Chapter 88: End Of Baron Garrick
Several men, just over three dozen, stood clustered in front of the largest manor in all of Graystone. Their mismatched leather armor was scratched and patched in too many places, and each carried a weapon of choice: spears, chipped swords, a few crude axes. They were a ragged crew, but their stance was defiant, their eyes hard. At their head stood a man with a red scarf tied tightly around his brow, the knot trailing down his neck like a banner of challenge.
Sand, the man with the scarf, lifted his sword and leveled its point toward the balcony of the only true stone manor in the entire town, a building of thick, grey-hewn blocks that loomed over the crooked timber structures surrounding it. There, standing with his elbows resting on the carved stone railing, was Baron Garrick.
The Baron’s frame was rotund, his double chin pressed against the high collar of his embroidered tunic, but in that moment he carried himself with the hauteur of a lord on his throne. His gaze was fixed on Sand and his men, sharp and condescending, though faint ripples of confusion stirred within it.
"Where are the rest of you? Where is Eric?" he asked, his voice cold, the words cutting through the still air. The weight of his tone made his bulk seem even more imposing.
"Eric?!" Sand barked, his lip curling. His men erupted into harsh, barking laughter, like hyenas scenting weakness. "You sent us straight into an ambush, you fat bastard! You said we’d be up against untrained, starving slaves. What we met there..." His voice turned low and venomous. "...were disciplined archers with deadlier aim than I’ve ever seen, and beasts, beasts with the bodies of men. Your elite Men-at-Arms, your precious cataphracts, were slaughtered to the last man without even taking a single life! And your priced Swordsman Eric was beheaded by one wielding two sabers!"
The laughter from Sand’s men turned into jeering shouts, some spitting on the cobblestones.
Garrick’s eyes narrowed to slits. Inside his mind, disbelief warred with anger. ’Beasts with the frames of a man? My cataphracts, wiped out? Impossible.’
"You drunken fool," Garrick growled, his face flushing crimson as his meaty hand shot forward, pointing a fat, trembling finger toward Sand. "Ale has rotted your brain! You babble treason in my street!" His voice quavered with fury.
Sand’s eyes flicked toward the entrance of the manor, where two dozen Men-at-Arms stood guard. They were an imposing sight, each clad in well-kept scale armor that gleamed faintly in the sunlight, long spears held upright like iron spines. Even at a glance, Sand knew their strength: all were at least peak-level Novices, and more than half carried the presence of true Adepts, their stances steady and disciplined.
Low-level Adepts or not, that was far beyond what Sand’s thirty-odd weary men could face. If it came to blood, they would be hacked down before crossing the courtyard.
Still, Sand didn’t waver. He spat on the ground, the glob landing dark against the pale cobblestones. "We’re done here. Give us our coin, Baron. This city will soon be overrun by those beasts you sent us to fight."
"I’d rather—!" Garrick began, his mouth twisting into a sneer, but his words were cut short.
The deep, resonant clang of a great bell split the air. Its sound rolled over the rooftops like a thunderclap. The tone was heavy, urgent, and grim, its voice unlike any common alarm or call to prayer.
Since the day it was hoisted into the tower above the town gate, that bell had never once been rung.
Everyone froze.
Its purpose was known to all: it was to be sounded only when a mortal threat bore down upon Graystone itself.
A cold weight dropped into Garrick’s gut. Could it be...?
His gaze snapped to Sand, but before either could speak, the Baron turned sharply on his heel, his heavy boots thudding on the stone floor as he disappeared into the shadowed depths of his manor.
At the outer gates of Graystone, the air was thick with the smell of pitch and fear. On the ramparts, the city’s archers peered down at the advancing horde, their hands trembling on bowstrings. What they saw chilled them to the bone, towering wolf-men, each one a wall of muscle and fur, their broad shoulders wrapped in leather armor, wide sabers glinting in the morning light, and heavy shields that looked as though they could turn aside a ballista bolt.
The Guardsmen moved as one, their footfalls pounding in unison, shields locked edge to edge in a seamless wall of fur and wood. The sight alone sent a shiver through the defenders, and in that instant of hesitation, they forgot to loose their arrows.
