2011 - Fantasy - Chapter I

Chapter I

Parista raised his head off the prayer mat and opened his eyes. A single flame held back the blackness of the chapel, the fire behind him little more than embers and what warmth the bare stone walls had once held was long departed, the slate beneath him cold as ice. Shutters shook and the flame atop the altar swayed like a snake, dying with a sudden hiss and reek of sulphur. Darkness swamped him.

The young scholar stood tall and slipped into his leather boots, flexing his neck left then right, before bowing low, hands clasped, to the alter he could no longer see. “Bless me, Almighty Harkveii, bringer of life, guardian of faith, I raise your sacred name to the moons.” The wind raged. A wolf howled in the distance and Parista shivered, tightening the belt around his woollen tunic. Something is wrong.

His father’s words came to him as if borne by the wind itself, ‘Trust your gut, my son, above every sense you possess, for it is a gift from God himself telling you to flee.’ He gulped back a rising fear. This is folly, man up, there is nothing to anx’ me tonight, aside from my speech and . . .

Wood exploded through the darkness as shutters smashed against their stone frame like a prow over rocks. “Ahhh!” Parista jumped back, shielding his face and tripping over an empty coal bucket. He fell hard against the door as a gale raged through the chapel. A tapestry was ripped from the wall. Candle holders crashed. A statue toppled in the darkness and dashed against the alter, shaking the room. Ash whirled in the storm burning his eyes, clinging to his throat. A warm trickle ran down his chest.

He staggered to the tall, arrow slit window, frigid fingers pulling his tunic, clawing his face. Squinting, he cast his gaze beyond the castle’s fire bathed walls, towards a distant mountain many leagues beyond.

Parista froze. His pale face was a cameo of dread. How can this be? His heart thudded. Sweat pricked his brow. 

For in the distance a fire blazed atop a snowy peak, as clear to his mind as the fear that coursed through his veins. “No. . . no,” he stammered, stepping back. “The beacon of Halifid . . . My God . . . what evil comes this way . . . The bell! Why is the bell not sounding! The bell!”

As a winged horse he fled from the chapel through the castle, up towards the roof where the bell tower loomed, its moonlit shadow cast across the courtyard below. Parista bounded up the stairs two at a time and barged through the door. An iron bell hung idle from sturdy rafters thirty feet above. An aged slave snored on a corner stool where a brazier smouldered beside him, the four windows of the tower fastened shut. “You fool!” Parista hissed, rushing past him to the hand crank.

Pulleys rattled to life as he forced the stiff handle down, the rope pulling tight against an iron spoked wheel. A thundering toll rung out across the castle, over the courtyard and walls, beyond frozen fields and into the homes of farmers and tanners, across the beds of children and into the ears of startled peasants.

The slave leapt off his stool, his face creased with a mix of fear and shock. Parista shot him a filthy glare as he rushed over and seized the handle, the bell booming ever louder.

Parista turned as a barrel-chested warrior flung open the door. Nearer seven foot that six, his scared face was set in a thunderous scowl, his silver hair spilling over unnaturally broad shoulders housed in burnished armour. 

“By God,” the warrior yelled, his voice deep as a well, “What is going on!” He looked to the slave, “Why is the alarm sounding!”

“The beacon of Halifid!” Parista yelled, “I saw it clear as the moons!”

Zandin threw open the north facing shutters. Snow raced through the stone slit, chilling the room in an instant. “I can scarce see the walls, let alone the mountains!” Zandin bellowed, facing the youth.

“I swear it by Almighty Harkveii! And on my mother’s grave! I saw it! Believe me!”

“Then we prepare for battle.”

Zandin rushed through the doorway, Parista close behind. The warrior marched out across the rooftop and turned to his charge. “By God, of all the nights . . . your father has left with half the garrison” His crimson cloak blustered in the gale. Muffled cries carried up from the courtyard.

“What shall we do?” Parista said, snow whirling in the darkness. “We could make for the city.”

“You will be safest here. We must prepare for the worst; there is no telling why the beacon was lit, but, it will not have been done lightly.”

“The Lusnains have broken through!” Parista looked to the warrior as the metallic toll boomed above the storm.

         “We must focus on the defence of this castle and the lives it guards. Villagers will be pouring in and there is much to do.” A young slave boy darted through the entrance, flaming torch in hand, and lit the braziers across the rooftop. The oily smoke drifted over Parista. 

         “My God, with so few men what chance do we have if an enemy comes . . .” Parista followed the warrior to the keep’s edge where lofty crenellations shielded the rooftop. Torches flickered wildly. Below, cloaked soldiers dashed from the keep into the towers, emerging onto the walls with shields held firm, bows at their back. Ballistas threatened from soaring turrets, the flags at their zenith straining against their poles. A trio of soldiers marched out from the gatehouse opposite, spears in hand, their crested helms marking them as picked men to Parista.

