’t be his job, no slaves where permitted entry into the Chamber.
The slave knights approached the city gates, yet to open for morning. Byrne rang the heavy bell from outside and shouted up the wall to be let in. A voice called back, ‘Who’s asking?’
‘Byrne, of the Silver Legion, returning from the expedition to Waymont.’
‘Weren’t there more of you?’ The guard shouted down.
Byrne looked up at the face peering over the parapets, ‘Yes.’
‘Oh… shit. I’ll get the gate,’ the face vanished and after a few seconds the gates creaked and groaned. Byrne squeezed through as soon as he was able.
The knights broke off from Byrne and Melka as soon as they entered Fort Kiltar eager for food and rest. Neither would be luxuries afforded to Byrne until he had reported back to Gael. He crossed the muster yard and climbed a set of stairs up to the manor near the rear of the fort. Gael waited at the top, dressed and armed.
‘Byrne! What happened out there? The guards say there are only seventeen of you?’ Gael stood, hands on hips, his red cloak fanning around him.
‘Aye, that’s true,’ Byrne looked up.
Gael’s expression dropped, ‘The Chainer lives! You look horrendous. Come through for food while you tell all. You too, Melka!’ The Master turned and entered a room that overlooked the muster yard. The door flanked by two slave knights.
Byrne followed Gael inside the office. The walls were lined with bookshelves holding more trinkets and trophies than books. Accolades of victories, stuffed heads of dracons and bears. Swords, crossbows, and knives littered the shelves, along with purses of coins from foreign lands.
‘Please sit,’ Gael gestured to a long dining table near the fireplace opposite the door. ‘I’ll have the cooks bring something up,’ he clicked his fingers and a woman in a black uniform nodded and vanished out a door leading deeper into the manor. ‘I take it you found the monsters then?’ Gael leaned on his desk piled with paper and books. A jar of ink lay on its side, the contents long since dried to the dark wood.
‘We found demons and saw a portal to the Rift.’
‘A portal. How?’
‘We don’t know but something, someone, has bridged the realms,’ Byrne said. ‘We didn’t have time to investigate that. Demon’s attacked us as we were about to return to Waymont. They chased us for miles whittling us down till forty remained. We fought the ten or so demon’s that had given chase and no sooner had we finished them off that another group appeared on the horizon more numerous and terrifying than the last.’
‘Ten demons cut down twenty three knights. The Diet will not respond well to that.’
‘More like eighty-three,’ Melka said.
Gael shifted and swore.
The door swung open and a cart was wheeled in. Steam rose from plates of sausages, eggs, fried pears and apples, wilted greens. A large pot of hot water accompanied the food along with a jar of honey. ‘Please, help yourselves,’ Gael said. ‘Take the same down to the fifteen survivors,’ Gael ordered the servant. She bowed and left to fulfil the order. ‘Best idea, a mute servant,’ Gael muttered to himself. ‘What else!’ Gael demanded.
Byrne stabbed a third sausage and dropped it onto his plate, ‘Some of them bleed. Some don’t. Many fly. Mighty strong, even the weak looking ones. None appear to have any language we could interpret. We found remains of townsfolk but they weren’t eaten just torn apart, killed for sport.’
Gael nodded along, ‘Somehow that feels worse.’
Melka grunted as she mixed a spoon of honey into hot water, ‘An enemy that doesn’t eat, drink, probably doesn’t sleep either. Nor can we see their camp, know their numbers, or predict an attack.’
‘Perhaps don’t repeat that to the Diet,’ Gael said fixing Melka with a stare.
‘Only the truth,’ Melka shrugged and held her cup of hot honey in both hands.
‘The Diet don’t deal in truth, they deal in perception. We need their knights and warriors, to do that we need to make it sound like we can win. Which we can.’
‘I’ll leave the deceptions to you, Master,’ Melka said biting into a sausage.
Gael grunted and chewed his lip, ‘Byrne, I want you to tell the Diet what you saw. Only what you saw.’
‘Me? I’m not allowed in that place.’
‘They’ll be a dispensation for this, it’s too important. Better it comes from you than me,’ Gael said.
‘Theatre,’ Melka said through a mouthful of pork.
Gael smiled, ‘How right you are. Now finish up, clean yourselves off, and meet me on the yard in thirty minutes.’
