NaNoWriMo

Prologue

The harsh sun burned
violently down, causing the knights in armor to sweat vigorously as
they swung blades over the grass-grown courtyard. One cried out as
the other’s blade punched through his breastplate and seared
into his flesh, flaying ribbons across his ribs. Blood trickled over
the edge of the hole, but he swung his longsword at the other knight,
sending him skidding along the ground and making a furrow in the
ground. The fallen knight was Gearthon, last of the Nardain. His
armor was dark bronze, forged of the secret sun-steel mined from the
Black Mountains of the Far South, where once dwelt the Nardain, who
had ruled over all men.

The knight standing
over Gearthon was Zirutaor, a Shadow Knight and ally of the invading
vampires. He was clad in black iron and bore a longsword, which he
now raised for the killing blow. Ziruator brought his blade crashing
down on Gearthon’s head with a clang. Gearthon gasped with pain
and flung his broadsword, which knocked Ziruator to the ground.
Suddenly, a shrill horn called and the courtyard door burst off its
hinges as a band of men burst in, swinging swords. They were
mercenaries for the vampire king Kradzula. Some bore longbows, and
let loose shafts at Gearthon. Deflecting them all with his shield, he
jumped up, sheathed his sword in a ring at his belt, and grabbed his
own bow from where it was strapped across his back. His rowan hair
swept across his collarbones as he pulled back an arrow and felled
the mercenary warlord from his horse.

The mercenaries
charged him, trampling him down hacking and stabbing. Ziruator
stepped back, sheathing his longsword. “So long, Gearthon. I
must be getting back to Kradzula now. Enjoy dying, the last hope of
Armuthor.”

But the Shadow
Knight had underestimated Gearthon. The Nardain warrior rose again,
hewing aside mercenaries with loud clashes of his sword. The sheer
momentum flung most soldiers backwards. Once he had cleared a circle
around him, Gearthon charged their fallen lord, who had risen too and
was preparing to mount. Hewing him again to the ground, he mounted
his horse and galloped through the broken door. As he rode, he again
changed weapons and fired, the arrow piercing Ziruator’s armor
and sending him over his horse’s rump. The Nardain rode off
triumphantly, but injured badly.

The mercenaries sat
about, unsure of what to do. But Ziruator leapt onto his horse and
rallied them with his waving longsword, ribboned red, “To me,
hirelings! After the scum! Spill Nardain blood!”

They shouted
triumphantly and charged after Gearthon.

Chapter I – Oakbridge and Redstone

Swiftly, Gearthon was
riding east, towards Oakbridge Castle. It was one of the few that
remained occupied by Armuthorians. Reining his horse in at the gate,
he swung his broadsword and sliced a gap in the wood. His bulky
armored body smashed through the door, opening the gap wider.
Dragging the horse through by its head, he rode it over to a pile of
firewood. This was on a platform with wheels so it could be
distributed more easily. It was on a ramp, tied to the top. Gearthon
jumped up the ramp. Cutting the platform loose, he hopped on top of
it and rode it to the gate where he jumped off, letting it crash to
block the gap.

Suddenly the
gate-guard fell on him from the gate arch, attempting to cut his
throat with a shortsword. The knight was forced to defend himself
against the unknowing guard. He hurled him over his shoulder against
the wall. All the Armuthorian soldiers were frail and hungry from the
vampire invasion, when Armuthor had been stripped of produce and good
fields. The guard was severely injured. “No! Arthelas!”
cried Gearthon, bending over the guard. They had known each other
long.

“Gearth…on?
I’m sorr..y…can’t be too careful, friend..it’s
my fault…” gasped the dying guard as blood appeared on
his lips.

“No! The fault
is mine! Besides this, mercenaries are on their way with…with
Ziruator,” said the Nardain.

A strong voice from
behind barked, “Do not utter a Shadow Knight’s name here.
So, Gearthon. You have come back at last…and killed our
gateguard!”

“Forgive
him..it was necessary..better I than him, me lord…”
trailed off the now-dead Arthelas.

Lord Hrothgar of
Oakbridge drew his broadsword. “No, Arthelas! Gearthooon! You
fool! Traitor!” But suddenly an arrow zipped through a crack in
the barricade and hit his arm, piercing the golden armor.

“I did not
mean––” began Gearthon, but seeing blood on the
lord’s arm he drew his broadsword again. “Captain
Grethelin! Rally your soldiers!”

Grethelin appeared
at his side, shortsword drawn. He looked questioningly at Hrothgar.
The knight-lord grasped his arm and grimaced. “Do as he
says---mercenaries are on his heels!”

The captain of
Hrothgar’s warrior-guards blew his horn and a brigade of
archers and spearmen appeared in the courtyard. “We’re
under attaaack!” he cried, and they dashed up the stairs to the
walltops. Five fell instantly, pierced with mercenary arrows. The
rest ducked as a hail of shafts poured over the walls, dropping
several servants and squires in the courtyard. One flew at Gearthon,
but with a ping! he blocked it with his shield.