         “This keep can withstand more than you know,” the veteran boomed above the toll, “it has not fallen in two hundred turns, and it will not fall this night.”

         “I pray you are right, Zandin.” Parista said, shuddering as an icy blast cut through his tunic.

         “Do not forget the lessons of history; the siege of Ardukka where thirty men held an army at bay. Yes, these walls are strong,” he rapped the battlements with his gauntlet, “and my men the finest.” Zandin leaned through the battlements and cupped his hands about his mouth, “Light the walls! Light the walls!” His voice bounced off the stone as if an ox had lowed the command.

         “Will that not attract our foes?”

         “This fort is on every map, a stronghold safekeeping the trade routes from port to city. We cannot hide in the shadows like a lame stag, Parista, but must snarl as a wolf, our garrison full, our provisions over flowing. Image is half the battle, Parista.”

         “Yes, of course.” 

         Two soldiers in plate armour rushed up onto the roof, spears held firm. The taller of the two saluted Zandin, “Shall we send riders, sir?”

         “The six fleetest lancers to the village and largest farms, we can spare no more. Tell the people they must flee as if an army of demons were riding at their back, there is little time. Get as much livestock and salt as the wagons will carry. No sick slaves or peasants will be admitted here, disease is to be feared as the blade and they must trust to god. No exceptions. Now go.” 

         The soldier turned heel and vanished down the stairwell as Zandin addressed the other, “What is the garrison count?”

         “Fifty-seven able men, sir, less the lancers.”

         “So few . . .” He turned to Parista. “Master Alatra, a bold suggestion?” 

         “You are the commander, not I?”

         “But you are the head of this castle, the slaves are yours in your fathers absence.”

         Parista gasped, “You cannot mean what I think you do.” A horse neighed in the distance.

         “How many men of fighting age do you keep?”

         “It is against the holy law, Zandin, and what if the danger is another slave revolt, what then?”

         Zandin stepped closer to Parista, the vapour from his breath carried off in the storm. “That beacon is for us and make no mistake, either an army marches this way or something . . . something unthinkable has happened. We need those men, they are in as much danger as us. Your father has treated them well, they are all believers and have neither skill nor motive to challenge my men.”

         Parista exhaled. “Forgive me, I am still in shock.” He ran his hands through long, snow slick hair. “There are thirty collared men here, strong. They are yours to command, all but Suran, he stays with me.”

         Zandin nodded to the soldier who sped through the doorway, his grey cloak vanishing into shadow. “The eagles will not fly in this storm and we have no information to speak of. We must prepare for the worst; so ready yourself for war, Parista.” Zandin clasped his shoulder, “and remember all I have taught you.” He left the scholar alone on the rooftop, the bell tolling, tempest raging.

         Lord guide me and turn this fear into valour I pray. He descended to the third floor of the keep into a wide corridor, where busts of his forefathers lined the bare stone walls and torches flickered in a bitter draught.

“Master!”

Parista spun to see a slave in furs of grey rushing towards him, a heavy load in his arms.

“My Lord, forgive me, I have been seeking you, I thought you would have need of armour.” Suran panted hard, his pale cheeks flushed with exertion as he outstretched his arms.

“Suran, you have done well.” Parista slipped a leather cuirass over his head. “Pull the straps tight or I will bleed to death if an arrow strays.” The slave obeyed, grunting as he secured the armour. “Now the trews and greaves, make haste!” A black wolf-fur robe hung from the shoulders of his armour, the hood hanging loose at his back. “Good.” Parista checked the feel of the armour before looking Suran in the eye. “Danger approaches, and you may have need of your skills with the blade.” Suran’s dark eyes widened. “I always thought I would have more time . . . I am ill prepared for war.”

“You are a fine swordsman, master.” Suran said, stepping aside as a soldier rushed along the corridor, armour clanking.

“Sparring and battle are as comparable as a guttersnipe to a princess. I am not ready for this.”

“Master, I beseech you, stay calm. You have been taught by the best, the very best, and I know he esteems your skill.”

Parista paced along the passage, his heavy footfall echoing in the arched corridor. “I have spent my whole youth reading scrolls, transcribing, when I all I yearned to be was like my brother and live by the sword.”

“Master Alatra, you have a rare gift, far rarer than being a champion swordsman or beast hunter.”

“Ha!” Parista scoffed, “you can read the scrolls as well as I, and we both know it.”

“That is not so, master, and if it is, it is only because I have learnt from you.”