Byrne donned his cloak again, mud and blood free, and stepped out into the muster yard of Fort Kiltar. The sun hung over the city. He stifled a burp and meandered to the gate where Master Gael waited with an entourage of slave knights, hoods drawn up close to their eyes. ‘Master,’ Byrne made a slight bow.
‘Good. Let us be off. I’ve asked Melka to source supplies for an expedition.’
‘Won’t that start rumours?’
‘I don’t care. The whole city knows my knights returned far weaker than they left. Whispers are already flying around. Better to be prepared,’ Gael pulled his hood up and whistled. The four slave knights in front of him marched into the street.
Byrne walked beside Gael, two more knights behind them, ‘What are you hoping to achieve, if I may ask?’ Byrne said. He shifted in his armour, the straps chafing his skin after the long march through the night.
‘I want an army. It would take weeks for me to recall my soldiers from across Ixonia and Braekon is not mine alone to defend.’
‘Do you think the other lords and members will offer their slaves?’
‘We will make them,’ Gael said. ‘No more talk, think on how you will say to the Diet of your experience.’
Byrne flicked through his memories of the encounter. He started with the approach to Waymont, the commoners praying the knights could do something and also dreading having one hundred soldiers camped in an old barn. The townspeople’s descriptions of the demons had matched what Byrne had fought. He remembered finding the bodies and torn limbs of people on the beach with no evidence of being consumed. Strange wild animals hadn’t scavenged the corpses, unless beings from the Rift left behind some corruption or curse that animals could sense. Byrne thought to himself, I don’t remember seeing any animals nearby. No birds, no cattle, no lynx… had the demon’s got to them first. It was certainly possible. No one in Waymont had mentioned that. Byrne shook his head, only what I saw. The sea had receded, parted, and a portal to the Rift had opened. Demons emerged and fighting ensued. A hard retreat, no victory by any means, but he had learned the demon’s could be killed, or at least stopped. That was key, it meant victory was possible given enough men and grit.
‘No slaves!’ the sergeant called from behind the line of slave knights ringing the Diet Chamber.
Gael sighed, ‘Wait here, Byrne,’ he barged through the spear wielding knights clad in black.
Byrne searched the courtyard around the circular building. A few cart stalls had set up offering food and trinkets. Children played horseshoes nearby, the iron plinking across the cobbles. Diet members arrived by carriage and on foot with varying numbers of soldiers and aides. All slaves or close to it. A crowd had yet to gather but one was expected as the black clad guards of the Diet stood shoulder to shoulder around the building.
Gael reappeared on the steps of the Chamber and shouted to the sergeant, ‘Dispensation for Byrne.’ Gael waved a slip of yellow paper in the air.
The sergeant grunted and pointed at Byrne, ‘That you?’
‘Aye.’
‘Come on through,’ the sergeant shook his head and beckoned Byrne through the line of soldiers.
Byrne’s heart began to race as he stepped inside the line and then beyond the sergeant. He wondered if this was as close as any slave had made it to the Diet. Aides were allowed but only if they were employed by the members and not owned. The soldiers were stationed in a barracks a few alleyways behind the building and the sergeant was only allowed two yards behind the line of guards. Byrne pulled at a crease in his cloak and shifted the leather belt around his chest that carried his sword on his back.
Gael waited on the top step, the open doors behind him showing a single tiered room of benches that rose in concentric semi-circles up to the domed ceiling. ‘Come on, before the bulk of members get here. You need a few pointers,’ the master said.
‘Pointers for what?’ Byrne said scaling the steps in pairs.
‘Talking.’
‘I’ve been talking my whole life.’
‘To warriors concerned with a sharp blade and a fast arm, not the majority that sits in there,’ Gael nodded behind him. ‘Concerned with the weight of coin in their fist and the size of the pheasant on their plate.’ Gael directed Byrne to a narthex leading away from the main chamber.
‘Alright, what do these soft men not want to hear?’ Byrne crossed his arms and stole a glance in side. Men and women in bright coloured suits and robes sat on stone benches.
Gael clicked his fingers, ’Don’t focus on gore or how hard the battle was. Don’t mention exact numbers, exaggerate the enemy.’
