Читать книгу The Portaellen War Chronicles - C.P. Bird - Страница 8

Chapter One

The South Western Coast of Fantaellen

Portaellen year of 1420

The unpredictable swell of the coastal waves pushed a small rowing boat, over the crashing breakers of the Stoirim Sea, and onto the sandy shore. Six hooded figures, with their faces blackened, quickly jumped clear of their vessel, before running at a pace, up the sands, through the black, inky darkness, of the dead of night, towards the shelter of some rocks, up ahead.

The hooded figures, remained in the shadows of the rocks for a short while, as they watched and observed for any enemy, sentry movements on the headland and the high ground, that overlooked the beach. The dark horizon before them, was illuminated by the two Portaellen full moons, in the star strewn sky. The beams of both moons were extended beyond the higher ground, and were rested, just in front of their hiding position. The hooded figures remained as still as possible, as their eyes continued to scan the high ground.

The order to break cover, was finally given, with a hand signal. The six figures now made their way across the sand towards a grassy bank. Every man, watching, observing and being careful, to stay as low as possible, as they ran.

Within a short distance, they became spooked, when two sentries suddenly appeared, at either end of a path, on the headland, and proceeded to walk towards one another. All six, instantly hit the sand, and remained still and silent, for a moment or so, as they observed the sentries, walking towards one another.

The two sentries, eventually came to a halt, when they met, on the high ground. For several minutes, they spoke. Their voices carried faint, on the wind. The six hooded figures waited patiently. Their existence on the sand, engulfed by the darkness and the shadows, just beyond the reach of the moon beams. There, they stayed, observing the enemy sentries, not a muscle twitching. Their breathing controlled. Their blackened faces watching and waiting for their moment to move.

As the two Fantaellen sentries parted, and began to walk in opposite directions, the order was given by several hand signals, for the group to split up. Two, were sent in the direction of one of the sentries, and two sent towards the other. The final two, made their way, along the beach, towards a grassy bank.

The larger figure, a man who had a prominent scar, across his forehead, that was red and swollen, was the leader of the group. He watched closely, as his men moved into position, ready to attack. He then turned to the younger man, who was a lot smaller in stature, and carried a satchel, which he looked into checking the contents.

‘Do you think, you have enough poison, to get the job done?’ enquired the leader.

‘Yes. More than enough,’ replied the younger man.

‘Good. You must not be seen entering. Remember, present yourself, as if you’ve been there for a while. Learn all the routes quickly, through the passageways and corridors. No one must suspect. When you have completed the mission, send the signal. And don’t forget. If you need them, we have someone, on the inside.’

‘Yes sir. I remember their name.’

‘Excellent. Our ships in the fog, are relying on you. The signal, must be given.’

‘Yes sir. I will not let them down.’

‘Right. Excellent. Now make ready. The sentries, are about to be dealt with.’

The two now watched, as simultaneously, a hooded assassin, crept out from the shadows to stand silently behind each sentry, before forcibly placing a hand over their enemies’ mouths. Instantly, there was a flash of a small blade, followed by a thrust of the weapon, deep into the lower back. Quickly, but silently, the two sentries were pulled to the ground, where their throats were then slit. The hand of the assassin was only released, when their victim, showed no signs of life.

A signal now came from the high ground. It was time to move.

The leader now watched, as the younger man stumbled at first, before making his way up the grassy bank, towards the summit of the high ground. It wasn’t long, before he disappeared from view completely, having run into a large, wooded area, on the northern edge, of some distant headland.

The rest of the group of assassins, now listened intently, as their leader gave them his order’s. They had cleared the immediate path of danger, for the lone assassin, and they now had a mission of their own. Nobody would hopefully know of their existence, till morning, when the lone rowing boat would be found, and the bodies of the two Fantaellen sentries were discovered.

Quietly and silently, five hooded figures swiftly vanished into the shadows of the night, away from the light, cascading down onto the headland, from the two Portaellen moons.

