Brave Men Die: Part 1 Page 2

  Then without warning the Seraphim stopped defending and stepped up their offensive. The two blades rained down blow after blow, relentlessly pressing the Prince back step by step. His sabre deflected the heavier blades, his body dodged the killing blows. For all his efforts, maintaining his defence under such an inexorable attack was beginning to take its toll. He stepped back and forced his head backwards to avoid a strike to his neck. He wobbled slightly before stumbling backwards into his accompanying guard. Hands steadied him and propped him back firmly on his feet.

  His breathing now rasping and painful, the Prince stared at his opponents. They paused in their attack, their stillness a silent menace as they regarded him impassively, their blades poised in front of their torsos. Their armour was of archaic design, full plate with an insignia he didn’t recognise. Their shaved heads glinted and dark eyes glowed under heavy brows.

  Edrazil stepped back and with an abrupt hand movement indicated to Devilin to continue alone. Devilin shifted his stance gracefully, centring himself in the tunnel, flexed his muscles, and drove forward. The Prince reacted instinctively, pushing forward to meet the devastating blows. The force behind each strike jarred his arm as his sabre merely glanced the blade away. The burning ferocity in the attacker’s eyes unnerved the Prince as much as the effortless precision of his strikes. Increasingly desperate, the Prince dodged from side to side, up and down. There was little room for him to move and very little he could do.

  In a last ditch effort the Prince drove forward as the blade thrust toward him, plunging his sabre into Devilin’s arm. The Seraphim retreated two steps bringing his wounded arm to his side. As the Prince stepped in for the kill, Devilin reached around for his dagger, stepped to the side avoiding the deathblow, and plunged the shorter blade into the Prince’s chest.

  Derrick stumbled back, his sabre clattering to the floor as he clutched at his chest. Blood seeped from the wound, covering his hands with the sticky red fluid. He finally fell, mouth open, blood dribbling from the corner of his lips. As his body slumped to the ground, the guards behind him found their courage and surged forth to avenge Derrick’s death. Three abreast they came at the two Seraphim. Edrazil stepped forward, swinging his blade high across the chests of those in the front row, clanging their swords away. Devilin lunged at the closest soldier and drove his sword into the chest. He brought his foot up, planted it below the blade and kicked the body away.

  Chaos reigned in the cramped conditions as soldiers scrambled over the dead and dying bodies of their comrades and the Seraphim drove home the advantage. Devilin struck out, cleaving a head from a torso. Swords clattered against the tunnel walls as they battered to fruitless avail. The Kyzantines failed to wound in close combat, while the two warriors savagely shed their blood with ruthless efficiency. Within moments the carnage was over — the Kyzantines all lay dead, blood pooling around the mass of bodies.

  With cool deliberation, Devilin and Edrazil stooped to clean their blades, only raising their heads at the sound of Avernus approaching through the tunnel. His hood was down revealing a small gash on his forehead and dried blood on his chin, his eyes gleaming in the flickering light.

  Devilin raised an eyebrow at the sight. Avernus merely responded with a dismissive shrug and patted a pouch at his waist.

  A satisfied smile briefly touched Avernus' lips as he studied the sight of the dead Prince with the Murukan dagger protruding from his chest. Turning on his heel he strode back along the tunnel with the two warriors in tow, Devilin trying to stem the flow of blood coming from his arm. The Seraphim left silently and swiftly, leaving the Tarkinholms to the mess, melding into the confused and chaotic throng to disappear into the night.

  The body of the Prince lay solemnly still, his eyes staring into the darkness after the retreating intruders, the deadly knife still embedded in his chest.

  Alarms sounded around the Tarkinholm keep and echoed along the stone corridors, at times drowned out by screams and cries from the city below. Pyxis threw the covers off and ran to the window overlooking the courtyard. In the darkness she could make out the bodies that raced frantically around: some for safety, those of the guard to stations. Plumes of smoke wafted over the houses, the flames casting demonic shadows across the buildings, the acrid smell of burning assaulting her nostrils.