When at last they found the will to fire, it was already too late, the first volley clattered harmlessly off raised shields, deflected with calculated precision. The Guardsmen did not break formation, did not slow; they advanced like an unyielding tide.
When the wall loomed near, the formation shifted. With disciplined precision, the front rank split open, creating a gap. From within, over thirty Bloodstone Archers unfurled the great, leathery wings folded at their backs, wings like those of a monstrous bat, each beat stirring the dust beneath them. With a burst of strength, they took to the air, streaking upward in a flurry of black shapes and snapping wind.
The defenders barely had time to shout before the first of them landed atop the ramparts. Daggers flashed silver in the sun, plunging into throats, sliding under ribs, severing bowstrings before they could be drawn. Blood slicked the stone underfoot as one archer after another toppled from the wall, lifeless. In less than a minute, the parapets were theirs.
But the Bloodstone Archers didn’t linger, they turned their attention to the soldiers scrambling up stairs, driving them back with swift, precise strikes. Below, the pressure mounted against the gates.
Vi appeared at the head of the Guardsmen, her boots splashing through mud and dust as it had rained a day after the battle at snake hill. Her lips moved in a steady, deliberate rhythm, each arcane syllable curling into the air like threads of power. The temperature seemed to drop as the magic gathered.
With a sound like a thunderclap, the enormous wooden gates buckled inward, splinters flying like shrapnel. The hinges tore away from their frames, dangling uselessly against the wall. Behind them, defenders were hurled backward as if struck by an unseen giant’s fist, their bodies tumbling across the cobblestones in a ragged heap.
"Kill as many as oppose!" Hound roared, his voice a thunderclap over the chaos as he surged past Vi, sabers gleaming. Hundreds of Guardsmen followed in his wake, their war cries echoing off the stone walls of Graystone. Above, the remaining Bloodstone Archers swept toward the ramparts like dark, winged shadows, loosing arrows down upon the defenders from the very walls meant to protect them.
Through her sharp, azure eyes, Vi fixed her gaze on Kaelor, who strode into the town with Keranous slung over his shoulder. He moved with a calm, deadly purpose that contrasted with the pandemonium around him. A few paces inside, a Footman broke from the fray, charging headlong with shield raised and sword poised to strike.
Kaelor’s grip tightened on Keranous. With both arms wrapped around the hilt, he swung in a brutal arc. The sheer force of the blow shattered the shield like rotted wood, sending the man hurtling into the side of a building with a sickening crunch.
Without slowing, Kaelor stomped forward, the ground cracking beneath his boots, and drove his sword clean through another Footman. He lifted the man effortlessly on the blade before hurling the corpse into two others, knocking them sprawling.
A third Footman swung at his head, Kaelor ducked, and in that instant, an arrow whistled past, burying itself in the man’s neck. Kaelor didn’t glance back; his path remained forward. Against these soldiers, most of whom were stronger than those he’d faced at Snake Hill three days ago, he needed no more than two or three strikes each to cut them down.
Moments later, Kaelor stepped into the Baron’s courtyard. The gates were open, and the cobblestones were already slick with the blood of his fallen men. His brown eyes swept the space, taking in the twenty cataphracts in gleaming scale armor, spears leveled at him in perfect formation, and at the center, Baron Garrick.
The Baron sat on the edge of a marble fountain crowned by the sculpture of a rearing tiger, his scale armor glinting faintly beneath the afternoon light. A massive halberd rested in his hands, blood at its edge, and his gaze was cold, sharp with malice.
"God knows where you brought these beasts from. Killing you will be wiping the black stain from the name of House Dravion," Baron Garrick spat, his words dripping venom. At his command, the cataphracts surged forward.
Kaelor’s mana flared like wildfire, surging into Keranous. The runes along its length blazed to life as he swept the longsword in a wide horizontal slash. A torrent of flames roared forth, engulfing six cataphracts and hurling them backwards like rag dolls.
