six-year-old, sweet, scared little girl, keep that in
mind.”
Brenin was shocked, he could see that the
maternal side of Mord was simply protecting the child
he had become so fascinated with.
“If I do forget, I’m sure you will remind me,” he
said with a growing smile. Brenin stood. “So, for now
let her settle, her lessons will begin very soon.” Brenin
escorted Mord to the door of his chambers. He was
not sure how Librye would cope there, he was once a
child of the palace, and he knew how hard it could be.
Growing up was regrettable for him there, he grew
to hate the walls around him, but as a King, he had no
choice but to stay and accept his role.
The palace was slowly getting back to normal,
however, with a new addition, Brenin was being kept
busy more than usual. Trips to the garden were now a
daily mission for Brenin, he enjoyed spending time
with Librye, however, his trips to the garden with her
showed the mighty task at hand. She wanted to learn
everything there was to know about the world. Her
unquenchable thirst for knowledge - was at first
endearing - but Brenin was slowly starting to see the
task of Librye, would not be an easy one.
The battle of Marrion raged on. The castle stood
as a fortress, but the Atlanti were pushing, for three
days they had battled, and for three days no one would
call a retreat. Their numbers were thinning.
As the midnight moon graced the skies, Harris
readied himself on Svend, he was to enter the battle
with the second wave of cavalry. He waited with his
chiefs Anna, Saburo, Kyla, and Dominic.
Harris waited patiently. He heard a heavy sigh
from the side of him as Saburo waited impatiently.
Harris turned to see Saburo’s annoyed looking face.
He looked to the other chiefs who each waited on
their horses. He looked back to Saburo, the seasoned
chief had never attempted the position of commander,
having seen far too many come and go. A large scar
which ran down his left cheek which spoke of the
unsavoury past he held. Long locks of wild grey hair
tied at the back. He had grown a beard, attempting to
hide the pockmarks on his face.
Harris’s tone was low, his brows were raised, as he
asked, “Is there a problem?”
Saburo sighed, “Why are we waiting?”
Harris sat up straight on Svend. Having felt Harris
move, Svend began to feel restless, he knew the time
was near.
“We are waiting for a better light.” Harris was
waiting for the moon to hide behind a cloud, in the
hope an attack could be better covered by the
darkness. “We’re flanking,” he explained with an
irritated tone. “Hitting them from the west will weaken
the new support from the east.” He gave a slow blink
towards Saburo before turning away.
“Any news from the north?” called Anna, a small
woman, her long black hair was perfectly platted down
her back, she was a tactical fighter, much like Harris.
Harris turned with his brows raised. “Not yet, I
know they ambushed the second lot of arrows,”
slowly, he began to move forward on Svend, the others
followed, “the last lot were spent in a night, most of
the northern passes are being watched by them. The
shits will get what’s coming to them. I have contacts in
Enderton, they say messages are hard to get through,
however, time is on our side.” He looked to Saburo,
and with a scathing tone he said, “Sometimes, patience
is what’s needed.”
The moon hid behind a storm cloud which had
drifted from the ocean. A berserker of war, Harris had
earned his reputation, arms, legs and heads were a
favourite of his, he would not be happy until the blood
of the entire Atlanti army poured from his sword. His
long crimson cape covered the stains of bloody spray,
his black attire was wet with sweat and blood. He was
dripping with the Atlanti. He was a master of battle, a
large man, but nimble.
commander, to call a retreat, but a retreat was not only
a defeat for the Atlanti, but it was also pain for the
commanders.
Having gained control of the Atlanti armies long
ago, Kairne had also gained power over a dark magic.
In the black mountains of Mourne, the valley of
Rathen dipped deep into the ground, within the valley
was the tower of Kairne, in the highest room of the
tower, Kairne glared with his dark eyes into his mirror,
he watched the battle in front of him.
He knew the retreat needed to be called, but still,
he reached out his long, grey finger, placed it on the
mirror, and hissed, “Beadus, Monomere, Fagum,” he
watched as his commander fell to his knees, holding
his head Titus gave a mighty call of agony, blood
began to drip from his ears and nose. It would not kill
Titus, but it would stand as a reminder, to never anger
their Lord Kairne Mae Apha again.
The battle was finally over, for that day at least.
The last few Atlanti were sent hurdling through the
field. His tricks had worked again, huge boulders now
stood in the field, being catapulted from the large war
machines atop the plateau. The ground was carnage,
Harris blended perfectly with the twisted steel and
broken bodies.