  Pyxis grabbed her pants from the end of her bed, pulled on her boots, and searched the floor for yesterday’s linen shirt. She pulled it over her head and headed out the door, buckling her sword belt as she went. She hastened down the corridor to the back staircase taking the stairs two at a time. Barely contained apprehension made her breathing rapid and shallow — she made a deliberate effort to slow it. She could hear murmurs travelling along the corridors but couldn’t make sense of anything.

  Spying a familiar servant hurrying frantically in the opposite direction she stepped into his path, bracing her hand against his chest.

  ‘What happened?’ she demanded, her tone sharp and imperious, forcing his panicked gaze to her steady eyes.

  ‘Three men, mistress.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘They slaughtered the guard and moved inside the keep town.’

  ‘Where were they headed?’

  ‘The tunnels, mistress.’

  ‘Inform my brother. We shall deal with them now.’

  ‘I passed your brother in the halls, mistress. He is already on his way. His intention was to enter from this end.’

  Pyxis quickly thought through her options. If Derrick could confront the intruders in the tunnel, all well and good, but if they decided to flee back the way they came she would be waiting for them with as many of the guard as she could find. Pyxis strode out of the keep, slamming the doors open in her haste. The stationed guards leapt to attention, startled, fists going over their hearts as they bowed.

  ‘Come with me,’ she ordered, wasting no time as she made for the other entrance. It was located near the inner wall, beside the barracks to make an escape attempt possible in a siege, or to venture out to disrupt the enemy. In any case, only a handful of people were supposed to know about it. Members of the Tarkinholm Guard joined her as she ran through the streets. Issuing orders to some of them to control the blazing buildings and the general population helped give some organisation and purpose to the remaining, and clearly shaken, Tarkinholm Guard.

  The guards that remained with Pyxis raced behind her to the supposed secret entrance to the tunnels. She hoped she was not too late to block the intruders' escape. Pyxis looked over at the broken door while standing above the charred remains of those men and women who had come to confront them. She instantly recognised the assault as an act of war, for she knew not a single Kyzantine citizen was trained in the cursed dark arts. The law forbade it, the Church forbade it, so it didn’t happen. Yelling orders at the guards to cordon off the area, she waited impatiently while they hastened to obey. Pyxis considered ordering the civilians back to their homes in an effort to restore order in the streets but they would never leave. Bloodlust was in the air. The forming mob were prepared to deal with the unknown and dangerous threat that had savaged their homes. The guards surrounded the house and aimed crossbows at all the windows and doors.

  Looking through the open door she could see the two guards’ bodies laying bloodied on the floor. The secret panel was open. Pyxis drew her blade and pointed at ten others. ‘All of you are to follow me inside. The rest of you … make sure no one but us leaves the house alive.’

  Pyxis’ eyes slowly adjusted to the poor tunnel light, allowing her to increase her pace and arrive at the intersection with unexpected speed. Her boot slid along the ground as she turned the corner. The guard right behind went down, yelping in surprise. With an exasperated intake of breath, Pyxis rolled her eyes and reached down to help the man as some of the other guards did the same.

  ‘Pass me a torch,’ she instructed a female soldier, who reached into her pack and handed it over, while she struck her flint to light it.

  Pyx
is held it up and the macabre scene was illuminated before her. Her mouth went dry. She was horrified by the dozen Kyzantine bodies piled in a crumpled heap. Limbs and heads lay strewn across the floor. The steady dripping of blood caught her attention, and her eyes were drawn to the growing pool beneath the corpses and the hand that rested at its edge. One body remained separate, alone, staring blankly into the tunnel towards her. Pyxis raced forward with a strangled cry, her wide eyes locked on the dagger protruding from her brother’s chest.

  Pyxis dropped to her knees beside Derrick, the torch falling into the puddle of blood. She pulled his head to her breast, the blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth still wet, staining her shirt. Tears ran down her cheeks as she rocked back and forth. Tenderly she pushed his blood-matted hair from his eyes and lowered her forehead to his.

  The guards looked on, suddenly awkward and unsure in the presence of such wretched grief. One eventually turned away and ordered others to secure the tunnel while another stooped and put an arm around Pyxis’ shoulders. Slowly she pulled the grief-stricken Pyxis away and indicated to the most senior man to carry Prince Derrick’s body.