‘Do that in every war story,’ Byrne muttered.
‘Right. Add in something about concerns to the crop, to animal rearing, to the roads,’ Gael lowered his voice as men and women dressed in finery passed by them.
‘That would be something I didn’t see,’ Byrne said, leaning in to catch Gael’s voice.
‘Embellish, predict, but make it sound firm. We are trying to build an army from a bunch of money makers. Imperil their coin-purses and the soldiers will flow,’ Gael said.
‘Do they all own soldiers?’
‘No, only a dozen or so have more than a hundred slave knights. What I need is for you to convince the majority in order to pressure a handful of the largest mercenary companies into providing soldiers,’ Gael slapped Byrne on the arm. ‘Got it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Great. We wait for the Chamber to fill and you’ll begin. Follow me,’ Gael stepped back into the main hallway and greeted a woman flanked by two men soft of face and palm. ‘Good morning, Niamh.’
‘Good morning, Gael,’ the woman responded with a frozen bite.
Byrne walked a few steps behind Gael, near to Niamh’s aides who moved away from him. Byrne grunted his greeting. The aides ignored him.
‘I hear you have summoned a slave knight to speak. A little uncouth don’t you think?’ Niamh said.
‘Niamh, strange times call for strange events. You are Baroness of Waymont and Warden of Castle Maumin. Both close to the reported sightings of demons. Surely hearing a firsthand account is in your interest?’
Niamh side-eyed Gael, the dark makeup around her eyes giving her a sinister appearance, ‘Perhaps. We shall see if your slave has anything useful to say.’ The Baroness turned and peered at Byrne, her eyes scanning him like a butchered pig summing him up in pounds of meat.
‘I would have thought you had already investigated the claims of your own townsfolk?’ Gael asked the question Byrne had wanted to.
‘I did. My men reported signs of wild beasts and fiends, likely giants or a loup-garou.’
‘Giants are not monsters. I would know,’ Gael said. ‘And a loup-garou could be tracked. I’d find better men, Niamh.’
‘A demon cannot pass from the Rift to the mortal realm, same as a god cannot cross over from the Void. I would rather stick to the reality,’ Niamh said.
‘The Chainer crossed over to the Void.’
Niamh sighed and drew herself up, ‘Yes, well. Mortals becoming gods seems to be a one off occurrence.’
‘Perhaps. I’m sure we shall share many more words on this,’ Gael smiled.
Niamh laughed a little and climbed the steps up to her seat halfway up the left side benches.
Gael and Byrne turned right to the low benches on the right side of the room. Gael sat at the end of an aisle faced out onto the steps. ‘Byrne, you’re wearing your feelings.’
‘Huh?’
‘I can tell you hate them already.’
‘How don’t you?’
‘Some are alright,’ Gael shrugged. ‘Try pretending. Like you’re in a brothel.’
‘Huh? Don’t have to fake a thing in a brothel,’ Byrne said.
Gael rolled his eyes, ‘Look friendlier.’
Byrne forced his eyebrows apart and clenched his jaw hoping his mouth would appear straight, if not smiling.
Gael laughed into his sleeve, ‘That’ll do.’
A man and woman entered the Chamber muttering to one another. Gael cursed and looked up to the gods. ‘What is a slave doing in here?’ The man asked, holding a stack of scrolls to his chest.
‘Dispensation granted by this Chamber not thirty minutes ago, Haxon.’
Haxon’s eyebrows danced over his eyes as he searched the room for the culprits, ‘I see. Are you unable to report yourself?’
‘Figured you’d like a first hand report,’ Gael said.
‘Hmmm, if it’s anything like the villagers I trust it will be useless.’
Gael licked his top lip, ‘I expect the next delivery of gin at Fort Kiltar two days early, Haxon. Small bonus in it for you.’
Haxon narrowed his eyes, ‘I have larger clients than you, Gael. More important too.’
‘I doubt that.’
Haxon grumbled unintelligibly and climbed the stairs opposite to find his seat. The woman joined him sending daggers towards Gael.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Distiller of that gin you all like so much.’
‘I’d rather not be drinking piss if you mind, Master.’
Gael laughed, ‘Haxon’s much too proper to stoop to such a level. Besides the stuff’s so strong you wouldn’t taste it anyway.’
