The Prince of Graves by W.E. Linde
The Prince of Graves
By W. E. Linde
Copyright 2012 W.E. Linde
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When the devils rise and the living wail
The dead reach out, cold and pale
The days of men shall falter and fail
Entombed forever beyond the veil
No hope, no rest, no power to save
The wicked day dawns as the noble day wanes
The light and life of the kingdom fades
When all kneel down to the Prince of Graves
The End Times Prophecy from The Vhendis, the Tome of the Prophets
Chapter 1: The Northern Storm
Prince Frey watched from atop his war horse as three of his spies galloped up narrow, winding switchbacks. Their return was later than expected. With the sun already starting its descent, Frey had decided to move his forces when a spotter called out that the spies were speeding in from the north.
"Tell Captain Vraim to come to me once he takes the report," he said to his squire, who immediately turned and scrabbled down the narrow path past a knot of archers settling into position. Frey frowned inwardly as he watched them signal to another group of bowmen on the opposite side of the wide passage his troops were currently fortifying. Nearly eight hundred horsemen with seven squads of longbow men were arrayed at this spillway that was the only exit from the southern reaches of the Frost Lands. The land was a dry, freezing gully bounded by steep, rocky walls that rose into craggy cliffs. These offered a commanding view into the desolate hills of the lifeless land to the north.
An army foolish enough to journey through the Frost Lands would have to come through this pass. Despite the wide, flat, and easily traversed ground between the ridges, to do so would invite carnage because of the way the steep walls would channel them. A brutal ambush would be easy to plan. Frey grunted to himself, and turned his horse carefully on the narrow trail. He intended this ambush to be devastating.
Slowly, he guided the lightly armored horse down an ancient animal trail which hugged the steep wall of the ravine. After only a dozen yards, a smaller path rose back upwards again. He took this path and was greeted by his retinue of eight knights and Prevost, his man-at-arms. He would wait here for Captain Vraim's report.
* * *
"My Lord, Magus Dayhoral's words are all true,” said Captain Vraim. Although only five years older than Frey, Vraim looked like he could be the prince’s father. His long face and graying brown beard betrayed a weariness that would have slowed a lesser man. “The Dagir Xethu dared to cross the Deihaken Mountains and are assembling near the mountain called Sleeping Lady. What is more, the spies believe they also intend to journey through the heart of the Frost Lands."
"Ha! Let them then," scoffed Prevost. Brown haired and clean shaven, Prevost wore the light plate armor of the cavalryman. His helmet was removed and his chest plates set aside, along with the armor of the rest of the retinue gathered to council their prince. Though skilled in combat, Prevost was brash and reckless in Frey's eyes. "They'll die in that wasteland."
Frey nodded. This would be true for any other enemy. The frigid hills of the southern reaches of the mountains were savaged by severe ridges, which created a natural labyrinth. The dry lands were devoid of life and most of the water was poison.
"Lord," said Vraim. "By all reason the enemy's strategy is madness. But the powers of the Necromancer Kings are unfathomable. Somehow they traversed mountains which are well nigh impassible to a man, much less a heavily laden army. And lord, this army is massive. The spies reported at least four Great Columns had issued from an unseen pass, and more were coming. They had to flee or risk detection."
Frey stepped to the edge of the cliff and pointed to the northern horizon, dominated as far as the eye could see to the east and west by the ice covered granite giants of Deihaken.
"I do not know these lands as well as my brother Ghelan. He expected this, as impossible as it seemed. He also believes the Xethu will push through the Frost Lands."
"The channels are steep and bewitching," countered Prevost. "Entire expeditions have become lost in that ungodly maze. Even if the fools do enter there, surely it will take weeks to emerge. We can lay up ambushes and attack them at will."
Frey glanced at Vraim, then back at the mountains.
Prince Dehrbane, one of Frey's three elder brothers and third in line to the throne, had argued vociferously against placing Frey's forces here. The main body of the Dagir Xethu, the Armies of Death, was massing on the western side of the River Vendehar, across from the Plains of Ayar, nearly two hundred leagues southwest from where Frey and his brother Ghelan were now positioned. Their eldest brother, Prince Laveris, along with Prince Dehrbane, now led the vast bulk of the army there, while the Elder Wizard Layarax marshaled the powers of the magi against the main effort of the Necromancer Kings.
It was Layarax's apprentice Dayhoral who had exploded into the royal throne room two weeks ago. He declared to King Atherion and the Royal Magus Revhalom he had seen the impossible in a vision. A vast army from the north was crossing the deadly Deihaken Mountains, which intended to drive south and march upon Ceremane the Great, capital of Valeot, while her armies were engaged in combat upon the Plains of Ayar.
Dehrbane had argued there was no direct route through the Frost Lands that this army, if it existed, could traverse. The crisscrossing ridges created wide, unforgiving lanes, none of which provided a direct route south to where Frey was now.
Ghelan remained adamant. The Dagir Xethu were not constrained with the same limitations as the Eastern armies of Valeot. Although mortal men mostly filled their ranks, the Armies of Death were driven by forces that pushed them beyond human limits. Frey nodded at this thought.