It was not long
before a fire was roaring and eating through the barricade. The
mercenary archers backed off with a few swordsmen and Ziruator,
firing at the wall-men, while the remainder fed the fire.

Finally, Grethelin’s
men realized they must charge. Bursting through the sallygate, they
burst into the swordsmen, driving them into the flames. The remainder
fired arrows into them, but were charged and battered down while
Ziruator galloped away.

Helpless because of
his wounds, Gearthon could not follow his foe, but sat with Hrothgar,
who had forsaken his wrath, but w as still grieved. “Such is
the power of the enemy we face,” muttered the Nardain.

Meanwhile, Ziruator was
almost at the gate of the Abandoned Castle, where he and Gearthon had
fought. As he rode past the broken boards he stopped with a stifled
cry. Arranged before him were two hundred vampire warriors, clad in
black plates and mail, draped in black cloaks, and wielding
longswords and shields. They were bareheaded, showing their shiny,
straight black hair which was tied back at the nape. Fangs hung over
lips that were pale as the rest of their skin. Kradzula the
Bloodthirsty was leading them.

Decked out in a red
cloak and black plates and mail, he too bore a longsword and shield.
His long hair was capped by a black, horned circlet. “You are
laaate, Ziruator.”

“A thousand
apologies, your Eminence. I was delayed by an…old score
that needed to be settled,” muttered the shadow knight,
stroking his swordhilt.

“Indeed! I
have a mission for you of most importance, as you will recall. Old
scores excuse nothing. When you return---as all who have tasted my
Blood of Nations must, you will be tortured cruelly. But for now
think on the trip. You must get for me that thing I desire almost
above blood itself: the Flaming Sword of the Nardain.”

“Yes, your
Eminence.”

“I’m not
finissssshed! You will have an escort of ten vampires. When you
return, you will be turned over to my torturers back east. After they
are through with you, you will be of no use to me. But you will have
learned too much; I will then hunt you down and kill you.”

“Yes, your
Eminence.”

“Go now. You
ten! Go with him! And make SURE he obeys my orderssssss!”

At the vampires’
whistles, eleven black dragons came around the corner of the keep
wall, having cleared the courtyard of remaining mercenary corpses.
The eleven riders mounted and flew off to the North.

Gearthon had mounted
again and ridden off east, because of a message that had come from
Redstone---the last castle standing against the Eastern invaders. He
rode along the road, surrounded by desolation and dead lands. His
black horse taken from the slain mercenary lord trotted wearily
along, his battered broadsword flapping against its side. His
sun-steel armor glistened with blood.

Suddenly he halted.
Overhead winged huge creatures; a dark shadow fell over him.

Above Gearthon, the
vampires directed their dragons to the Ziruator’s dragon’s
sides, where the bloodthirsty killers kept their blades at his throat
to ensure he did not try again to settle his old score.

Gearthon, however, had
no vampires keeping him from attacking. Eagerly he drew bow and
nocked an arrow on his bow-string---but then the Nardain stopped. He
was lucky enough they did not attack him. Best to ride on and ensure
that they did not. He rode on, face grim. He had seen enough blood
for one day.

The Nardain
warrior-knight made camp under a dead, gnarled tree that night. In
the morning he mounted again and rode on.

It was late in the
day that Gearthon saw ahead of him, on a hill surrounded by churned,
bloodied, corpse-covered earth. On its summit stood Redstone, its
walls battered down in places, but barricaded in these gaps with a
wooden palisade.

The Nardain knight
drove his horse up the hill, to the gates, which were rebuilt at
least every week because of the frequent assaults and failed sieges.
An arrow flew at him, zipping into the earth between his horse’s
hooves.

“Halt and be
recognized, or die where you stand, stranger!” cried a hoarse,
weary voice.

“I am
Gearthon, last of the Nardain, and your lord Elethor has requested an
audience with me!” replied Gearthon.

The gates opened a
crack and an archer appeared between them. “Come in swiftly. I
see vampires in the distance.”

Inside, the Nardain
was brought to Lord Elethor. The old knight’s hair was blond,
now graying. He was clad in dark red armor, and bore a heavy
shortsword. His face smoothed into what could pass as a grin.
“Gearthon…at last, you have come. Our messenger was sent
out just before a vampire raiding band was spotted, so we were afraid
they had caught him. But the guard tells me another assault is
already preparing. After the battle we will discuss why I have
brought you here.”

Even Gearthon was
taken aback at the calm with which Elethor spoke of the inevitable
battle ahead. But he marched up the crumbling steps to the walltops,
where Elethor’s spearmen, archers, and warrior-knights were
prepared.