“Harris!” called Kyla as she stood amidst the
chaos. Harris turned his body to see her stood
laughing. She could not hold her laughter in as she
looked to the state of him. She pointed to him as she
called, “You look like you’ve been fucked in a
strawberry field!”
Harris looked down; all mannerisms of flesh
seemed to stick to him. “Far too sticky!” called Harris,
joining in the laughter.
Harris treaded through the carnage with several of
his chiefs from the camps. The last remaining Atlanti,
who clung to life, would soon find their end at the end
of a Cronnin or Sonnin sword. The medical teams
scurried onto the field, to take the surviving Cronnin
and Sonnin soldiers back to the camps, with a hope of
saving them.
Harris looked to his chief, Anna, as she blasted her
sword through the neck of a surviving Atlanti who
wore a blue cape.
Angered, he called to her, “Anna!” She stopped to
face him. “We need some alive!”
“Apologies, sir,” said Anna as she pulled her
bloodied sword from his neck. She raised her brow,
her mouth curled in disgust, pointing her sword
towards the corpse she replied, “Not that one though,
he called me a cunt.”
Harris gave an approving nod. “Very well. Make
sure we have some left, cunt or not you can torture
them later.”
Trampling through, Harris began to ‘tag’ the
Atl
anti he wanted to keep alive, placing red bands on
their arms. “You realise that this is highly frowned
upon? Not to mention you do not have the right,”
asked Chief Saburo. He was much older than Harris,
he had seen many battles, but never had he seen such
cruelty from one man.
Harris felt his blood starting to boil, he remained
calm. “I am aware of this, Saburo,” replied Harris, he
could not look at Saburo as he continued killing the
suffering Atlanti. He was not going to be arrogant
towards him, he needed all the chiefs on his side. “I
understand that certain loyalties may be left, the
commanders of this army, they did what they could,”
he began, he was sure to keep a low tone, “my duty
here, is to stop all of this,” he stood straight and turned
in the field. “And if I take pleasure in vengeance,”
Harris turned back to Saburo and looked him dead in
the eye, “surely, that’s my right.”
Saburo seemed horrified as he drew back. He
followed an old code, set by the Cronnin council.
“Your right?” he spat, “what of their rights?”
Harris sharply turned; his eyes widened with rage.
“Where were the rights in Farhope?” he screamed as
he pointed his sword to the back of him, “or Stathen?
or Dorm?” his temper grew, “why should they have
rights to hold knowledge?” His temper slowly calmed
as he looked to the filth of the field. “Their rights were
removed the second they stepped onto this field.” He
forcefully blasted his sword across the neck of an
Atlanti, “The first one of our women they raped,” the
head rolled across the floor. Again, he threw his sword
across an Atlanti neck, his head fell from his
shoulders, still attached to the skin. “The first child
they murdered.” Harris came close to Saburo. He
warned with his brows low and teeth gritted, “Don’t
make me question your loyalties, because I ask few
questions of any.”
Harris began making his way back towards the
castle Marrion. Trampling through the waste of battle,
he felt a searing pain in his knee.
Harris suddenly fell to his knees, “Shit!” A mighty
call of pain was heard from him. He turned to see one
of the last remaining Atlanti holding onto life, an
arrow was driven through his kneecap forcing it out.
Gritting his teeth in pain, another cry of pain roared
from him, the man held him as he drove an arrow
under his lizard skin armour, and into his back, with
gritted teeth, the man twisted the arrow in his back, he
pushed as deep as he could.
“You fucking bastard!” Harris screamed, he
pushed the man back and fell onto his back, twisting
the arrow further. Trying his best to stand he came to
his feet, instantly he pulled one of his long daggers
from the front strap of his armour and took it in hand,
he beat the man’s head relentlessly with the dagger hilt
in his fist while screaming, “Die! Die! Die!” pouring
blood frothed at his mouth.
The chiefs turned to see the chaos. Seeing Harris
stabbed sent shockwaves through them, they each ran
as fast as they could to help. By the time they arrived
Harris had beaten the man, dead.
“Harris, stop!” called Anna, “Harris!” she
screamed. The chiefs jumped onto Harris, now
covered with the man’s brains and blood, Harris
continued to beat his flattened head, his face was no
longer visible, Harris had beaten him beyond looking
like a man at all.