‘And the woman in white fur staring at you?’
‘Rhea O’Duinn, owns the largest trading fleet on the west coast of Ixonia. Invited Haxon into her bed before her dead husband was in the ground,’ Gael said behind his hand.
A younger man entered the Chamber and hurried up towards Haxon and Rhea. He bore the same thick black hair as his father, the same wide nose and thin lips. ‘Sakon Pifolda, heir to Haxon, prefers the card dens and arenas to the distillery I hear,’ Gael said.
‘Like a bloody show this place,’ Byrne said.
‘Better,’ Gael said smiling and waving to a group entering. The last Diet members found their seats. Gael stood, ‘Shall we begin?’
A raising of hands followed of which the majority where in agreement with Gael. Byrne’s master nodded, ‘Seal the door.’ The doors were closed and barred and Gael continued, ‘We all know why we are here so I will get right to it. I invite Byrne of the Silver Legion to report on his expedition to the coast.’
Byrne stood beside Gael in silence. More eyes than he could count focussed on him, expressions judging him, sizing him up, reading into him. Gael nudged him and pointed down to the centre of the room. Byrne nodded and descended the steps lining up his memories of his expedition. He felt himself sweating. Ain’t a battle, he told himself and took a deep breath. Byrne searched the room for a friendly face passing over Rhea, Haxon, and the benches ahead of him, and settled on a younger woman near the lower levels. Soft blonde hair curled over her neck and large blue eyes watched him patiently. Her lips drawn up into a half smile.
Byrne exhaled and began to recount his experience. He looked from face to face in the crowd, avoiding the suspicious and cantankerous among the Diet, but he always returned to the blonde haired woman. He made a point of the missing animals, the lack of cattle, the fear of the villagers, and the danger posed by wayward beasts on travelling folk. Expressions turned to worry a good thing in Byrne’s mind. Worry leads to action. He detailed the ferocity of the first attack and those same expressions turned to horror. The blonde woman’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth in shock. He looked to Gael who gave a small shake of his head. Byrne skipped over the gore as best he could, a little fear spurred people to action he thought, and hammered home that these things could be killed.
‘Are the rumours true? How many returned?’ Haxon shouted the question as soon as Byrne had finished.
‘Less than what left,’ Byrne answered.
‘You should know though?’
‘Soldiers died, Haxon, commoners died before them, more will follow unless we do something,’ Gael interjected.
‘A first hand account should be detailed, Gael.’ Murmurs of agreement rippled out around Haxon.
‘I did not bring Byrne here to be cross-examined,’ Gael clicked his fingers. Byrne vacated the centre stage, shooting a smile towards the blonde woman on the bench a few below Gael. Her eyes darted to the floor, her lips breaking into a gentle pout.
‘Then was he here to scare the Diet into action.’
‘NO! To explain the situation so that we can take the correct course of action.’
‘Which is?’ Rhea’s calm voice lilted on the air.
Gael sat back and stood, flicking one side of his cloak over his shoulder, ‘To create an Army of Braekon, assembled by the mercenary captains present, in order to defend our lands and people from this threat.’
Conversation erupted through the Chamber. Barks of veiled expansionism, of tyranny. A return to the Autarch.
‘With what money?’ Niamh asked.
Gael grinned, ‘I am offering what soldiers I have in Fort Kiltar, around two and a half thousand, free of charge. This is a matter of the cities survival. There is no price to that.’
Niamh rolled her eyes, ‘Always one step ahead,’ she sat back, folding her arms into her shawl.
The young blue eyed woman stood. A long, thick scarf coiled around her neck and was draped over her arm. She wore leather armour on her thighs and calves, and her knuckles were scarred with cuts and bruises. Byrne marvelled. ‘This is not the first we have heard of these attacks, nor of these demons, yet we continue to squabble of a few coins. I, Captain Yorshka, offer the services of the Regiment of the Blue Moon. Two thousand fully equipped knights.’
A switch clicked in Byrne’s mind. Right, course. How had he not noticed earlier, she was the only one who leant in when he detailed his tussle with the bull demon.
‘That’s all well and good but is four thousand enough?’ Haxon said. ‘Aren’t you sending those men to their doom? Wasting their lives, your wealth?’