The vampire host had
raised its banner---the red dragon against a black field. Elethor
gazed wearily on the tattered banner of the Armuthorians: the golden
ram’s head against a green field. Gearthon drew his bow and
nocked an arrow to it. Waiting…waiting…waiting…suddenly
the vampire war-horn called, and with a loud shout they charged,
faster than before, siege ladders carried above their heads. Black
arrows, poisoned and barbed, flew up and then hailed down on the
Armuthorians’ heads. An answering flight of shafts flew down
among the armored vampires. Charging…yelling…shooting…and
then the first black ladder clacked against the stone battlements,
and vampires swarmed up it. More and more ladders…more
vampires, and then the first ten heads appeared over the edge of the
wall.

With a cry, Gearthon
fired one more arrow into a vampire’s face and then sheathed
his bow and drew his broadsword, hurling himself at the creatures.
They fought like demons, slashing, weaving, and parrying in a deadly
dance, and darting and biting whenever they could. The Nardain
battered aside the vampires, despite a bite on his cheek and several
wounds in the places where his armor was open.

But the odds were
too great against him. A vampire darted in and slashed him across the
side, pulling back with his black shield raised. Gearthon stumbled,
leaning against the battlements. Suddenly, Elethor was at his side,
hewing down vampires like a whirlwind. The Nardain gratefully sighed,
but even so blood was trickling down his dark armor. Despite
incredible odds, Elethor’s men were each slaughtering the
vampires as quickly as possible, and soon, amid the heaps of corpses,
Elethor met their captain.

The two clashed
blades swiftly, and froze. Suddenly, Gearthon fired---his arrow
whizzed through the air and found the tall vampire’s throat.
With a mighty cry, Elethor’s spearmen and knights renewed their
vigor, driving the vampires over the walltops to fall among the
skeletons and briars. The vampires that were still at the foot of the
wall backed off and fired a hail of arrows. Gearthon took an arrow in
his collarbone, but swiftly drew shaft and placed an arrow in a
vampire’s chest. The vampires were cut down by a hail of
Armuthorian arrows. The remainder fled.

Cheerlessly, Elethor
led Gearthon into a small room in the keep.

“When will you
take your place, Gearthon?” asked Elethor bluntly.

“What mean
you?” murmured Gearthon, the arrow still in his collarbone.

“As king,
Gearthon! You are last of the Nardain, who once ruled Armuthor when
she was great; whether the Last King’s son or not it doesn’t
matter. You know people would rally to your banner, if only you would
be bold! Claim your place!” roared Elethor.

“You…you
know who I am? Can nothing be secret? If I were to claim Armuthor as
mine, my life would be even more in danger. Even now, Ziruator, the
shadow knight, seeks my life. I saw him yesterday, thrice! Each time
but the last I nearly lost my life!” exclaimed the secret
Nardain.

“Well…the
choice is yours, Gearthon. But your blood is no longer on my hands if
you die for your failure to duty.”

“I’ll
keep that in mind,” muttered Gearthon. “Meanwhile, I must
be leaving – unless you called for another reason?”

“That was all.
Farewell, Gearthon, Last of the Nardain. May you rethink your
decision.”

“May Redstone
stand long enough for Zradula to be defeated without the use of a
king of Armuthor.” Gearthon went down to the stables and
mounted his black horse. Now he had a different destination –
north, where Ziruator had been headed. Having collected a full quiver
from the dead lying on the walltops, he rode off into the dusk.

Chapter II – Ziruator is Hindered Twice

Elsewhere, Ziruator and
his ten escorts had reached the border of the Deepwoods, an enormous
pine forest separating Armuthor from the Northern Mountains.
Begrudgingly, they had camped there, and sat about a campfire warming
their hands and eating. Ziruator, being a Shadow Knight, was One with
darkness: it was his habitat, what he lived off of. But even he
glanced furtively into the trees, wondering what deadly menaces
lurked therein. The vampires kept their dragon-mounts close, as well
as their longswords.

Zradula is a fool
to think he has outwitted me, thought Ziruator. Certainly I
will return – with an army, and the Flaming Sword. Then he will
be sorry I ever tasted his Blood of Nations. My thirst will be
slaked; I will take it, and with such great Power taken from him, he
will die without use of my army or Sword.

The vampires
suspiciously let their hands stray to their swordhilts, ever watching
the once-great knight. But even vampires must sleep, and soon they
were. It was then Ziruator knew he must make a move; it was best not
to kill them yet, let their numbers be shortened by protecting him
throughout their journey through the Deepwoods. Then he would kill
them all when he had the Sword. But for now he must do something.
But suddenly, he stopped thinking and listened…

Thrump. Thrump.
Thrum-boombitty-thrump. Da-da-thrump.

War-drums sounded in
the distance, growing ever nearer through the forest. Ziruator
scarcely noticed the vampires wake up, they were so still with
fright. But suddenly a horn sounded and they knew they must fly or
fight. Ziruator drew his longsword. Slowly and hesitantly, the
vampires did likewise.

Zzzzzzrak!

