Arbalest: Legend of the Horn

Copyright © 2013 H. J. Courtright.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-1250-4 (e)

Abbott Press rev. date: 12/13/2013

CONTENTS

Introduction

What Has Gone Before

Siege

Deliverance

Part One The King

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part Two The Horn

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Part Three The Legend

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

What Remains After

To

Rita

INTRODUCTION

I have always been the inquisitive one in the crowd. In school it was I who was caught daydreaming, not of activities after the last bell would ring, but over a phrase in a book or perhaps the teacher’s le cture.

There is at least one of us in every class. We are the storytellers, those charged with weaving the loose strands of society into a seamless cord of wonder.

Arbalest, Legend of the Horn is a unique telling of a timeless legend, that of the unicorn. Here is a tale where good struggles to overcome evil, where perseverance, determination, and inner strength is tested against hatred and deceit. Above all, it is a story of how young men and women, in their struggle to free the land, release the hero from within.

Regards,

H. J. Courtright

WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE

SIEGE

T he season was hard, unforgiving; the winter solstice still a fortnight distant. Leagues away, the rhythms of the land would drown beneath the heavy, unnatural beat of an approaching march from the south and west. Soon brush, burrow, and den would be trampled underfoot as the horde tread past the banks of briny Paralic Fen, and wade in haste through the shallow currents of River Necfluve. In half a day, the ranks would enter the eastern foothills to amass in the forest of the ou tland.

Luther, Lord of the Southern Plain, urged his mount beneath the archway formed of dead summer vines onto the dried grasses of the glade; each stride of his black stallion giving credence to icy breezes that stirred with the bitterness of change.

His eyes never faltered from his hardened gaze set upon the coat of arms carved deeply into the dense oak grain of the main gate of Castle Ahryz. The likeness of two horned stallions to either side of a shield was easily discerned even from his point of vantage, a distance half again beyond bowshot.

Absorbing the vibrant chill of the air in each breath, he pondered over how the hardening weather would soon be to his advantage. The scent of winter grew heavy, only to further enhance the savouring of victory upon his lips.

Castle Ahryz, built upon a narrow sliver of the mountain peak, stood as lone sentinel of the eastern lands. The west wall, embedded in the stone at precipice edge, looked down from the highest summit and across a vast expanse of swamps, grasses, and waterways known as the Plashland, to a second range of mountains set along the far horizon. The wall toward the north was sheer, unknowable, with its root of stone buried deep into the firmament of the mountain peak. The foundation of the east, too, had footing in a sheer, unyielding slope. Though further along, the steep incline softened, tapering to a ravine. Midway to ancient rapids, the terrain leveled to a modest plateau where a canopy of towering pines guarded the graves of those who fell in service to their king.

Only the main gate, centered along the southern wall, lay open to the passage of man or beast, either side of which stood two lesser towers housing the pawls, pinions, and gears that raise the great oak timbers. Behind the gate, toward the center of the outer perimeter of granite, stood the keep. A valuable point of vantage at nearly twice the height of the walls, this fortress lay watch, exposing all who encroached upon the outland.

Seven years, old friend, Luther said, in a long lingering sigh. His roving gaze captured sight of whom he perceived as his nemesis watching from the uppermost window of the keep. The eye of his memory returned him to the field of battle forcing him to relive his pain and degradation.

Deafened by the clash of steel, shaken by swords trembling in mortal dance, his lungs fouled in the dense veil of smoke. His sight clouded. Ash gathered in his throat. He drove onward, wielding his sword, swinging, stabbing, striving to end the ordeal before the fist of Death closed about his heart. Each lunge forced the substance of his conquest deeper into his soul, but as victory came to within his grasp, the blade of his enemy plunged into his flesh.

His sword fell heavy upon the frozen earth, his hand no longer able to grasp, or even feel, the hilt. His enemy’s blade pulled free. He shuddered from the unsettling creak between steel and bone. His arm rained with blood as his warmth transformed to vapor in the frigid air. He descended to his knees in defeat.