An army nearly as large as that of Valeot's has crossed mountains we thought impassable.
"Captain Vraim, the Dagir Xethu will push due south. The ridges will not confine them as they do us. They will emerge near here. We have no idea how swiftly the enemy will travel, nor how far away my brother's forces are, so we must set up our ambush now. We have one thousand men, and they at least four times our number."
Vraim opened a thick parchment and spread it out over a wide rock that jutted out from the side of the cliff at waist height. Frey, Prevost, and Caither Chief of the Archers closed in to read it.
"This is the map our men drew as they made their way north to spy out the movement of the enemy. At the widest point, roughly where we are now," Vraim swept his hand wide to gesture toward the slope on the opposite side of the pass, "it is too wide for our archers to engage forces driving down the center. While it is likely when the enemy moves through here there will be plenty of targets close enough to their positions, I think they should move further north, where the pass narrows. The slopes here, although steep, are irregular enough we can line up at least two squads of horsemen along the walls. They'll be unseen until the enemy is close at hand. They can then charge in and cut them off as the archers harry them."
"What of the remaining men?" asked Prevost.
"They should remain over the final rise near the mouth of the pass. Once the signal is given to engage, they will charge over the rise and hit the Dagir Xethu head on. That should prevent the enemy from attacking the archers, who can continue to rain death on them from the sides and rear until the cavalry has fully engaged."
Frey consented, and his captains hurried away to array their men. His thoughts moved to Ghelan. Only four years older than he, his brother was a master strategist. Elder knights and wise men who had chafed at the King's order to allow Ghelan to be included at the early war councils were soon taken in by his command of maneuver. After the renewed imperial intentions of the Necromancer Kingd
With the vast bulk of Valeot's armies now arrayed along the River Vendehar and on the plains, assembling a force capable of withstanding the northern threat proved challenging. As soon as seven hundred cavalry, infantry, and archers were massed, Ghelan went forward, instructing Frey to follow on as soon as he could organize the rest of the host. After another week, arms and soldiers enough had been pulled together, and they made north as fast as they could, arriving three days later at the pass.
"Where are you, brother?" asked Frey under his breath. He watched as a squad of his cavalry crossed the wide pass to seek vantage points to waylay the approaching enemy. He had expected a messenger or a signal of some kind when he arrived, but although the tracks of many horses were clearly evident at the mouth of the pass, he found neither. With a sigh he turned to Prevost, who had learned years ago it was best to let Frey brood in silence until he was ready to speak again.
"Find Dayhoral and bring him to me," Frey said. He then gave orders to prepare a nearby alcove, a recess in the cliff wall large enough for several men to gather, to be fitted as his war council. From there he would watch and wait for Ghelan, or the Dagir Xethu, to arrive.
Chapter 2: The Plains of Ayar
North of Hythena Forest and east of the river Vendehar, the border of the Necromancer Kingdoms, the expansive Plains of Ayar extended hundreds of leagues into Valeot, last of the Remnant Kingdoms. From a subtle bend in the river, a narrow road broke away from the King's Road and snaked to the east. Nearly two leagues hence stood Glorion, sanctuary of the Elder Magus, rising like a pearly fang from the green grasses of the plain.
The armies of Valeot and her allies swarmed around Glorion, pouring in from the road. Once tranquil meadows vanished as war machines and defensive fighting positions were cut into the earth. Half a league to the north a vast number of archers and catapults were arrayed, where the expanse of the river was most narrow. From there the dread Dagir Xethu, the Armies of the Necromancer Kingdoms, were expected to cross.
Amid the frenzied work, a group of four riders mounted on heavily armored warhorses charged toward the glimmering tower. Already a number of tents had been erected around it, and hundreds of larger tents for the soldiers were being assembled. As the group of riders arrived at the tower, its single door, painted a shimmering emerald color and three times as tall as a man, swung wide.
The riders dismounted. Three of them, each wearing the thick silver plate armor of a heavy cavalryman, fell behind one who wore the royal colors, as they strode quickly to the door.
Prince Laveris stood taller than all around him. His black hair was wild, save for a single thin braid that ran down the side of each temple, his eyes dark and tumultuous. Wherever he walked, he filled his men with the same war lust hammering within his veins. Those who knew the prince understood he loved peace more than he loved war, but when war came, he embraced it. No fear was found in him, no doubt he would either lead his people to victory or be buried on the battlefield.
At his side, secure in a deep blue scabbard bound with silver rings, was the sword Valehem, the Son of the Gods. Laveris felt the weight of eons within the weapon, the hilt of which adorned the banner of his kingdom. His father, King Atherion, had presented it to him just before riding out to the western front. Laveris tried to refuse.
Father, he had said, Valehem must remain with you to defend the city should we perish on the plains. Ghelan and Frey will need it if the enemy lays siege.
Atherion had waved him silent, and commanded him once more to take up the ancient sword. His words were severe.
If you fall, Laveris, none of my sons will be mighty enough to save the kingdom.