One vampire fell, a
small arrow protruding from his throat. The bushes rustled; and then
the enemy came. They were wood-gnomes, short and stocky, wearing dull
cloaks, from the hoods of which protruded hooked noses. They rode
foxes, and carried bows and arrows, while short broadswords were
strapped to their backs. With a shrill cry they charged, firing
arrows and then drawing steel.

There were about two
hundred of the gnomes, but the vampiric dragons hurled clouds of fire
down among the little creatures, and the vampires hewed skillfully
among them. Eventually, though, the vampires and knight were forced
to mount their dragons, which they did with some difficulty. But one
gnome, dressed in a brown-ish earth-red, stabbed his sword into the
ground and fired one arrow, lit by dragon-flame, into one of the
scaly beasts’ mouths, and it fell over with a roar, crushing
its rider and ten gnomes. As the ten remaining dragons flew into the
air (one missing its rider) more arrows flew up, felling two more
vampires. Ziruator drew a vampiric bow from his saddle and fired a
barbed shaft down among them.

The ten dragons,
carrying seven vampires, winged off north, above the Deepwoods, and
away from the dwindled wood-gnome army. Just as dawn broke over the
forest, they landed, finally, their numbers shortened, and those
remaining disheartened and injured.

Gearthon had given the
deserted battleground a scanty review early that morning, and was
able to discern the gist of the battle and its two sides. Sheathing
his broadsword, which he had been using to scratch a map [of the
North] in the ground with by his campfire in the Deepwoods, the
Nardain knight mounted his black stallion and rode on through the
pines.

It was then he saw
what he was looking for: huge, shadowy shapes were standing ahead,
moving every now and then. By the smoky, musty smell, it was easy to
confirm his guess at their identity – dragons. Drawing his
sword, Gearthon dismounted cautiously and advanced through the trees,
leaving his horse with its reins tied to a tree.

The dragon-smell and
the shapes were in a small clearing amidst the trees. The knight
peered around the next pine-tree – and then felt a blade held
at his throat. The steel was sharp and very cold, but behind him he
felt a huge, radiating warmth, and a fur cloak tickled the back of
his neck. Without warning, a hand gauntleted in leather, thick and
large, grasped his shoulder and thrust him into the clearing.
Gearthon found himself surrounded, not by dragons, but by huge, furry
creatures, the general body shape and size of dragons, but with paws
like those of a huge lion, and broader necks, larger heads (with huge
hooked beaks like eagles’), and small, triangular ears. Besides
this, their furred tails were long and feathered, as well as their
wings. They were snow-griffins.

Standing near them
around a camp-fire of dead wood that scarcely smoked were creatures
like men, but much larger, with white and brown fur cloaks that made
them look even bigger. Their hoods were pulled up, and in their dark
depths burned red or icy blue eyes, depending on what color their
cloaks were. Beneath the hoods were helms, with great crests like
pairs of tall, spiraled horns. At the creatures’ sides were
swords, of an average length, but incredibly heavy and broad-bladed.
These were the Northlanders: the mountain satyrs in brown furs, and
their close relatives the snow satyrs, in white furs.

The white-cloaked
satyr behind Gearthon sheathed his sword with a resonating clang and
approached the fallen knight. From inside his hood came a deep voice,
both young and ancient, wise, noble, and solemn, addressing the other
snow satyrs: “What business doth a mortal have within the
Deepwoods, brothers? Thinkest thou not it to be strange that such a
thing should occur?”

“It is
strange, indeed, Icerider; but these are not our lands, and whether
or not mortals care to cause their own deaths by entering them it is
not our concern,” said Snowhelm, the snow satyr chieftain. All
of the satyrs present were princes, and thus brothers, with each of
the two races’ bands having a chief prince among them.

“They are
closer to our lands than yours, cousin,” said an even deeper
voice: that of the mountain satyr chief, Stoneblade; “But we
shall decide together what do with him.”

“Friends!…I
am Gearthon, a knight of the Armuthorians. I am on a journey t –
”

Stoneblade
interrupted him sharply, “You are not of the Armuthorians,
mortal. You are a man of Nardain, and as far as I have seen, ever
since the Battle of Kings, the last one. But why does a king stray so
far from his kingdom?”

“I am not
a king. Armuthor shall have no king. My life, as it is, is constantly
endangered; daily! But I am pursuing Ziruator, the Shadow Knight, and
his…companions. Long has he sought my life, and now he goes
too far north for my curiosity to be muffled. This shall be my”
Gearthon spoke with a groan, and looked suddenly very old, “last
battle. I shall die knowing that I have brought Ziruator with me. I
am too…too old in spirit; I am broken from constant battle.”

“Regard your
countrymen and duty in doing this you do not,” spoke Snowhelm.
“But we are your friends if you are neither vampire, brigand,
or Shadow Knight. Come, brothers and cousins; I say we aid him.
Perhaps with our guard he may survive to take up his duty as king.”