Your time of reckoning draws near, Luther whispered, as the vision faded. Pity you suffer with the sickness of mercy. He rubbed his right arm careful not to disturb the sling that held it to his side. The limb was dead, unfeeling, though did well in filling his soul with hate, You should have killed me.

His black steed repeatedly dug a nervous hoof into the earth, keeping time with the strengthening rumble that disturbed the silence of the glade. The gate of Ahryz raised and a detachment of three rode out from beneath the granite archway.

Take all but one, Luther commanded of his archers as the three came to a halt a short throw from the withered archway.

Two arrows fell two riders, and Luther rode to address the survivor who stood in the dried grasses of the glade beside the dead.

Tell your king, I, Luther, Lord of the Southern Plain, lay claim to Castle Ahryz and the lands governed therein, and demand his surrender, he said to the lone horseman. On the morrow we will begin the construct of our siege machines. His hardened gaze settled upon the figure at the window of the keep. I will tend a watchful eye, there, for a cloth of white should he choose wisely.

The messenger looked back from whence he came capturing a glimpse of the figure, then departed to deliver the decree. Luther returned to the threshold of tangled debris, and as if with the setting sun, vanished into the denseness of the outland.

The moon was still high as Luther rose from his slumber to once more stand beneath the withered archway. The dampness of the gathered haze crept into the seams and folds of his clothing. He stroked his coarse black beard. The thick scar from ear to chin felt ghastly, obscene, aching, even with the passage of years, though he was uncertain if the pain were real or imagined.

As the air turned to a morbid chill, the weeping night froze upon the dried grasses of the knoll as if long sorrowful tears. Patiently he waited through the darkest hours, and as the sun rose, the delicate crystal weave reflected the crimson glare of dawn. Crossing beneath the archway on foot, he stood amid the fiery hue, bathed in morning glare tainted by his vengeance.

Ah, Carion, Luther said, watching as the first of the flesh eating birds began circling overhead. My pets have come early on this frigid morn. He cast a critical eye toward the upper level of the keep. Behold, Harrold. As surely as the scavengers feast upon your dead, I, Luther, Lord of the Southern Plain, shall savour your defeat.

His gaze shifted to the fortress. Half lighted by dawn, it was clear that no cloth of white hung over the window’s sill. Movement along the catwalks drew his attention. A subtle grin emerged upon his lips, pleased his demands had gone unheeded, pleased the King of Ahryz surrendered to no man.

The hollow slice of the axe and topple of trees soon issued forth from behind the line separating forest from outland knoll. In three days, two towers composed of eight tiers of ladders and equal in height to the south wall loomed above the outland. In seven days more, the final lashings of the ram and catapults were tightened. Luther, Lord of the Southern Plain, cast his gaze upon the instruments of his victory, his revenge.

All is in readiness, Your Majesty, Weston announced, as the knight approached from the eastern flank, We await your command.

Luther examined the line of battle and the machines set into the hardened earth of the knoll a hair’s breadth beyond bowshot. He offered a final nod, and Weston signaled to the archer.

A flaming arrow sailed across the field of battle. Muscles tensed, the backs of a hundred men strained, as the siege towers lumbered forward. The towers buttressed against the south wall, one to either side of the gatehouse. Their joints creaked, strained, held. Catapults delivered flaming cargo to random places behind the castle walls, the battle ram scarred and pitched, though failed to compromise the oak of the main gate.

The sky filled with a rain of arrows set aloft in a long deadly arc from atop the catwalks, each surge ending with the pang and splinter of pierced armoury.

Invaders of untold numbers ascended the siege towers to be cut down as they emerged on the upper level. Burning oil was delivered atop the multitude, and all save for the many at the lowest points were boiled red and blistered.

A tower was ignited, and in a short time, consumed in flames. But instead of falling away in ruin, it toppled to the side, falling before the main gate in a mass of fiery timbers. Accepting how Fate had turned to his favour, Luther commanded for the flames to be fed more wood, and in the hours that followed, the great gate of oak grew weak.