An unknown enemy had landed on Fantaellen soil, undetected and intent on fulfilling their deadly mission.

***

A dense, heavy, menacing fog had descended during the night, about a mile or two, out to sea. The sentries on the cliffs, beacon points and the walls of the coastal fortifications, that guarded the entire length of the Fantaellen coastline, had watched as the thick white blanket, enveloped everything around them. Many, anxious, nervous eyes, scanned the Stoirim Sea, looking for the enemy ships, that they knew were there, as the waves slammed into the rocks and shoreline, below.

Captain George Corder, the officer in charge of the South Western Fortress, walked out of the main gates, towards the coastal path, that ran along the edge of the cliffs, of the headland. The high point of land had been battered by the winds and waves of the Stoirim Sea, for centuries, and he looked out towards the coast of Wulfdaeden, which on a clear day, can be seen.

The fog had made any visibility impossible. The captain looked for the waiting armada, riding the stormy waves, out at sea. Unable to see very much, he walked a little further, looking for the rock formation, known as Needle Point Rock, a weather-beaten chunk of chalky, white rock, about half a mile out from the main coastline. On a clear day, it could be seen standing proud; a first line of defence in the swells, of the merciless waves of the Stoirim Sea.

As he looked to the east, a brief opening appeared in the white murkiness, and the captain spied the Corridor Of Arches; another rock formation of twelve archways, attached to the mainland, where the elements and thunderous waves, passed through and out one end, to build up and be driven, back onto the coast.

He watched the archways disappear, into the murky white blanket, as he continued his walk, acknowledging the salute of his sentries, with a smile, as he passed. He could sense the tension in his men. He knew his soldier’s, would look to him, for leadership.

The captain was middle age, standing six and a half feet tall, thick set, with broad shoulders. His commanding stature, his face, worn from war and conflict, and his reputation, as a killer and a leader of great repute, made him, his sovereign’s first choice, to organise the defence of the country’s, most vulnerable point.

As a soldier and a ranger, fighting the Wulfdaeden’s, and other enemies, he had earned his reputation. Many of his men, had fought beside him, before. The ranks of his battalion were then swelled with proven fighters, from other battalions, and young, raw recruits, who had grown up, listening to tales of their captain’s exploits.

The truth was, he too, felt uneasy. Like the worries that you get on the eve of battle. He hated the fact, that he couldn’t see the enemy. It always, made him a little nervous. They would come. He knew that. The fog bought them time.

The captain had readied his men, the best that he could. Being garrisoned, at the tip of the south western coast, directly facing the Wulfdaeden coastline, meant that it would be the likeliest place, for the start of the attack. Like the general’s, he was sure of this. The other defence points, along the coast, were also on high alert. Now, all he and his men could do, was to sit and wait.

Looking up at the sky, the captain spied a lone bird; a hawk, its wing’s spread, gliding on the contours of the gusting winds that blew onto the coast. Fascinated, the captain watched as the hawk, made its distinctive hoarse screech, before being swallowed up, by the thick, white mass of fog.

The captain now chose this moment to pray. It was something he always did, when needing comfort, or to gain fortitude. Closing his eyes, he muttered a prayer, asking for guidance and the courage to lead his men.

Then, with purpose, he strode back to his fortress, to check on the final preparations. The fog would lift in the coming hours. The Wulfdaeden Blackhearts will come then.

***

The lone hawk finally breached the other side of the wall of fog. Below, in the dark unforgiving waves, floated an incredibly large mass of ships, that stretched across the entire channel, that separated Wulfdaeden from Fantaellen. Every ship had their oars raised, as they waited for the signal.