  The Tarkinholm sergeant bent down and scooped his body up and led the way back out the tunnel, leaving the rest of the fallen behind. The Prince’s body hung limp in his arms as Pyxis held onto his hand and rubbed her eyes, wiping away the tears and allowing herself to be supported by the guard. Her blank eyes stared sightlessly at the ground. Emerging from the tunnel and the house, they were greeted by a crowd of onlookers. The crowd had been prepared for a fight, for unruly violence, not what appeared from the darkness. The collective intake of breath from the crowd as they took in the scene roused her from her stupor. Pyxis looked up and swallowed. Her eyes were red. She didn’t care.

  The chatter amongst the crowd ceased as she spoke, at first soft and broken, but gradually gaining strength and conviction as fury overcame her grief.

  ‘A Murukan blade has murdered my beloved brother and your Prince. The murder of the heir is an act of war. Let it be known that it was I, Pyxis Jorgh, third daughter of the Emperor, who declared war on those that defile the sanctity of the Kyzantine Empire with their evil magic and take from it, its heart — this was an act of ruthless abomination … and it shall be avenged!’

  Pyxis took another deep breath, her voice now steely and determined. ‘Assemble Tarkinholm’s forces here. Send riders across the Empire and to the Emperor and all the exarchs. Kyzantium must be informed, to mourn the loss of the beloved Prince and to know that the Empire’s forces must marshal for war.’

  Pyxis paused as she looked over Derrick’s body and muttered beneath her breath, ‘Blood for blood.’

  The crowd roared through sobs of grief and anger.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tugging at a boot, Castor half-hopped, half-stumbled down the roads of Buckthorne to the stables in the southern district. Finally pulling the boot on, he took off racing past the merchants erecting their stores in the early morning light, trying his best to ignore the smells that would endanger his chances of keeping his stomach. Dodging anything and everything that abruptly appeared in his way, his head ached from the night before and hurt worse with every sudden movement his body made.

  Castor leapt over the loose crates and narrowly avoided a wagon to cut the last corner around the second forge he had passed that morning with its coals already blazing, and entered the last straight. The stables were now in view and Castor could see the entire unit assembled before him.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he muttered under his breath, as he pushed aside the urge to vomit and told himself to run harder.

  The Nails were Buckthorne’s special forces. Unlike the Fangs, Buckthorne’s heavy cavalry unit, they were only two hundred men but they were trained to fight effectively in any terrain. Resembling more a unit of scouts or rangers, the Nails knew survival techniques, ambush tactics, and all were skilled with multiple weapons as well as being expert marksmen.

  Castor’s eyes washed over the faces of the men sitting patiently in their saddles at the marshalling point beside the stables. Dressed in light armour, the two hundred members of the Nails resembled a unit of rangers, ready to travel the road and under the trees.

  Breathless and completely nauseous, he stopped in front of the commanding officer and doubled over with his hands clutching at his sides.

  ‘Sleep in?’ asked Lieutenant Thorr, a big grin on his face. Castor noticed that the lateness of the previous night and the vast quantities of alcohol did not show. His sandy-brown hair was combed neatly, parted on the left. Cleanly shaven, he looked ordered and prepared. His leather armour and boots had a shine about them and he just sat in the saddle, barely moving, patiently waiting at the front of the unit for Hydrus’ arrival.

  ‘Just a little … won’t be too long sir.’

  ‘Hurry Castor, Hydrus isn’t here yet and Argol has started to saddle your horse.’

  Panic set in at the mention of Hydrus’ name. Another reprimand would not aid his chances of promotion. Nor would his adventures with Argol if tales of their nights at Buckthorne’s pubs spread to the baron. He dashed off into the stables. The smell of fresh hay and the steeds accosted his nostrils as he stepped through the doorframe. It was cosy and homely — a sense of security that Castor always felt when he was here grooming Virtue after a ride or training exercise. He moved along to Virtue’s stall to find Argol diligently outfitting the horse.