Quickly the other
satyr-princes realized the wisdom in this, and they mounted.
Gearthon, grateful for their help, found himself pulled up behind
Stoneblade on his griffin. Although snow-grifins do not breathe fire
as dragons do, they are much more reliable for use in the cold North,
and though they lack scale armor, are perhaps sturdier and hardier.
As the satyrs rode up into the warm noon air, they flew northwards. A
little less than a mile ahead could be seen vague shapes against the
mountains, flying high above the forest.

“There are the
vampires you seek, Gearthon; we saw them earlier today, but,
realizing they were on their way to our mountains, thought better to
investigate the area they had come from and then pursue them secretly
by night,” said Stoneblade. Besides himself, Icerider, and
Snowhelm, there were Frostrobe and Hoarblade, both snow satyrs, and
Rockscale and Soildark, mountain satyrs.

Ziruator was injured by
an arrow that had pierced his side, but he and the vampires had
tended to their own wounds as best as they could with what they had.
Three of the dragons were missing their riders, but instinctively
followed the rest. Things could scarcely have been worse it seemed,
when one of the vampires turned around to make sure his bow was
intact and saw behind them the seven snow-griffins.

“Griffinssss!”
the creature hissed, and the others turned and saw as well.

“Blast! Fly
hard north; if we can reach the Snowroad Pass we’ll be safe,”
snapped Ziruator.

The pass was about
three miles ahead. With a screech as the vampires’ dug spurs
in, the black dragons flapped their scaly wings against the coldening
air.

“They have seen
us,” said Stoneblade. The chase had begun. The satyrs each drew
a bow of horn and an arrow from their saddles, and made ready to fire
when in range.

“Forward, my
friend,” said Stoneblade in his griffin’s ear, and the
beast sped onwards; the others followed suit. When they were a little
more than thirty-five yards away, Icerider pulled back his shaft and
released it – the arrow sped, whistling, through the air and
buried itself in a vampire’s dark-cloaked back. “Hah!”
cried the snow satyr triumphantly as the vampire fell from his dragon
with a scream.

Soildark and
Rockscale released their arrows, but both fell short. Even
Stoneblade’s arrow only made a spark by striking against a
dragon’s side.

The vampires had
unanimously agreed that one should go back to slow the satyrs down –
the unhappy nominatee was forced either to have his throat bit by his
companions or to chance surviving by going back to attack their
pursuers. So he turned about his dragon and drew bow and shaft. When
he loosed arrow at Stoneblade, the mountain satyr chief deflected it
with a round shield each satyr had hanging from their saddles.
Soildark urged his griffin onward, drawing his broadsword. The
vampire, seeing the inevitable duel ahead, drew his longsword.

The two riders
clashed, flame lighting up the scene as sparks fell from the clashing
blade amidst the clawings and screeches of the two mounts. Finally
Soildark struck from the vampire’s side his left arm. The
unfortunate bloodsucker screamed and hurled his longsword at Soildark
desperately. The mountain satyr was nearly knocked from his
snow-griffin by the force of the blow; his rent cloak was soaked with
blood.

With a screech of
agony as the griffin’s sharp hooked beak tore at its jaws, the
dragon twisted and writhed, sending the vampire into the forest below
before it too fell heavily with a last burst of flame.

Soildark flew back to
the other seven, hunched over with deadly pain. His griffin, too, was
burnt and torn.

“Soildark! You
live!” cried Stoneblade, but even as he said this, the injured
mountain satyr slumped down in his saddle with a final groan.
“No…Soildark..brother…” Stoneblade gasped,
as the others lowered their heads solemnly. “They shall pay
with blood! Forward!” the chief’s griffin soared forward,
followed with some difficulty by the other five. Now Stoneblade was
at his archery again – shafts flew as if three satyrs were
firing. Though five arrows glanced off the dragons’ scaly
hides, two sunk into a vampire’s leg and back, and one into
another’s side. As his griffin gained on the dragons,
Stoneblade sheathed his bow and arrow and drew his broadsword. Flying
among the vampires, he hewed down one before Ziruator turned to face
him.

The Shadow Knight
rarely employed magic in his battles, as he was not very skillful at
it, but now as he muttered an enchantment a thick cloud of darkness
fell over the surrounding twenty-five square yards. Ziruator drew his
longsword and, being able to see through the darkness, flew towards
Stoneblade. With a swift blow he struck him across his chest, from
between his neck and shoulder to the opposite, bottom corner of his
ribcage. Instantly, he was forced to bring the edge of his blade up
to block Stoneblade’s weapon as it swung down at his head.
Ziruator thrusted; he parried, snapping his sword blade in half. With
a final slice at the satyr’s midriff, he wheeled his dragon
around to follow the others.

“To the pass!”
Ziruator cried.

Stoneblade’s
griffin was soon caught up to by the others. Weakly, the mountain
satyr chief spoke: “Forward, beast.” The griffin screamed
and flew onwards, followed by the others.