Upon, the grandest looking ship of the fleet the admiral grew impatient. He cursed the fog out loud, as he collapsed his telescope. He knew, that Fantaellen coastal fogs, can last for days, and this one, was thicker than normal. He had been pacing the bow for hours, growing more and more impatient, as time passed. His officers had given up telling him that the landing party, had only just landed. Their departure had been delayed by several hours, due to extremely rough currents and waves. The admiral had grown impatient, and eventually yelled at his officer’s, to get the boat in the water, as time was precious, telling them that the fog, would provide the perfect cover, for the landing party. The strong Wulfdaeden oars, would glide through the merciless waves, he reasoned. So, against his officer’s better judgement, the boat had been lowered into the water. The mission had to begin. The signal had to be given.

The fog provided the Wulfdaeden armada, with the perfect concealment. The admiral knew that the Fantaellen’s would know that they were there. The surprise, would be the size of the fleet, and the completion of the mission, of his master’s shadow assassin’s, the landing party.

If the God’s were with him, then the fog would hold just long enough, for the admiral’s ships to remain concealed, before the sight of the lit beacons, came into view, along the Fantaellen coast.

This would be the signal, that he and the hundreds of Wulfdaeden ships waited for. The lit beacons. The completion of the assassin’s mission. The signal for the invasion, to begin.

***

Stefan, the King of Fantaellen, and the crowned Sovereign of Portaellen, was very ill. What, had started as an ordinary fever, had progressed over the past few hours. The Royal Physician, Henri, a tall, lean man of advancing years, had tried everything to help the ailing king. His servants were running back and forth with bowls of cold water, which he used to try and bring his sovereign’s soaring temperature, down.

He had tried proven medicines, but nothing seemed to help, as the king’s health rapidly deteriorated. His body, had reached dangerously high temperatures, resulting in violent convulsions, and frothing at the mouth.

Henri now quickly put his sovereign, onto his side, and watched, as another spasm gripped King Stefan’s body. Henri was gravely concerned.

‘He cannot die Henri.’ One of the king’s advisors had said, as the royal physician had spoken to a group of important looking men, when they had entered the Royal chambers, unannounced.

‘It’s only a fever!’ One of them called out.

Henri looked up briefly, after recognising the voice, and saw his friend and King Stefan’s chief advisor; Robert Scotten, stood with his arms folded, a concerned look on his face.

‘I cannot bring his temperature down Robert,’ Henri began to explain. ‘The infection is escalating.’

Robert Scotten could hear the frustration, in Henri’s voice. He watched, as the royal physician, was stooped over their sovereign, gently wiping his brow, as another violent convulsion, pulsed through his debilitated body.

Henri could only watch in horror, as his sweat drenched king and sovereign, suddenly turned onto his back, his body becoming rigid and taut, before collapsing onto the bed.

The convulsions had suddenly stopped. The king appeared to be breathing still. Only just, Henri noted, as he checked his pulse. It was weak and very faint. Almost absent.

The door closing behind him, instantly woke Henri from his trance. Turning to see that Robert, and his advisors had left the royal chambers, bought him some relief. He had not welcomed their presence. He had heard them, whispering and talking in hushed voices, behind him. He had not heard, what they had said, nor had he chosen to, as he had more pressing matters.

Henri looked at his king and sighed. What type of infection was this? He asked himself. His thoughts, now turned to other causes and different treatments, as his mind, processed, his thinking.

Deep in thought, Henri was suddenly interrupted by a young servant, who bought in a fresh jug of water. Henri thanked him. He did not recognise him, but had seen the young man, several times, as he had replaced the bowl, during the passing hours. The servant smiled, nodded his head, and left the chambers, closing the door behind him.

***

The young servant, quickly hurried away, from the large gathering, outside the enormous, gold rimmed, white oak doors, of the royal bed chambers. Panic and mayhem ensued, as servants, footmen, and maids ran around, the corridors of Guinlance Castle, with orders ringing in their ears, from worried looking, generals and lords.

In a quiet corner, away from the commotion, five men dressed in the royal purple, tunic and breeches, of someone in office, stood talking amongst themselves, quietly, but with purpose. These men were the king’s advisors.