  Argol’s lean figure quickly sat on the stool that he had only moments before stood on to throw the saddle over Virtue’s back and fastened the buckles underneath. He ran his hand through his short blonde hair as he turned and smiled at Castor. A suspicious look appeared on Castor’s face as that same smiling face had last night supplied him with more alcohol, long after he should have stopped knowing that he had to be up so dam early.

  ‘You don’t look so good Castor,’ Argol pointed out.

  ‘How come you don’t look like how I feel?’ Castor asked, a growing resentment bubbling from within.

  ‘Because I stopped drinking when you didn’t.’

  ‘Yet you kept buying me more drinks?’

  ‘I thought the joke would be worth it in the morning.’ Argol shrugged, offering the reins to Castor.

  ‘Cheers Argol, I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Argol looked the same as always. His eyes were bright and alert as if the late nights seemed not to hinder his carefree attitude. His rebellious nature revelled in its ability to always come out on top — a virtue that Castor admired in his brash friend. He grabbed the bridle from the rack and put it over Virtue’s head, while Argol whistled away happily, fastening the last of the buckles.

  ‘Hurry up boys,’ yelled Volans.

  Castor clutched at the reins as he led Virtue out of the stables behind Argol. He lined up at the back of the unit, put one foot in the stirrup, and heaved himself up. The sudden height made him swoon. He frantically grabbed the pommel to steady himself and pushed down the rising vomit at the back of his throat.

  Hydrus rode into the courtyard and halted at the front of the Nails. He cut an imposing figure on top of his mount. He wore the same leather armour and gear as the unit, but always polished and immaculate. It bore no marks of authority, but it didn't need them. His beard was trimmed along his square jaw, his dark hair rustling in the slight morning breeze. Without a word he had already affected the unit. Silence and order ran through the ranks as his eyes swept over them all.

  Hydrus brushed back his hair with the sweep of one hand, his steely grey eyes locking with Castor’s.

  ‘Big night?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘That’s no excuse for being late. You two can ride rear guard today.’

  He didn’t need to ask who would be joining him as punishment, the entire unit knew of the animosity between Argol and Hydrus. ‘Yes sir.’

  Castor watched the faintest smile disappear as Hydrus turned and briefly spoke to Volans. Castor refused t
o give him the satisfaction and stared him down while he finished issuing orders.

  ‘There have been reports that a group of thieves have been raiding the Trasken road over the last week. They are armed and have killed those not willing to stand down. Orders are to take them alive unless, of course, they dare to attack you; then you have orders to kill them. It would be a shame if highly-skilled knights such as yourselves were killed by mere vagabonds. What would I tell your women?’

  Laughter erupted from the unit as Hydrus grinned broadly.

  ‘Let’s move out and get this over with.’

  Castor looked over at Argol to see him shrug his shoulders. If Castor hadn’t befriended him years before, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten into so much trouble. Argol’s antics did seem to rub off and he would always find himself in the middle of things. Like last night, with Argol’s coercion to continue drinking. Well, trouble loved company.

  The cobbled paths and stonework buildings echoed the clapping of the horseshoes as the column moved orderly from the stables. The colours from the passing flowerbeds brightened the track used by the knights. The reds and whites juxtaposed the stony greys. The Nails set out in pairs through the streets of the keep to the gate. Few people moved along that track, but the occasional child managed to slip away from a guardian to watch them pass. Castor knew the Nails weren’t the grandest of sights in their leather riding armour, but he smiled and nodded to the kids anyway. It wasn’t that long ago when he would have been one of them.

  The wooden gate was reinforced with steel braces and stone stairs on either side led to the ramparts and turrets that guarded the entrance. Two surly guards stood to either side. It was obvious they wished they were somewhere else today. Castor rode through the bottleneck on the other side of the gate, the long enclosed death trap encased in shadow, to emerge in the brightness of the morning’s sun.

  Argol and Castor rounded the corner of the stone walls and continued their slow trot as they watched the Nails kick their mount’s flanks and gallop off. Castor held onto the reins and did not give Virtue her head, allowing a suitable distance to establish.