“Stoneblade!”
cried Snowhelm, as he rode to the other satyr’s side.

“Catch
them…don’t let them get to the Snowroad..” gasped
Stoneblade.

Icerider gritted his
teeth and narrowed his eyes inside the white fur hood. Whipping out
bow and arrow, he let fly three arrows in rapid succession at
Ziruator. The black-armored knight goaded his dragon to the side, and
all three arrows zipped against the giant lizard’s scales.

Ziruator rode low in
the saddle, hunched over against his mount’s neck. “Fly!
Swiftly!” he yelled, and the remaining vampire soared after him
on his black dragon. He turned and let loose an arrow. Rockscale the
mountain satyr fell, an arrow sticking out of his hood.

Icerider again let
loose two arrows simultaneously, but both missed as Ziruator’s
dragon heaved aside.

Snowhelm drew his
broadsword and flew his snow-griffin in close to the last vampire.
But the bloodsucking dragon-rider was not about to be killed like the
rest. Turning, he sunk an arrow into Snowhelm’s shoulder. The
snow satyr chief wheeled about on his griffin to join the other five
remaining satyrs. Gearthon, meanwhile, had leaped across the expanse
of air to Rockscale’s griffin. Wheeling it in close behind the
vampire, he went under the dragon towards Ziruator.

But it was too late.
Turning and loosing an arrow that struck Gearthon’s griffin
full in the throat, he rode down and alighted on the slope leading up
to the pass. He began climbing up the small rocky way frantically,
his dragon’s baggage now slung about his own armored shoulders.

Gearthon gave a yell
as his dead mount fell towards the rocks below. But suddenly
Stoneblade swooped down and caught him on his own griffin. The
Nardain looked at Stoneblade’s hooded face gratefully. But the
satyr chief was badly injured. Gearthon took the reins, landing the
griffin and calling to the other satyrs to do likewise. On foot, the
five satyrs and one mortal climbed after Ziruator and the vampire.
But the two servants of Zradula had reached the pass. Turning and
loosing two barbed arrows, both of which were deflected by satyrin
shields, they dashed up into the pass.

“The Sword is
said to be guarded in the Shepherd’s Temple by a mountain satyr
shepherd with strange powers,” explained Ziruator as the two
rushed through the open pass. Suddenly he stopped, pointing to a
narrow, rocky trail that led up to a white building high on the
eastern side of the pass. Turning to make sure their pursuers had not
caught up to them, the vampire followed Ziruator up the path. But
suddenly as they were climbing up, he stopped, and toppled over.

Ziruator stopped
only enough to see an Armuthorian shaft buried in the bloodsucker’s
side. He drew arrow and fired over his shoulder.

Gearthon had dashed
ahead of the rest, and was rapidly loosing shafts at the shadow
knight as the latter climbed towards the Temple. He reached the path.
Sheathing his bow, he unbuckled his pack and drew steel. Behind him,
Snowhelm was leading the satyrs along the pass towards the path.
Stoneblade was limping along, aided by Hoarblade. Frostrobe was not
with them.

As the vampire and
armored mortal, climbed, they suddenly saw ahead, standing in the
path, a form. He was not a mountain satyr, nor a snow satyr. Horns,
tall and spiraling, like those that made up the satyrin crests,
protruded from his curly hair. His legs had curly brown goat’s
hair and were shaped like a goat’s. He had hooves rather than
feet, and a long, tufted tail was behind him. His dark face was hard,
cold, and merciless. In his right hand was a strangely curved sword;
in his left a small round shield. At his back hung a quiver of arrows
and a recurved bow. He was a mountain satyr.

“You! Satyr!
Stand aside or be slain!” called Ziruator, as Gearthon roared
fiercely only about fifteen yards behind him. But suddenly the satyr,
with blinding speed, sheathed his sword, drew bow and arrow, and
fired. The arrow came too fast to be dodged; but it missed! Going
over Ziruator’s armored shoulder, it made a clank behind him.
The shadow knight held up his shield and gingerly looked behind him.

Gearthon lay in the
path, the satyric arrow piercing his breastplate.

“Nooo!
Gearthon!” came a deep voice, and a second arrow flew up from
the pass. The vampire took it in his back with a screech. Ziruator
drew his longsword and started towards the satyr, but the mountain
archer held up his hand and spoke, “Halt! You are a Shadow
Knight; you are among friends. We are on our way to march against
Armuthor. Come quickly!”

Without another
choice, the knight sheathed his longsword and followed the satyr up
the path, deflecting a flight of arrows from the satyrs. The satyr
led him to the Temple, where he whistled. Instantly satyrs came out
of the Temple, still holding piles of treasure. On seeing the satyrs,
they dropped the plunder and armed themssatyrs swiftly. A hail of
bodkin-headed arrows flew down at the satyr-princes. Hoarblade cried
out as one arrow hit his shoulder, while two more pinged off his
shield, one hit Stoneblade’s arm, and three were deflected by
the other satyrs’ shields.