‘Better than wait for it here,’ Byrne blurted out.
Yorshka hid the lower half of her face in her scarf to stifle her laughter. Dozens of eyes turned to Byrne who stared up at the ceiling.
Haxon ground his teeth, ‘You may want to rush to your death but we do not.’
‘Then fight,’ Gael said. ‘Or are you planning on running east?’
‘I have no such plans,’ Haxon bellowed. ‘Mounting a defence of the city is wiser than a battle on open plains.’
‘At least we are in agreement. A fight is necessary,’ Gael said.
Rhea groaned, ‘We aren’t going to make any decisions now. Too much debate is needed and that should take place between members,’ her expression settled on Byrne.
Gael directed Byrne down the steps and into the hallway, ‘Thank you, Byrne. You have certainly swayed minds and a few hearts. Return to Fort Kiltar, ready the boys for campaign.’
‘Aye. Good luck, I guess,’ Byrne said. The doors were unbarred and opened for him and he was thrust into the morning light left wondering how anyone could argue against defending their home.
Byrne loaded the last sacks of grain onto the cart. It had been two days since he had spoken to the Diet and it was all anyone would ask him about. Slave and commoner alike. He was tired of it, there was nothing special about a large room filled with people more concerned with the coin in their pockets than their lives or the lives of their family, friends, employees. Hell, just the stranger down the street. Perhaps it was a factor of having nothing meant he had nothing to lose and could see life a little clearer than Gael and the other wealthy arseholes who governed. He launched a sack of grain up from his shoulder and onto the cart.
‘Is that enough?’ Melka asked counting the sacks.
‘Ten carts, forty bags a cart. Should be, why?’ Byrne braced himself as he lifted the next sack up onto his shoulder.
‘Not a long campaign then?’
‘Should hope not. Besides Waymont and Castle Maumin will have supplies,’ Byrne repeated what Gael had told him.
‘Whether they’ll sell to us is another matter.’
‘We’re going to defend them, they’ll sell or have more than demons to worry about,’ Byrne grunted and heaved the sack of grain up onto the cart. It slammed down and a trickle of grain slipped from the bag. Byrne clambered on to the cart and pulled the sack further on so any loss would be settle in the crevices between the bags or the cart floor.
‘I’m sure Master Gael will want to start a war with the Baroness over a few loaves of bread,’ Melka said.
Byrne cursed and jumped from the cart, ‘You gonna help or just be witty?’
‘Wit only day. Don’t want to strain my sword arm,’ Melka rubbed her shoulder and rolled it making pained expressions.
Byrne punched her in the upper arm, ‘Stop faking.’
Melka winced and gripped her arm, ‘That’ll bruise!’
‘You can still fight with a bruise,’ Byrne hoisted the last sack of grain onto his shoulder.
‘Shame, I was starting to enjoy being back in Braekon.’
Riders swept up to the gate spraying mud and gravel across the road. The commander wore a white cape over dusty armour. A line of Gael’s knights barred entry into the Fort swords barred like wolf’s teeth. A bannerman rode behind the commander, holding a spear up straight with the unfurled flag of some noble or merchant family. Byrne studied it for a time.
‘You don’t know what it is?’
‘Not a clue,’ Byrne said admiring the skewered boar. Three spears rose from the dead animal and above them was a simple crown of gold.
Gael charged down the steps from his office and into the muster yard. He yelled for a dozen more slaves to man the gate. The road beyond the Fort’s gate was a sea of lances and baying horses. ‘What does House Maumin want?’ He yelled.
‘Ahh, the Baroness you said Gael seemed so enamoured with,’ Melka said.
‘I wouldn’t say enamoured. Interested in?’
‘Talking like a politician already.’
‘Fuck off.’
Melka laughed.
Gael snapped his head round to the pair, ‘Swords!’ He ordered.
‘Master,’ Melka drew her blade and joined the line at the gate. Byrne donned his cloak and began strapping his armour on.
‘The Baroness of Waymont and Warden of Castle Maumin wishes to inform you she is riding for Castle Maumin. Reports of beasts emerging from the sea have been made. Fishermen and their wives have been killed. Whole boats lost. Her Excellence asks if you would join her, and Captain Yorshka of the Regiment of the Blue Moon, in defeating this foe?’
