Prologue (sorry no title as yet.)

The crows arrived with the dawn. They cawed shrilly and swooped and banked over the battlefield, their ravenous cries echoing all around. With sickening indiscretion these carrion eaters clawed and pecked the bodies of dead soldiers, women and even children. The dead lay everywhere, some slumped over, others propped up against house walls with gaping wounds, dead mothers held  dead children with their slain husbands lying close by. There were hundreds of corpses in front of the walls and the arrow peppered battlefield was stained crimson as the crows went about their ghastly work.
         
Smoke billowed thickly from the burning city of Stormhould, the walls had already fallen, the attacking army using jagged ladders and siege towers to gain them after days of fighting. The rampaging invaders spread throughout the city like a murderous cancer, killing and raping as they went in their bestial frenzy. They were garbed almost exclusively in furs and rough leather, heavy boots and many sported horned helms that glinted red in the growing fire giving the soldiers a demonic appearance. They screamed brutish battle cries and brandished their weapons of steel in the air. The invaders wielded a variety of cruel looking weapons ranging from barbed broadswords to blackened spears with serrated edges, weapons designed to maimed and hurt as well as kill.

The steely ring of clashing blades announced that the struggle for the city continued as small pockets of resistance stalwartly defended the doomed city. Small skirmishes between the marauders and soldiers were being fought in alleys and doorways; every inch of ground gained by the invaders was sorely contested at the cost of many lives on both sides. However, the brave defenders were inexorably falling back as the rampant attackers pushed forward like a dread tide cutting and killing.

In one such instance, two soldiers fought desperately to hold off a dozen raiders, standing back to back in the entrance to a garden where inside a young woman was attempting to flee with two children. The men slashed and hacked with their blades at the enemies with courage born of fear for the woman, many raiders fell under their strokes but the tiring soldiers had been cut several times and were exhausted. Having taken a spear through the stomach one of the soldiers threw himself upon the mass of warriors pushing them back as he wildly swung his sword in their midst. Three went down under his frenzied attack but he fell under the wicked stabbing of a half-dozen blades. His comrade, alone now called for the woman to run before drawing his dagger. With sword and dagger he charged the remaining invaders, stabbing one man in the eye and decapitating another with a high sweep of his long-sword. The raiders, seeing the young woman making her escape, renewed their onslaught and the last soldier was cut down with a vicious blow from a heavily muscled brute.

With hoots and cries the men then gave chase to the terror stricken woman who stumbled and fell under the weight of the two children she carried. She cried out for the children to run on but they stood mute in fear as the raiders bore down on them. The foremost killer, the brawny man who so savagely struck down the soldier, grabbed the woman by the ankle and violently dragged her back towards him. One of the children ran to the woman and tried to hold her away from the man, her skinny arms could not even slow the brute.

The other child, a boy of around twelve, dust smudged and tear stained, ran at the man only to be casually beaten aside. He fell in the soot covered road and through bleary, smoke stung eyes he saw a horseman charge out of the haze, arrows flying over his shoulder to bury into the massive chest of the raider. The rider charged on and scattered the remaining raiders, his war mount kicking and rearing and his silver blade cutting the air in glittering arcs. The attackers fled.

Dismounting, the children’s saviour ran to the woman, “Are you okay, m’lady?” he asked. Then he helped her to her feet before calling the children to him. He wore the blue leaf emblem of the city guard; his hair was dark and his armour dirty. He ordered them onto the horse and began to lead them swiftly away towards the looming citadel. Archers from the murder holes situated in the walls covered their retreat. The gates opened with a groan and they were ushered into a busy hall.

All around soldiers were taking up positions and readying themselves for a last stand. Courage and hatred for the murdering enemy shone in their eyes. These soldiers had lost their homes and their families to the invaders and the desire for vengeance and to be reunited with their loved ones drove them to this valiant last defiance of the enemy. Some leaned against the marble walls of the hall sharpening their swords to a killing edge. The rasping sounds of whetstones being dragged over steel and the droning mumblings of a priest who blessed each soldier echoed off the lofty ceiling and walls. Large heroic busts decorated the room and their grim, statuesque gazes fell on the waiting men, and each man staring grimly back.

The priest, wearing a black robe of costly weave with a shaven head and a groomed grey beard, exhorted the soldiers and extolled the virtues of heroism and bravery, “Men of Stormhould! Your deeds this day will reverberate throughout the centuries as all remember the courageous last stand of the city.” He paused, looking round, “In the eyes of our great God your sacrifice is a holy and worthwhile action. You stand against an evil enemy and you shall reap the rewards of your defiance in Paradise.”

The speech continued in much the same way with the priest becoming more zealous and impassioned by his own words than the men did. By the time he finished his face was flushed and red but his eyes shone with religious righteousness. Meanwhile the young woman and the children were escorted to a grey-haired soldier who stood at the rear gesticulating and shouting at the men. His voice boomed out, “Move forward you dolts! God you are a bunch of useless whoresons. Get those archers up onto that pigging balcony. Move!”