Parista stopped and faced Suran. “You know, the best thing I ever did was pick you,” he clasped the slave’s strong shoulders, “there is nothing you do not excel in. I know too, that one day you will be free, Suran, and that the iron around your neck will be replaced with the brand of freedom.”

“I do not entertain such desires, master, death will bring me freedom.” Suran looked to the flagstones at his feet.

“You are a bad lair Suran, which is why I have always trusted you; even a penned sheep wants to be free. Now arm yourself,” he slapped his back, “and prepare for freedom.” 



A guard in full chainmail armour opened the gatehouse side door. A brazier illuminated the sparsely furnished room where Zandin stood in the corner, bent double over a crudely fashioned table. “What news, Zandin?” Parista asked, as Suran shut the door behind him. 

The veteran looked up from the map over which he pored, the edges pinned down by two silver daggers. “Man the walls; I will speak with you later.”

Parista ascended the stone stairwell towards the upper level, Suran close behind in heavy armour, a sword sheathed at his side, round shield at his back. Two archers kept watch of the road through slit windows, bows at the ready. “A party approaches!” The archer yelled.

Parista peered through the arrow slit window. A convoy of wagons veered off the road and trundled towards the castle, lanterns swinging from the driver’s seats, casting a copper glow across peasants who ran alongside. “They are my father’s tenants,” Parista said. “Open the gates!” The command was relayed down until the din of iron chains filled the courtyard, rising above the ever chiming bell. Parista peered down at the beleaguered villagers, their fear wrought faces easing a touch as they passed through the gatehouse into the shelter of the courtyard. Cattle and goats were tied behind the wagons, bellowing as they were whipped through the gateway.

Behind the wagons came twenty men on horseback, their spears held sideways in a show of friendship. “Let them enter!” A soldier yelled from the platform above. Parista knew from their makeshift armour and sweating steeds that they were mere tradesmen, forced to flee their homes like rats on a sinking ship. Hoof beats echoed under the gatehouse. Still more people came, shackled slaves marching alongside wide eyed children and muscle bound farm hands, united in fear. Last came the old, wizened hags and silver haired men, with the six lancers riding at their rear. The order came and gates slammed shut. The thud of a great wooden beam reverberated as the bell fell silent. “Woman and children into the keep!” A distant voice boomed.

“Now we wait.” A black toothed archer said, warming his hands by a flaming brazier.

The might of the wind was twofold as Parista stepped out onto the wall. A shudder ripped through his body as if he had been plunged into an icy pool.

The walls, ten feet across and thrice that height, were crenulated on either side, the four corner towers rising a further twenty feet into the night sky, the flags at their zenith blustering wildly. A wolf howled in the distance and Parista turned to the forest, clutching his crossbow. I pray there are but beasts within the darkness tonight. He marched headlong into the wind, Suran at his heels, stopping on the eastern wall where five soldiers kept watch, some with long bows, others favouring the cross. “Keep your eyes peeled, Suran, any movement you see tell me at once. Be not afraid nor hesitate; it is better a moving branch than a hidden foe. I know your shot to be true, you are nearly as good as me.” Parista grinned nervously, his crossbow aiming out into darkness.

“Yes, master,” Suran said, looking beyond the ice topped crenulations.

“Bring that brazier closer will you.”

“Yes, master.”

Resting his shield against the wall, Parista rubbed his hands together whilst looking out at the forest’s edge, five hundred feet beyond. Great fir trees surrounded the castle, swaying like drunken giants in the gloom. The snow lessened as Parista looked up to the sky, breaks in the cloud giving way to distant stars. The stench of fresh horse piss carried on the gale.

Zandin’s blood-red cloak caught Parista’s eye as the veteran headed towards him. He held a bronze plated kite-shield in his left hand and an ivory hunts bow in his right. The warrior stopped before Parista and gazed out into the night, his black crest dancing with the wind.

“Have you seen the beacon lit before?” Parista asked, breaking the silence. He looked north towards the fire topped mountain, the only light in a sea of darkness.

Zandin rattled a phlegmy deposit from deep within his lungs, spitting the contents over the wall. “Once, on the turn of your brother’s birth, long ago.” 

“The great slave revolt. Could such a thing happen again?” Parista said, glancing at Suran.

“Anything is possible, but within the laws of reason it is as likely as the moons colliding.” Zandin said, his voice bouncing off the stone. “No. The beacon was lit for another reason unknown to me. Come, let us walk the walls, you can learn much.”   

The echo of running footsteps forced Parista to turn. Skyloikia stood before him, bow in hand, broad grin across her face. “Don’t be so surprised, brother, I love the snow.” She stood proud in a suit of leather armour, complemented by an open-faced helm with matching silver boots and gauntlets, her long hair tucked under collar. 