Gael laughed. And laughed. And laughed until tears streamed his face and he was doubled over.
The commander shifted in his saddle. The horse stepping back and forth, ‘Is something funny?’
‘Much. Inform Her Excellence that the Silver Legion will accompany with her.’
The commander frowned and cleared his throat, ‘Very well. I shall inform Her Excellence and the Captain of your decision and await you on the road.’ He whipped his horse around and the column of mounted knights cantered on.
Gael stood in the centre of the yard surrounded by slave warriors looking to him, watching and waiting. ‘Bring me a horse. Get that gin on the cart! I want everyone in arms in fifteen, we march to Maumin!’
Byrne fastened the last strap of his greaves and sighed as he saw the casks of gin stamped with the words “Pifolda and Sons’ Distillery, purveyor of fine spirits.” ‘Melka! Get that gin loaded!’
Gael rode at the head of two thousand five hundred slave knights. The finest mercenaries in all the land; the Silver Legion. Gathered from survivors of companies shattered by war with nowhere to go; slaves without a master, soldiers without a cause. Acquired contracts of arena favourites for vast sums of money. Traded like cattle at market. All brought under one captain. Ten thousand expert infantry honed in war. Gael was sorry he only had two thousand five hundred in Braekon, the rest on campaign or hired as bodyguards for a king’s treasury transfer and under the command of co-owners. Gael totted up his own troops and those of Captain Yorshka and Baroness Maumin. Six thousand and something. Plenty, he told himself, plenty.
Byrne marched along the road he had travelled not four days ago. Only this time the ground thundered underneath him and the air was filled with song. Each square picked up a verse and the whole column would sing the chorus until those pulling the carts sang and the next song would begin rippling through the knights. This was Byrne’s favourite time, shoulder to shoulder with his fellow knights, spirits where high, and the vast plains was his home. Outside of the city there was no difference between slave and master, soldier and shopkeep, a tent was your home, gin was your drink, and your food was whatever was available. Ahead of Gael, the only one of the Silver Legion with a horse, was the baggage train of Baroness Niamh Maumin. At the rear, was a cart laden with six chairs, a long table, and, Byrne was certain, a bookcase. To him, and everyone he knew, that was a waste of a cart. A good stone or tree stump, hell the soft earth, was enough to sit on in Byrne’s view. He chucked to himself imagining the nonsensical scene of setting up a dining table in a tent on soggy earth. ‘Probably has rugs somewhere in that train too,’ he said to himself. The melody of the next song picked up around him as it was his square’s turn to sing, Byrne joined in with ‘And this field will be…’
Castle Maumin rose in the distance. A crag of black against the rich blue of the midday sky. Seat of House Maumin founded during the Autarch’s reign. Baroness Niamh Maumin was one of a handful remaining nobles to survive the shift in power from one man to the Diet, a council of fifty. Byrne guessed it would take a few more hours to reach. Though rest would wait until nightfall as the camp had to be constructed, defences made, inventory completed. He cracked his neck and wished for his bedroll upon soft ground.
The gravel filled road shivered beneath him. The small stones and pebbles sunk into narrow cracks that split the land. The cart at the rear of Maumin’s baggage train slipped backwards, chairs tumbled onto the road, its wheel stuck in a long crack passing across the road and into the distance. The column shuddered to a halt. Hushed words where shared as knights poked and prodded the sudden gaps in the landscape.
‘Easy everyone. You’ll be in your tents soon enough,’ Gael said trotting down the length the Silver Legion. His cape draped over one flank of his horse.
The stones beneath Byrne’s feet quivered and he began to sink. He jumped to the side and shouted for others to do the same. The stones fell away and a pit opened in the road, wide enough for a man to climb down. Byrne reached for his sword and peered over the edge into total blackness. A ripple of energy skirted the edge of the hole. ‘What the…’ A knight muttered. A dozen had drawn their greatswords while others backed away. Byrne stared into the abyss, at shadows that swirled deep within. A shrieking winged horror of pale skin and long clawed limbs burst from the portal. It slashed up as it dove into the air. Claws raked Byrne’s face and he fell back onto his arse.
‘Demon!’ Someone shouted and panic ensued.