The rest pressed in. Kaelor sidestepped the first thrust, smashing his blade through the man’s chest in a spray of blood. Seizing the spear of another just behind the head, he yanked the soldier off balance, ripped Keranous free, and in one fluid motion, removed the man’s head.
Four spears came at him from every direction, the points screeching against the Mountainhide Armor in a useless assault. Before their surprise could even register, black wings erupted from Kaelor’s back, each as wide as a ship’s sail. The jagged edges of the wings tore through two cataphracts outright, while Keranous cleaved the remaining three.
A spear jabbed from behind, but the weapon splintered harmlessly against the impenetrable armor. Kaelor lashed out with a wing, the blow so fierce it flung the attacker from the courtyard.
He barely had time to turn before movement surged from the fountain. The tiger sculpture, tossed with terrifying speed, slammed into Kaelor’s chest and sent him skidding across the courtyard.
The impact cracked the cobblestones beneath him, but he rolled to the side just as Garrick’s halberd came down like a falling tree, pulverizing the stone where he had lain.
"When were you this skilled and what are those at your back?" Garrick demanded, the jewels on his fingers catching the light as he tightened his grip on the thick shaft of his weapon.
Kaelor rose slowly, touching the shallow, bleeding cuts on his face. His expression was carved from granite, and his breath came heavy but steady. With both hands on Keranous, he sank into a stance, rooted and mountain-like.
Garrick leaped, his halberd cutting the air with such force that the wind screamed apart. But Kaelor’s form blurred into black mist, vanishing from sight. An instant later, he reappeared above Garrick, the Baron helpless against gravity’s pull.
Keranous plunged down, punching through Garrick’s back and bursting out his chest in a spray of crimson. The Baron collapsed forward, blood streaming from his mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Whore’s abomination..." he choked, voice breaking. "You’ll... die like what you are..." His gaze dimmed to nothing, and he fell, lifeless, at Kaelor’s feet.
The siege finally ground to its bloody end a few hours later, the cries of the dying fading into the heavy silence of victory. The streets of Graystone lay littered with broken weapons, torn banners, and the fallen, Footmen sprawled where they had made their last stand, their blood running into the gutters.
On the highest balcony of the Baron’s manor, Kaelor stood, his hands resting on the cool stone railing. Vi was beside him, the wind tugging gently at the loose strands of her hair. From here, they could see the entire ruined town, the silhouettes of Guardsmen moving through the streets below like silent sentinels.
"We lost ten Guardsmen... and three Bloodstone Archers," Kaelor said at last, his voice low.
Vi turned her head toward him. "And we found ten thousand gold coins in the Baron’s vault," she replied, her tone carrying a hint of dry satisfaction. "Over three hundred horses and you won the war. Yes, there were losses, but there will always be losses. The key is to make them as few as possible."
Kaelor’s eyes drifted closed for a brief moment, as though shutting out the battlefield lingering in his mind. When he opened them again, they were fixed on the streets below. "The people," he murmured. "What do you think I should do about them?"
"Force them to your domain," Vi answered without hesitation. "They are your spoils of war. If you choose to rule here in Garrick’s stead, they will be your subjects. The same applies now."
Her words made Kaelor glance at her, hard lines etching themselves into his face. "They’ll think they’re slaves," he said flatly.
"Let them think whatever they want," Vi countered, her voice calm, almost soothing. "What matters is what you think. And when they see what your domain has to offer, their hearts will change."
While speaking, she stepped closer, the soft brush of her arm against his drawing his attention. She leaned in, her presence carrying the faint scent of lilacs, and planted a delicate kiss on his cheek, a fleeting touch, yet deliberate. "...Congratulations," she whispered, her lips close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath, "...on winning your first battle against a fellow nobleman."
Their eyes met and held, her dazzling azure gaze, full of quiet pride and swirling emotions, locking with his plain, earth-brown eyes, still shadowed by the weight of command.
’This should at least keep your mind off the people,’ she thought as her expression softened ever so slightly. ’You’ll see that you’re not doing the wrong thing... My Lord.’
*****
A/N: End of volume 1 (First Steps of a Lord)
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