“Sky, go back inside!” Parista said.

“You are not my father, Parista, I will do as I please.”

“Do not test me, Sky.”

“Or what? What will you do, brother? My shot is as good as any man’s here, dare you deny it?”

“Why must you be so selfish? This is no place for you; no wolf hunt in the mountains.”

“All I see is a distant fire and you shaking life a leaf!”

Parista stepped close to her, his face set in a thunderous scowl. “You . . .”

“Do not embarrass yourself, brother.”

“Enough!” Zandin said, pushing them apart. “We need every hand we can and her eye is better than most.” 

Parista grunted. “Fine, but if there is danger she must retreat.”

“I will retreat when I am dead, brother,” Sky said, “and not before, I swear it by Harkveii.”

“You wish to join mother so soon? Think of our father.” Parista said.

“I will think of myself as you do, and do whatever pleases me.”

“No other girl would behave like this!” Parista said.

“I am certain you are right, and I thank God every day for it.” Skyloikia smiled, tightening her helmet strap.

They marched along the wall past vigilant soldiers, whose cloaks blustered with the wind, their faces set as stone, eyes probing the gloom. Parista glanced up at the castle where keen eyed archers patrolled the rooftop, silhouetted by dancing torch light. Slaves led livestock into stables as the villagers ascended the walls, familiarising themselves with new bows. Nervous chatter filled the night. “This ‘ere bows a ‘eeper,” Parista overheard a short man of ruddy complexion, “Never missed a shot in all me ‘ife. . .” They are scared as babes. The more they brag, the less sure they are. Harkveii protect us.

Armed slaves in thick furs filed along the walls, slingshots and bows at the ready as crested soldiers ordered them into line, their commands booming across the yard. Perhaps I would not enjoy army life as much as I suppose . . .  but there must be near two hundred men here and these walls are strong . . . what foe could harm us here . . . An owl screeched in the darkness. 

Zandin stopped beneath the shelter of a tower and faced the two Alatras’. “Inexperience is mercilessly punished in battle, remember that before you play the hero. Your father pays me to guard you as much as this keep. There is no shame in sheltering a storm, none.” He continued his patrol, the siblings close behind.   

Parista looked to the yard. An aged slave with a crooked gait scattered handfuls of salt over cobbles, whilst another entered the stables, oil lamp in hand. Flames moved within the castle, behind five floors of shuttered windows, the muted light reflected off icy stone. Smoke spiralled up from chimneys into the night. Snow whirled, mixing with oily smoke before settling beyond the walls. Shadows leapt across the walls as bony fingers, ever moving as the wind raged.

Four slaves daubed in hooded white furs rushed from the keep laden with trays of piping telsup, each entering a different tower. Kennelled hounds barked from behind the castle. Parista shivered.

“The dogs are ill at ease,” Parista said, gripping his shield strap with renewed vigour. “You told me they can sense what we cannot.” 

“They can, but what more can we do but keep watch and pray?” Zandin said, bow in hand. “Your heart is eager for battle, master Alatra, but if it came you would pray to Harkveii that you were safe behind a desk again, believe me. I see the false glory of war within you every time we train, it is as natural as the changing seasons, but the wise know it is but a passing phase of youth and those who have seen the horrors wish it on none.” 

“I would enlist tomorrow were that path not barred to me, but I have accepted that, Zandin.” Parista said, “despite my gift with the blade.”

“Gift?” Skyloikia said, smirking.

“Silence sister! I am too tired to jest now, you only speak so as you know it to be true.” Parista said, tapping the sword at his side.     

“All young men are the same, blood and glory, women and wine but the reality of war is very different. Only a few ever make it.” The warrior stepped aside as a slave boy darted from the tower door.

“Yet you are one of those few; Zandin ‘the unmatched’, the ‘warrior of warriors’.” Parista said, his voice laced with awe.

“Do not believe all that you hear of me, I had as much luck as good judgment and those days are long past. The life of a soldier was thrust upon me, be thankful you were not drafted. There is no joy in trenches knee deep in gore, or watching as friends succumb to maggoty ‘fested wounds. Would I be here, guarding this small fort if I were such a fine warrior?”

“As you say, my father pays handsomely.” Parista smiled, “And you are not as young as you once were.” 

Zandin motioned them to move with a grunt. “Keep spy of the land.”

Parista focused on the forest’s edge as he walked, where the silhouettes of countless firs danced and darkness pervaded. Nothing . . . Just trees and shadow and this icy wind. Wait! What was that! He squinted into darkness. His heart thudded against the wall of his chest.

        “A torch! Look!”  He cried.

The veteran turned to the direction Parista pointed. His face morphed into a look of disbelief.

War horns blared from within the darkness.