Gael galloped along his lines, ‘To arms! To arms! Form ranks, archers knock arrows!’ He drew his own sword and rallied his men. ‘Loose!’
Byrne rolled onto his front as the demon soared into the sky, wings tucked into its body. He scrambled to his feet and drew the greatsword from his back. Between him and the road was the pit, expanding in diameter by the second. The demon howled and hovered high above, arrows crested and dropping back to earth. The portal to the Rift bulged and a torrent of madness was spewed forth. Demons of all kind crawled, flew, and were catapulted out of the hole. Byrne’s stomach twisted and he ran towards the rear section of the Silver Legion hoping to find Gael. ‘Run and tell the others!’ He shouted towards the front of the train. Maumin’s mounted knights would be invaluable while the enemy was scattered and weak.
‘Move back, form a line here! Three squares wide,’ Gael drew a ring in the air with his sword and squares of one hundred moved into a long line facing the Rift portal.
The bulk of the Silver Legion where gathered out of formation along the roadside. Lieutenants screamed orders for lines to assemble to surround the hole in the road. A bull demon was shot out of the portal and landed, axe first, into a square crushing a dozen and injuring far more. Knights hacked at the beast. The demon roared and swung its axe in a wide sweep dismembering those nearest. Men were flung through the air as the demon, weeping blood from every pore, raged through the hastily drawn battle lines.
Shadow engulfed the earth as hundreds of gargoyles descended upon the archers. Arrows tore through wings and bloodless flesh. Half of the winged demons were brought out of the sky, the other half raked claws through the archers and tore chunks of flesh off with teeth.
‘You, you, engage!’ Gael shouted at two squares who rushed to relieve the archer unit, the freshest slaves among them. An attempt by Gael to mitigate a weakness of his infantry. Archers fled as pale demons carried men and women into the air and tore them limb from limb.
‘Master Gael!’ Byrne shouted.
‘What!’ Gael swung at a four armed human-esk demon.
‘Any sign of Maumin?’ Byrne ducked out of reach of a gargoyle sailing over head. It hissed in dismay.
Gael squinted at the horizon, ‘She has her own problems.’ He hacked at a wolf’s head with six legs sprouting from where its neck should be as it gnawed on his horses’ thigh.
Any semblance of formation had been lost as more pits opened in the ground. Silver Legionnaires fell into the abyss, lost to the Rift, and emerged as twisted creatures. Their eyes black hollows, their joints mangled and doubled. Half arms burst from their shoulders and jaws became unhinged and lined with teeth. Byrne readied his sword as a red caped demon charged him wielding a greatsword in one hand, cracked and dripping with unknown blood. It swung wildly and howled in pain. Byrne side stepped the strike and planted his greatsword in its stomach. The armour, rusted and rotten, broke and black oozing blood spilled onto the ground. Green grass withered to ash. The demon collapsed, wheezing. Byrne was taking no chances and pierced his once-ally through the skull. The bone brittle and weak.
Skirmishes broke out over the plain. A cluster of archers gathered inside a square of infantry loosing arrows at whatever flew overhead. Mounted knights swept along the horizon skewering demons with lances. Bull demons rampaged through scores of slave knights, carving apart orderly ranks like harvesting barley.
‘Split apart! Rank and file will not work!’ Byrne shouted. A gargoyle dove him, claws extended. Byrne slashed into its wing, the demon spun and crashed into the damp earth. He chased it and brought the heft of his sword down onto its neck, decapitating the demon in a bloodless execution.
Gael galloped along the edge of the road, sword swinging from right to left. The ground burst apart in front of him as a coiled mass of limbs and tentacles emerged from the Rift. Gael’s horse reared and the master of the Silver Legion fell from the saddle. A plethora of purplish tentacles spread across the ground and wrapped themselves around the horse. It brayed and kicked as it was dragged into the portal. The coiled demon writhed, a beaked head poke out from underneath its shell of limbs and vanished, along with the horse, back from where it came.
Byrne sprinted across the battlefield to Gael. ‘Master! Are you injured?’
Gael coughed and struggled to stand. He held one arm against his ribs and his hand came away bloody, ‘I’ll be fine. What the hell was that thing?’