Robert Scotten, a large, giant of a man, was the chief advisor. He and King Stefan had become close, when Queen Annabelle, had died during the birth of the royal children, the twins, Joshua and Madeleine.

‘Our king and sovereign is gravely ill. It does not look good, gentlemen.’ Robert paused for a moment, as the other advisors, moved in closer.

‘Is he really going to die?’ one of them asked.

No answer, came from the chief advisor, as he rubbed the top of his bald head. Briefly, he closed his eyes, before opening them to carrying on.

‘Listen.’ He continued in a low tone, as the other advisors stared at him, their gaze unflinching. As always, Robert held court. He had their attention. Just, as he liked it. They listened, waiting, for his every word.

‘We are within hours, of a Blackheart attack. Their invasion fleet, led by our king’s Judas brother, is sat in the Stoirim Sea Channel, waiting for the fog to clear. When, the word of the king’s death …’ Robert, now saw the look of horror, creep onto their faces, as the last few words, hit home.

‘He is going to die!’ cried out, one of the advisors.

‘Look. We have to prepare for the worst,’ another advisor suddenly stated.

‘We do,’ agreed Robert. ‘We need to get our best men, to the portal. The twins need to be taken from the safe house, and bought back to the castle, before their uncle plans to take them. They are our future gentlemen and must be kept safe.’

When, the queen had died, King Stefan had placed his children, into the care of his younger sister. Unconfirmed reports had come through over the years, that she had been turned. These reports were dismissed, after a lengthy period of time, when it was established, that the children, were still within the confines, of the safe house. So, it was determined, that they were still safe.

The fact was, that the king had the problem, of his twin brother, to deal with, and other pressing matters. He had visited the twins when he could. Under a strict armed guard, he had always left, from Guinlance Castle, through the portal at Ingress Hill, out the other side, at the Ring of Stones, and to the safe house. The armed guard was always led, by his most trusted knight, Jonti Quixal.

Unfortunately, King Stefan had not seen his children recently. The talk of war and an invasion force led by his exiled twin brother, had been at the forefront of his mind, for the last few months.

From the moment, the king had watched his brother ride away, from the courtyard of Guinlance Castle, shackled and under an armed guard, he had known there would be war. His younger twin had told him. In fact, he had screamed in the face of his brother, his king and sovereign, that he would be back.

All that Robert Scotten could now think about, as the other advisors, spoke amongst themselves, was the young prince, who had been exiled from the castle, where he had grown up. He had grown into a man, who had been turned, and now had an armada of ships, an invasion force, waiting for the fog in the Stoirim Sea Channel to lift.

Invasion and war was now very close.

***

Startled, by a sudden noise, Henri lifted his head sharply, upon waking from a deep sleep. He was sat on the corner of King Stefan’s bed. He cursed under his breath. Despite, not having any sleep, for the last two days, very little food or water to drink, the royal physician, had stayed by his king and sovereign’s bedside.

Henri quickly realised, that the king was gasping for air. He was evidently, struggling to breath. He had the death rattle, in his throat. His body, now swiftly contorted, as he raised his arms in the air, his twisted fingers, grasping at the air, before his hands turned into a fist.

The blue eyes of the king opened for a brief moment. His head remained on the pillow, as his back, arched violently away from the bed. His face was covered in perspiration, and his mouth was open wide, showing a blackened tongue. Suddenly, he let out a terrifying scream of pain before, his body collapsed onto the bed.

Henri carefully leaned over the stricken body, of the sovereign, and saw that his pupils were fixed and dilated. The king’s arms were limp by his side. His mouth open wide.

Henri now felt for a pulse. Nothing.

Gently, the royal physician pulled the eyelids of his king, over his lifeless eyes, and closed his mouth. He then softly kissed his sovereign’s forehead, before wearily pulling himself away.

Turning a final time, to his king and sovereign, Henri bowed. Tears flowed down his face. He was suddenly so exhausted, to the point of collapse. He felt so helpless, alone and vulnerable.

