BW XXVIII - Hintzu
A tall warrior, dressed in half plate armour, studded with vicious spikes, barks an order which echoes in Hintzu’s mind, “Put him there.”
The knight uses his notched broad sword to point to a stocky bed in the centre of a round room, “be careful!” Concern is written across his battle worn face, blood streaks down from a cut high on his forehead, and matted amber hair partially covers his left eye.
Four men enter the room through an iron-bound, narrow wooden door. The room is somehow familiar to Hintzu - he knows to be a sparsely furnished room within a round tower of a fortification; the men bear a body of a man, stripped to his blood-stained undergarments. His long blonde hair falls lankly from his head to the floor as he is carried across to the bed.
Gently laid the knight says, in softer tone, “Thank you. Please pass word that our King is soon to be met by Zeus at Olympus. Garund, see if you can find Yorinksen.”
“Yes my Lord Valourin, I saw him scurry to the keep during the last assault.”
“Watch your tongue, Garund! He will soon be King.”
“I apologise my Lord, but we had little hope before King Silmar took his mortal blow; what hope have we now?”
“The hope that comes from desperation and knowing that all we have left is our dignity and the ability to choose how we will die.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
As if he had finally made up his mind the warrior ordered, “Garund, prepare for an attack, we will sortie in full strength; get all those able to wield a weapon ready.”
A weak voice comes from the bed where the battered and broken body lies, “Valourin..?”
“Yes my King, I am here.”
“You are now King, my friend…” with every word comes pain as bright-red blood dribbles from the Kings lips.
“What of your son, he is the chosen one?” protests the knight.
“He is not worthy; where was he at Yarlug?”
“Don’t do this – it is not right my Liege.”
“There is not a better man Valourin,” coughs the dying King.
Hintzu’s fitful dreams are shaken again by a cry, “Look out my Liege!”
The battle raged around the monk, he could almost smell the death. Ducking between sword and spear, the warrior parries, swings, thrusts and jabs in all directions. Lythe and strong, he cuts through his foe like a knife through butter. But before him stands a fell beast; Hintzu knows it to be Guerin.
“Aha behold, Valourin, who stands atop that barbican tower.” The great evil warrior-mage, points to the gate high up on the narrow mountain path on which they stand. “Now you know, Valourin, he is mine.”
“No Guerin…” the warrior appears to slump but then charges, enraged. His sword smashes into the beast’s side, threatening to topple him from the precipice. Laughing, the warlock regains his footing and thrusts his great sword into Valourin’s chest; at the same time, for but an instant, they are wreathed in blue light that sparks and bounces from and between all nearby. Valourin is thrown back and those nearby fall, in smoking heaps of flesh and metal or are cast down the mighty mountain slopes which guard the gate.
Just when all seemed lost, Valourin leapt up, turned from his enemy and charged up the slope, cutting his way along the narrow path at inhuman pace. Every blow brought death to his enemy, many cast down in sheer fright. It seemed like but a few strides before the warrior covered the steep incline and reached the gate. His men had rallied and pushed forward, cutting of the Warlock leaving him to scream insults and rue the day he sortied beyond his keep. “With me!” shouted the knight, “to the barbican” Set free Silmar’s son!”
Those that could, followed their Liege, smashing the way to the partially open gates, from where the enemy still poured. A brief delay as Valourin cut down another great troll; then he was in. Barely attacking, he avoided being surrounded – leaping and springing – swiftly he ascended the stone stairs to the wall, pushing those that would bar his way to their doom far below.
“Come Prince, this way! We need to go before they shut the gates.”
“No! I will not! Guerin has made an alliance with me, the true King. Go now Pretender! Take your pitiful force with you before it is crushed!” The younger man recoils to the far side of the tower as the knight cuts down another of Guerin’s men that was foolish enough to oppose him.
“Oh my young fool,” exclaimed Valourin, “now seeing the devilment and trickery for what it was, “what have you done?”
“I have done the right thing, the courageous thing for my people. Guerin will provide for us, help us defeat that accursed sea witch father was so fond of. He will destroy you Valourin and let me take rightful seat as King of the Men of Farass!”
“You little fool! You are no more a king than he is; when it has no more use for you, you will be destroyed! I beseech you Prince, come back to us. All is not lost and we can rid our homeland of this hated foe.” Getting closer now, Valourin stretches out an arm in desperation as he sees the Prince get closer to the edge of the tower.
“I will not!”
“Then all is lost.” Valourin turns to see that his enemy have not been idle. The few of his men that survive are surrounded in the courtyard below and between them is the might of Guerin’s army.