‘I have no idea. The Rift appears to an endless source of nightmares,’ Byrne said guiding Gael deeper into the Silver Legion. The skirmish had moved from the road to the fields surrounding and the knights had created a defensible zone around the carts. Archers cleared the skies nearest and infantry repelled attacks.
‘You described a portal in the sea but here there are dozens of portals,’ Gael said.
Byrne scanned the horizon. The Silver Legion where scattered over more than a mile of plains fighting in small packs. More red capes littered the field than demon corpses. Creatures of the Rift climbed out of the ground launching themselves against weary slave knights. A wedge of cavalry charged along the field, the Baroness at its head, her bannerman holding her standard high. Captain Yorshka and the Regiment of the Blue Moon was nowhere to be seen. The road ahead scattered with abandoned wagons and dead soldiers.
‘Hope is not lost. The bulk of the Silver Legion is out east, beyond the Drifting Sea. We can retreat to Braekon and recall the Legions,’ Gael said counting the survivors nearby.
‘If we flee the demons will give chase,’ Byrne said.
‘Maumin and the Blue Moon’s will keep them busy,’ Gael said.
‘Abandon them?’ Byrne said wearily watching a bull demon charge at the makeshift encampment. Twenty or so knights broke off from the formation and encircled the beast. Its axe swept the air left and right. Red cloaked warriors stabbed and cut haplessly at the demon. Packs of fast skittering creatures with wolf heads devoured legionnaires in seconds while corrupted soldiers advanced. Knights shouted out to the corrupted they recognised only to be cut down by their own friends.
‘No! They will retreat to Castle Maumin. Yorshka is likely there,’ Gael gestured at the horizon. ‘Otherwise where are her two thousand soldiers?’
‘I suppose,’ Byrne grumbled distracted by the encroaching enemies. There was no victory here, not that Byrne could fathom.
‘Marching formation!’ Gael ordered and pointed his sword along the road they had came. The archers loosed as they moved maintaining a clear path above the Silver Legion.
Byrne stayed close to Gael and watched the ground with trepidation. His heart thumped in his chest and his sword was heavy in his hand. The road ahead gave way and a two headed horse draped in black swirling shadow leapt out. A pale rider with long horns draped down its back clicked a six fingered hand. Its arms had two elbows and hung low enough to reach underneath the two headed horse. The horde stopped attacking.
‘I am Thulune and your world belongs to me,’ his voice crawled over Byrne’s skin causing goosebumps. ‘Do not resist. Give yourself to the Rift, to me, and forego the pain,’ the air sparked with black lightning. His eyeless, earless, face smiled, his too wide mouth splitting to reveal serrated teeth.
‘CHARGE!’ Gael screamed and ran at Thulune. The Silver Legion knights attacked. The horse towered over them and its rider snarled. The demon’s broke into rage seeing their leader attacked.
Thulune clicked his fingers, his palms dark and fading into white skin, and vanished into the earth. Ranks of knights charge headlong into the pit and vanish into the Rift, swallowed by the dark abyss. Gael skidded to a halt, ‘Retreat! Back to Braekon!’
Maumin’s banner flew tattered in the breeze.
Byrne dragged himself along the road, his sword trailing behind him. It had been more than a day since the battle with the demon horde and he had not rested. Muscles ached, his lips were cracked, and he wanted nothing more than a good meal. Boots soggy with blood and scalp itching from the heat of his helmet yet he trudged on. Braekon loomed in the distance.
‘Home!’ A knight shouted his voice cracking.
Byrne glanced up and saw the city in the distance, fires burning along the walls. Smoke rose into the sky creating black clouds. ‘But how?’ He wheezed.
Gael stopped, his knights too. Around fifty remained out of the two and a half thousand who had marched out of Braekon. ‘There is an abandoned camp out near Winelea. We can stay there for a couple of days then travel east to the Drifting Sea. Saoirse is camped near Drispen with three thousand knights.’
‘Winelea’s a long walk, Master,’ Byrne leaned on his sword, chipped and coated in dried blood.
‘Would you rather try Braekon?’
Byrne rested his chin on the hilt of his greatsword and watched the flames lick the sky, ‘No, Master,’ he sighed.
‘To Winelea,’ Gael ordered. ‘There’s a well not far from here,’ he pointed north.
The Myths of Ixonia Collection
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