An answering flight
of arrows zipped up, whistling, and each one dropped a satyr.
Snowhelm stood over Gearthon, loosing off arrows for all he was worth
at the satyrs. But then a satyric shaft pierced his cloak at the
collarbone, and another zipped into his shoulder. He gasped with pain
as blood trickled down and dripped on Gearthon’s sun-steel
armor. The satyrs drew their short, curved swords and charged down
the path in single file.

Snowhelm knew his
time had come. Pushing Gearthon behind him so that the Nardain rolled
down the path to the other satyrs, he whipped out an arrow. Firing
swiftly, he dropped three satyrs. The rest clumsily walked over them,
still shouting with bloodthirst. The snow satyr-prince chief fired
the last arrow in his quiver, taking an especial interest in pulling
it back as far it would go, and then loosing it at Ziruator. The
Shadow Knight fell to the ground where he was at the top of the path.

The satyr drew his
broadsword and cried, “Flee! I can hold them off!”

Behind him, the
other satyrs reluctantly backed off. “Go, you fools! Get
Gearthon his crown!” Snowhelm shouted as he flung back his hood
and cast his horn-crested helm to the ground. Long, flowing, strands
of golden hair spilled back, showing a fair, pale face in which were
set icy eyes. His long, pointed ears glistened with sweat. Snowhelm
met the first satyr with a mighty yell, hewing him to the ground with
a single blow.

“Come on, scum
of the mountains! See if you can get past satyrin steel!”

Accepting his
challenge, the satyrs poured down the path, falling like tipped-over
statues as the satyr ruthlessly cut them down. “There’s a
greater land to which I go, where the snow falls unhindered and light
shines through the darkness, and evil is no more! Send me home if you
can, satyr scum!” The great satyrin broadsword battered aside
satyrs with fierce clashes. But suddenly, a small satyr jumped in and
stabbed Snowhelm in his side. Smashing him to the ground, Snowhelm
gave a ragged yell, “Go, Gearthooon! Satyrdom stands!
Snowheeeeelm!” The satyrs poured against him like a river of
hair, muscle, horns, and flashing steel. He was puched back a meter,
to a place where the path widened out. Swinging his sword in wide
arches, Snowhelm attempted to keep them from getting around him.

The other three
satyrs and Gearthon watched over their shoulders as they climbed down
the pass. But Icerider, seeing Snowhelm’s dire position, drew
bow and shaft. “I can’t let him stand alone! There is a
gap in the path! Snowheeelm!”

“No! Let him
go! It is his destiny..” gasped Stoneblade. “But we must
get Gearthon his crown, if we can get him back to Armuthor alive. I
swear I will, on Snowhelm’s honor!” Hoarblade nodded
helplessly. But suddenly a change was heard in the sounds of battle.
A third satyrin voice rang out – from the top of the path –
“Snowhelm! You shall not fall!” Frostrobe fired his last
ten arrows down quickly before charging down, swinging his
broadsword. Icerider, Frostrobe, and Snowhelm fought together –
and gradually, as Stoneblade forced Hoarblade and Gearthon on down
the pass, were dying together.

The two satyrs and
the Nardain knight fled down the pass towards their griffins.

“Get them,
they’re only three satyrs!” cried Ziruator, moaning from
the satyrin arrows in his armor.

The mountain satyrs
pressed against the three snow satyrs viciously, wielding shields and
curved swords with skill. The Shadow Knight grabbed his vampiric bow
and began firing. Two arrows missed, one injured a satyr, and three
were deflected by the satyrs’ shields, but one sunk into
Frostrobe’s chest, and he fell, quickly being finished off by
satyric swords. Icerider cried out and drew bow and arrow, firing up
at Ziruator, regardless of the steel blades that cut him down even as
his arrow flew up and killed the satyr leader, who Ziruator pulled in
front of himself.

Snowhelm, first to
attack and last to stand, fell beneath the mirage of despair and
hewing blades.

The remaining two
satyrs and Gearthon, running hard, were in sight of their griffins
now. Behind them, the satyrs were streaming down the path, firing
arrows and brandishing swords.

“Come,
friend!” called Stoneblade in a monotone to his griffin. The
beast rose, flapping feathered wings, and Stoneblade mounted,
followed by Gearthon and Hoarblade. Suddenly, a hail of satyric
arrows buzzed down from a ledge on one of the mountains, where satyrs
had climbed through a shortcut. All the griffins but the three that
were flying off were pierced through and through, and slumped to the
ground with a chorusing screech.

Followed by a second
flight of arrows, the three griffins soared away, bursting out of the
snow-white clouds and flying south towards safety and security –
but how long could either last? Behind, Ziruator the Shadow Knight
cackled with glee as he drew from its spider-web-covered scabbard a
black, iron sword that flamed crimson as it felt the grip of its new
master. Mountain satyrs all about him fell to their knees and bowed
before their king. A new age had come. These were the days of King
Ziruator!