Now Laveris stepped through the open door, his great helmet held at his side. Two men stood just within the entranceway. The first was familiar to the prince: Revhalom, the elder magus serving his father in the Court of Ceremane. He wore a dark gray robe with a lighter gray cloak over it. His beard was white and long, with the ends coiled into a series of leather bands that bore strange writings upon them. The wizard's hazel eyes had a predatory glint within them that had ever caused Laveris to feel uneasy in his presence.
Standing just behind Revhalom was an even older-looking man. Laveris stopped short as he felt an indescribable presence fill the tower around him. Layarax the Great, the eldest of magi, bowed respectfully to the prince. He was tall, although not as tall as Laveris. No hair was on his head but his silver beard was long and adorned with silver chains in a manner similar to Revhalom. His wizened face and head were nearly black, covered with tattoos and incantations written in some lost tongue. His silver robe was plain, and over it he wore a loose green vest. Embroidered on the vest, running up and down, golden words appeared to move in the flicker of the torches lighting the tower.
"Master Layarax, my father the king sends his greetings, and his gratitude. What news do you have? Our spies have been silent for three days now." Revhalom made as to speak, but Layarax stepped forward. The motion silenced the younger magus, and he stepped to one side.
"My lord prince, I have seen nothing new. The will of the enemy is bent on concealing their movements now, such as I have not seen since this war began. This alone tells us they plan a masterstroke. But I have received word the enemy has in fact traversed the Deihaken Mountains, as Dayhoral and your brother Ghelan believed."
The three companions of Laveris murmured among themselves at Layarax's words. The prince turned, and as he did so, he noticed the intensity within the elder wizard's eyes as he watched the three speaking behind him.
"You wish to send forces back to Ceremane to defend against this threat you never believed existed. Yes?" asked Layarax. The manner in which the wizard spoke indicated he already knew the answer.
Harkom, Laveris' man-at-arms, removed his helmet. He was a stout man, shorter than the others around him, and the oldest of Laveris' personal retinue. His short black hair was almost entirely overtaken with gray, but his age had yet to take his vitality. Laveris would not consider going to war without him.
"My lord, Ceremane has been emptied of most of her army," said Harkom. "If any significant force is able to cross the Old Mountains, then they can assuredly pass through the Frost Lands. We must consider dispatching a battalion or two to reinforce your brothers."
"The force which crosses from the north is great," said Layarax, holding up a slender hand. "At least four Great Columns have been propelled through those once impassible mountains and even now converge on the forces Ghelan and Frey command. But my prince…" at this Layarax looked to Revhalom. "The threat we face is no less dire. The massive armies you have assembled here will soon face the unmixed wrath of the Necromancer Kings."
"Prince Laveris," said Revhalom, "the movements of the Dagir Xethu have been invisible to our spies and the eyes of the magi. Even so, though we cannot see them, there is a malevolence approaching that is as plain as an evil sky before a storm. This presence bears down on your brothers in the north, and it comes here as well."
"Out with it, Revhalom," ordered Laveris. "Do you speak of the Death Knight?" Revhalom looked startled for a moment, which surprised the prince. He and his brothers were raised under the tutelage of the wizard. For years the royalty of Atherion's house had learned the history of the Remnant Kingdoms and the nature of the world — the natural and the unnatural — from the magi who served the Court of Valeot. Laveris knew Revhalom's many flaws, but also his character. Never before had he ever witnessed fear in the old man's countenance.
“In truth, the Death Knight d
"How?" Laveris demanded. "In the history of the Remnant Kingdoms there has never been more than one!" Laveris laid a hand on Revhalom, and only then did the prince realize the court wizard was trembling.
"The only time we have known of more than a single Death Knight, called Xethicor in our lore, is at the Fall of Maladine," said Layarax. "Now consider this, Prince Laveris. Valeot is the last of the Remnant Kingdoms. The Necromancer Kings now move to crush the final vestiges of the old ways, and with it the memory of anything we know as righteous. Once Valeot is gone, the remaining duchies will collapse quickly."
Laveris absently placed his left hand on the hilt of his weapon, looking from Revhalom to Layarax. The faces of the two magi flickered in the shadows of the tower entrance room, and the arcane tattoos on Layarax's face seemed almost alive.
"The Xethicor has brethren, the Dagir Xethu move invisibly, and the enemy is setting upon my brothers with a massive force. Wizards, do you offer any encouragement at all?"
"I can only say the men of Valeot and her allies have survived over a millennium in the face of the Necromancer Kingdoms for a reason." Layarax nodded to Revhalom, who bowed to him and the prince, then departed through the open door to the outside. "Stay true and hold fast to your courage.
"My prince, you wield the greatest weapon to ever grace the hands of the descendants of Maladine the Great. Valehem vanquished a Xethicor once before, and you are as great a warrior as has ever possessed it. In addition, I will give you a gift to help. Revhalom has taken your shield and now brings it to the smithy beneath my tower. Tonight I will enchant it to help you stand before the beast which leads the Dagir Xethu. For the time being, continue to prepare for the coming battle, for it will be unlike any you have ever seen."
Laveris looked intently at Layarax. The wizard wore a solemnity that was both comforting and enigmatic. He nodded.