Luther’s numbers still rose to the upper levels of the second tower. Etching deeper into the castle’s defense, their path of slaughter spilled upon the upper catwalks. The first breach of the south wall occurred a turn of the hourglass before dusk; the second, at the charred and weakened gate soon after. The plague of carnage blossomed forth with crushed skulls, severed limbs, and the disemboweled in its wake. The dead lay three deep, and still the horde surged forth.

Luther perceived the taste of blood upon his lips, hot, exalting, so unlike the stark, frigid bite of early winter. The imagined scent invaded his senses. Silently he rejoiced, as for the second time the throne of Ahryz came within his grasp. The siege, borne less than a fortnight past, was still unseasoned, as the wielding of a sword with hand untrue. Nevertheless, it will be written that on this day he conquered Ahryz by numbers alone, for if it could be said that, Luther, Lord of the Southern Plain, had a weakness, impatience was its name.

DELIVERANCE

B ellows expelled a stiff breath across the reddened coals of the forge, as the netherworld glow erupted from beneath the frail cloud of ash. The smith, his countenance scarred by cinder, streaked by soot, brought the hammer down upon the head of the battle axe. The blade, formed to a deadly curve, was tempered a final time in stagnant water; then the beaten edge was taken to slither along the surface of the stone and honed til sharp. Rhythms of war played loudest there, spilling into the faraway corners of the bailey, drowning the whisper of the fletcher’s knife as feathers were split in the fashioning of arrows for the archer’s q uiver.

The king watched from the highest window of the keep as the steady beat played in time to the strength of a growing arsenal. Over the south wall to the clearing beyond, he studied the arch of dead summer vines that formed the boundary between glade and forest, and from where a lone horseman rode forth. Halting on the summit of the open glade, Luther cast a gaze toward the fortress, and for a moment, the eyes of rivals met.

A deep rumble from within the gatehouse heralded the upward drawing of the gate. Three messengers set out to rendezvous with the Lord of the Southern Plain, and upon their arrival atop the summit, archers emerged from the thicket. Two arrows were let fly, two hearts pierced, two bodies fell, and the Lord, atop his steed of black, approached the last man standing.

The men spoke, and the lone messenger returned, met at the gate by Sebastian, the king’s friend and most trusted guard, who in minutes arrived in his presence.

Your Majesty . . .

I need not hear the words to know what is demanded of me, King Harrold interrupted, Luther knows I’ll not forsake Castle Ahryz and those seeking solace within her walls. He delivered a hardened gaze upon the rider, who withdrew into the cover of thicket. My father did not surrender to Luther the Elder, and I’ll not surrender to his son!

Touching the scar that split the features of his left cheek, his thoughts returned to a time seven years past. A day when the air was thick with smoke and cinder, his chest stiffened with gathering ash. The hilt of Luther’s sword had broken his cheek and jaw, and again, managing to escape all but the very point of steel, he felt defiled. His blood flowed hot and morbid upon his lips, spattering forth with each laboured breath. Little more remains in his memory than the forward charge, his final thrust, and the mercy he now regrets.

The vision withered. Keeping a watchful eye upon the bailey below, Harrold’s ear tuned to the steady delivery of hammer to anvil, the beat summoning his people to resolve; the greatest means of their defense. Day surrendered to night, slowing the rhythms of war, though never did they cease.

The moon rose, though before reaching its zenith was made obscure by a shroud of fog. The mist drifted lazily upon the glade, settling as heavy, mournful dew. The air became hard, and the stiffening chill brought stillness, freezing the shroud of moisture. The tears of the land became as crystal.

The sun emerged from within a pool of blood. The tainted glare of dawn charged the delicate filigree of ice with a fiery blaze. Luther passed beneath the archway of vines, coming to stand amid the reflection reminiscent of netherworld fire.

The glare of dawn diminished, withdrew, and the King of Ahryz was further taunted by the scavengers that had come to feast upon the slain messengers of the previous day. The birds’ talons, longer than a man’s fingers, and wingspan, half again a man in height, offered only the consolation that to them, the taste of living flesh was not palatable. The Carion have come early, though not unexpectedly so, for they follow upon