Chapter III – Gearthon Seeks His Crown

Gearthon,
Stoneblade, and Hoarblade had landed on the edge of the Deepwoods at
the wood-gnome camp, on pain of death by gnome-shafts.

Orgad Grimleaf, the
green-cloaked wood-gnome chieftain, sat astride his gray fox, bearing
an instrument that doubled as a scepter and short javelin. He spoke
as Stoneblade approached him, “I am Orgad Grimleaf, chietain of
the Deepwood-gnomes. What business have you here?”

Stoneblade threw
back his fur hood to reveal a pale face, eyes burning, draped with
silver hair. He drew his broadsword and thrust it into the ground.
“You know who you look upon, Orgad: I am Stoneblade, king of
mountain satyrs. If you let us not through safely, blood-guilt shall
be on you. We aid Gearthon, rightful king of Armuthor, against his
foes: not only the invading vampires, but a new menace; Ziruator the
Shadow Knight has taken command of the mountain satyrs and has
claimed the Flaming Sword of the Nardain. As we speak he marches
south against all free folk.”

“If what you
say is true…” began Orgad, shocked by the news.

“It is; and I
advise you not to stay and find out. The wood-gnomes will be
destroyed by Ziruator’s new army. You must rally to Gearthon’s
banner. Together perhaps we may make a last stand against Evil.”
Stoneblade turned to Gearthon and Hoarblade, leaving Orgad thoughtful
and surprised. “But I fear for our people: they do not know
what has become of us, and they too will be invaded by Ziruator once
he has gained more power.”

“What of
Zradula? You seem to think there is but one foe we face,” said
Gearthon.

Orgad broke in on
their conversation, “The wood-gnomes will serve the Crown of
the Nardain, as they once did before, when I was but a child. Where
to, my king?”

Gearthon bowed to
the gnome-chief and nodded. “Thank you, my friend. We go south:
we will take the war to Zradula! If you will it, Stoneblade.”

“I do. Let us
march at once. Armuthor has no hope until she has a king. Hoarblade!
Someone must bear word to the satyrs. It will be a perilous journey.
Who can we send?” asked Stoneblade.

“I am the last
prince of the snow satyrs; let me go,” said the white-garbed
satyr. “I will go alone.”

“No!”
said Orgad grimly. “You go attended. But only one gnome among
my people would go through such danger. It was he who killed one of
the vampires’ dragons: Orrick Beamshaft.”

The archer gnome
stepped forward from the ranks, a red fox at his side. His red-brown
cloak was bloodied and burnt, but from inside his hood glee beamed.
“Orrick at your service, me lord. When do we start?”

Orrick had asked
this as a way of displaying his eagerness, but Hoarblade grinned
grimly and answered him, “Now.”

So it was that there
was an alliance in the days of the vampire invasion between the
wood-gnomes of the Deepwoods and the New King Gearthon, Last of the
Nardain, and his followers. Hoarblade and Orrick set out at once back
through the woods. For secrecy, Hoarblade’s griffin mount
stayed back at the wood-gnome camp, and the satyr-king walked beside
Orrick’s fox, bearing only his bow and quiver.

Stoneblade and
Gearthon were tended to by the gnome healers, and then the gnomic
host mounted their foxes and rode south, with Gearthon and Stoneblade
marching beside Orgad on foot, bearing their bows, shields, and
swords. A light snow began to fall as the wood-gnomes marched,
heralding the oncoming winter.

Back in the South, at
Redstone Castle, Elethor’s men were keeping watch on the walls
when a watchman winded his horn, thrice. Elethor appeared on the
walls, his soldiers climbing up behind him. The old warrior-knight
gasped. A huge vampire host was approaching, the personal banner of
Zradula waving above their heads. They filled the entire valley with
their numbers. A forboding vampiric war-horn sounded, and the
enormous army charged.

Elethor’s face
hardened again. He turned to face his men. “We have fought
great hosts before, and defended ourssatyrs against many raids. This,
I fear, will be…the…last…” He sobbed, but
regained himself and cried in a cracked voice, “We will make a
last stand for glory. This is Armuthor’s darkest hour. And its
last. Prepare yourssatyrs,” Elethor added in a whisper, as
tears streamed down his grizzled face.

The men’s very
souls were thrown to the ground. But their lord narrowed his eyes and
stiffened as the valiant horn of Armuthor sounded.

Zradula’s host
charged.

The wood-gnome army
made camp in a small glade that crested a hill. Their foxes were more
intelligent than most, and did not need to be staked down. Rather,
they hung about or went off a short distance to hunt mice and other
wood-creatures for their masters.

Gearthon’s
sun-steel breastplate was glistening with sweat that had dripped off
his face.