The young warrior guiding the woman said, “This is Sergeant Foster m’lady. He’s the last officer in the city and is overseeing the defence of the citadel.” The sergeant was a heavily built veteran with close-cropped, greying hair. His face was broad and his features flat, he bore scars from past battles on his brawny arms and a vivid red one ran down his cheek from eye to mouth. As he stood among the milling men he continued to shout orders and insults.

Then seeing the shaken young woman he lowered his voice, “M’lady you should not be here now. The other women and children have already fled with an escort out the northern gate.”

The woman met the man’s eyes and determination shone in her stare, “These children are my reason for being here. As a duchess of this kingdom I am charged with the protection of the royal blood.” The veteran regarded the children and recognised them as cousins of the dead king. The woman continued, “I will leave presently and make for our allies in the north. They shall give us shelter and protection. Once there I shall inform king Ralis of the attack and he will send his army to your aid.”

“Little chance of that m’lady.” He looked around, “Look at us. Every man here will be crow food in a few hours. These men have accepted death in order to see the woman to safety. No relief aid will arrive in time to save us. Tell the good king to stay his army and prepare his own lands for invasion.” With that he shouted for a man to take the Duchess and the children to the rear exit of the citadel.

He turned to her and said, “Stay out of sight and do not travel by the road. It is surely patrolled by now. I suggest you find a route through the forest that will take you past the patrols.” He indicated the soldier beside them, “This is Orrin and he will guide you and protect you until you reach your destination.” With that he stomped away and soon his deep voice was bellowing out at his soldiers.

“This way lady” said the dark-haired Orrin. She followed him, holding the two children by the hands and without a backwards glance, left the hall.

Foster watched his men as they prepared for the final battle of their lives, these were the last, the slain duke’s bodyguard, fifty men against a blood-hungry army of savages. The attackers had appeared without warning on the borders of the dukedom, seventy thousand invaders who destroyed and burned every village and town in their path to the capital. The duke’s advisors were at a loss as to where these aggressors came from, they seemingly just appeared on the border and began sacking and pillaging the land. Now the Duke and his sage advisors are dead. thought the Sergeant as he waited, and we will be joining them soon as well.

All the preparations had been made and all that remained was to wait for the end. The invaders would come, screaming and roaring, to the thick oak doors of the citadel and they would throw themselves upon the defenders with animal ferocity until all were dead and the marble washed crimson with the noble blood of the last soldiers of Stormhould. Some of the men were becoming restless and edgy, Foster strolled around among them, bolstering flagging courage and joking and insulting the men. The grim laughter of the men rang out as they responded to his jibes and the tension lessened.

Just then a keening battle cry sounded from the courtyard, followed by the blood-freezing roar of hundreds of men. “Here they come Sergeant!” shouted a soldier from an upstairs window. The pounding of heavy boots and the rattling of armour accompanied by shrill hoots announced the first charge of the enemy. The Sergeant took his place calmly in the front rank, “It is an honour to fight and die beside you men today. Stand tall and proud. Die with dignity and like men. Come on lads! Send as many of these bastard savage’s souls screaming into the darkness with you.” The attackers were in sight now, horned helms and flashing steel charging towards the line of defenders.

“God but you are a smelly bunch of whoresons aren’t you” shouted Foster as he drew his sword. He spat on the ground before him in defiance and levelled his blade towards the attackers.

Swords and men clashed and the battle was joined.

Far above the screams of the wounded and the rending of bone and flesh someone watched the battle closely. Lucia used the eyes of her spirit to float closer to the battle, seeing the brave Sergeant brutally cut down enemies all around him with fierce economy of effort. All around him the defenders fought with equal efficiency as the death toll among the attackers soared. Scores of the leather clad savages lay strewn on the cold stone of the hall, among them she could perceive the fallen soldiers of Stormhould. They were steadily being killed as they butchered the unorganised attackers and soon they would all decorate the white marble with their bodies. Sadness washed over her like a crushing wave as she watched these brave men fight without hope of success.

She retreated from the scene to her vantage point high in the dawn sky. Here among the crows and the clouds she observed the rest of the invading army as they spread throughout the rest of the conquered city, looting and burning as they went. Outside the city walls, on a rounded hill she saw that a squatting black tent had been erected and was surrounded by around one hundred men, all armoured in sable plate mail with full faced helms that resembled daemons and contorted faces. A crimson standard fluttered spasmodically in the brisk morning breeze outside the entrance of the tent.

Through her magically attuned senses Lucia felt a dark and evil power emanating from the tent compelling her to come closer. Like a potent black mist the sinister power called her and she reluctantly answered. As she drew nearer to the tent the vileness became thicker and almost tangible and she became afraid, her own powers were renowned and feared throughout the land yet she knew that this alien sorcery dwarfed them. However, she swallowed the rising panic and continued to advance towards the source of the magic.

Working progress to be continued.