Would the king’s advisors blame him? Make him into a scapegoat? Questions now flashed through, his exhausted mind.

His king and sovereign had just died. He had been unable, to save him. And, he had never seen a body react, to a fever, like that before.

Wiping away his tears, the royal physician slowly walked towards the door of the royal bed chambers. Before turning the door handle, he took a deep breath, prayed to whichever God listened, and then turned the handle.

The door to the royal bed chamber, slowly opened. Henri appeared in the doorway, with his head bowed. Conversations now stopped abruptly, and the whole corridor outside the king’s bed chambers, presently fell silent.

The royal physician took a deep breath. He then lifted his head.

‘It’s,’ he stuttered, ‘with regret, that I have to report …’ The words began to stick in his throat. Henri coughed, and then swallowed, to coat his dry throat. ‘… that King Stefan, our king and sovereign, has died.’

Silence. Nobody moved. Everybody stared at him. Henri now felt extremely uncomfortable and suddenly vulnerable.

‘God rest his soul!’ came a sudden, and unexpected shout.

Groups of servants, maids and lords embraced one another, as a collective grief, instantaneously, gripped the gathering. Many now had tears in their eyes, others, their heads bowed, as the enormity of what they had just been told, sank in.

Robert Scotten beckoned to his fellow advisors to follow him, to his office. Through the crowds of tearful, grief-stricken courtiers, they walked, the chief advisor, striding ahead. Thoughts, and hastily laid plans, racing through his head.

He quickly ordered a communication to be sent, to the coastal defences. They must be told, about the death of their king. The enemy would know, soon enough, he reasoned. There were spies everywhere. And, once that fog had lifted, the Blackhearts would come.

‘An attack is imminent,’ Robert started, when they reached his office. ‘Once, the news of the death of the sovereign, reaches the enemy fleet they won’t care about the fog. The news would be enough, to drive them through the fires of Hell, and out the other side. They would be unstoppable.’ He paused for a moment, as a thought entered his head.

I need to buy the coastal defences, some time. Yes. That’s it!

‘Put the castle on a lockdown,’ he suddenly, blurted out. ‘Nobody is to leave, or enter, without my written permission.’

This, would hopefully, buy the coastal defences, a bit of time to ready themselves, for the attack, Robert reasoned. Whenever, it did come.

Robert Scotten, being the most senior advisor, within Guinlance Castle, was now the Guardian of Fantaellen. A title suddenly bestowed upon him, by the death of King Stefan. He was not of pure blood, but he was the most senior man, in the country. The whole of Fantaellen, would now look to him, for his experience, leadership and strength of character. Just, what his country needed, right now.

***

The two Portaellen suns were rising, on a new day. In a wooded area, just to the south of Guinlance Castle, five horsemen, waited. They had hidden in the wood, for a few hours now. They were tired and impatient. Their faces were blackened, their heads, covered by the hood, of their black robes, and their blades stained, with the blood of the enemy.

‘There!’ one of them, suddenly called. ‘The signal.’

The larger man of the group, who had a prominent scar across his forehead, dismounted his white steed, and ran towards, a clearing up ahead.

As he looked up, he saw it in the dawn sky. The fire arrow, released from the roof of the southern ramparts, of the royal quarters. The signal.

The arrow, whistled through the air, as the flames danced on its tip, before it thudded, into some soft earth, up ahead.

The large man, then quickly ran towards the arrow, before pulling it out of the ground, examining it, then extinguishing the flames, with his hand. He did not cry out in pain, or wince, as his skin sizzled, and smoke came from his hand.

The King of Fantaellen, the Sovereign of Portaellen, was dead. Killed, by an assassin of Wulfdaeden. The message was now on its way, to the armada of Blackheart ships, in the Stoirim Sea Channel. Carried, by five black hooded, horsemen.

Their king and master’s plan would now begin. Fantaellen, was at the mercy of Napoleon Victory. The once, Prince of Fantaellen, the younger twin brother, of the deceased, King Stefan.