Finally, they dragged him off, Harris seemingly
calmed, out of breath he stood quiet for a few
seconds. His chest was in agony and pouring with
blood. Suddenly he turned and continued to kick the
limp body of the man. “Die!” he yelled.
“Harris, for fucks sake!” shouted Saburo as he ran
towards him, he took his shoulders trying to get him to
calm. Harris pulled his shoulders away. Saburo calmly
told him, “Know when your revenge ends.”
Harris coughed and panted, he struggled for air as
he tried to make his way back to reach the medics, but
it soon turned to pandemonium as he struggled.
“I can’t stand!” he shouted. The chiefs gathered
around to help him back, as soon as his leg hit the
floor, he fell. “It bloody hurts!”
“That’s because you have an arrow in you, Harris,”
said Anna as she put his arm around her small neck.
His weight was too much to carry. “You’re a bulky
bastard, Harris,” she puffed as she tried to hold him
up. It was true that he was made mostly of muscle and
anger.
Harris gave a wide smile, blood covered his teeth
and mouth as he mocked, “You should know.”
“Fuck off, Harris.” She looked to his back to see a
trail of blood leading to the floor. The blood was thick
and pouring fast. Still struggling to help she began to
remove his armour, the lizard skin armour was as light
as cotton but harder than steel, they saw that Harris
was very well prepared for any attack, every last space
on his harnesses and straps held a dagger. Pulling his
tunic up; Anna could see the damage. Her eyes
widened as she looked to his back, her hands shook,
with a shaking voice she shouted, “Get him on a
stretcher!”
“I don’t need a stretcher!” Harris called; he began
to struggle for breath. The air he breathed seemed to
turn solid. Harris was swarmed as they threw him onto
a stretcher and quickly got him back to the camp. His
vision was fading, blood poured to the floor as they
ran him back. The medical tents were never a good
place to end up, surrounded by the dead and dying,
the tents often stank of rotten blood, open festering
wounds, sweat and fear. Harris would rather die, and
his chiefs knew this. Taking him to his chambers in
the castle they called for a medic.
Hours passed, another battle raged on, this time
though, Harris’s plan was slowly coming together, as
the arrows arrived from the north, the Atlanti were
met with another barrage, a special coating of Harris’s
own design covered the tips, even the stray arrows
which glanced past their intended targets, were deadly.
Large war horses pulled in the ballistae to sit atop the
plateau of the cliff. They needed Harris back, they
needed his vitriol oil, his cunning, and his anger to end
the battle of Marrion.
Harris remained, weakened in his room. His
blood loss was severe. A nurse from the camps,
Branwen, was there to care for him. Her hair was a
dark-golden blond which cascaded down her back,
neatly tied with a few small wisps which framed her
delicate face. She was a beautiful creature, and pure.
Her pinafore clung around her decanter shaped waist;
her ivory skin was as flawless as fresh fallen snow. She
&
nbsp; was a timid young girl, not the kind of nurse usually
found within a war camp. Her shoulders were narrow,
her arms were thin, but her face held the look of a
seasoned nurse. She had busied herself with dressing
the wounds she could, her delicate long fingers were
perfect for the duty she was bound to.
Harris was yet to wake to discover the damage that
had been done. Branwen had time on her hands now,
and so she began to write to her mother in Sonnin.
Telling her of the fallen commander who she now
cared for.
‘His reputation perceives him,’ she wrote. ‘Harris
Bearwood was named as our new commander. He is
without doubt handsome. However, I have watched
many women from the taverns being brought by
carriage to satisfy his desires. He has no regard for his
life, he has injured many as a result. I cannot tell you
of his tactical plans, although, many of the horses have
arrived with machines of his own design, hoping this
will help end this battle. The air is thick with talk of
victory.’ She ended her letter with a warning. ‘The
commander is dangerous. Please be weary.’
Sending the letter by falcon, she waited for Harris
to wake.
He was handsome to her. Branwen had never felt
the touch of a man, but as she watched him sleep
peacefully, she could not help but notice his strong
jawline, his stubble was a symbol of frightful
masculinity. He was well built; his shirtless form was
pleasing to her eyes. She had never looked at a man in
any other way apart from to treat their wounds. Harris
seemed different. The wrinkle of his brow looked like
a hidden sadness was dwelling deep within. Tiny scars
covered different parts of him, she could see his
wounds had healed well, but the deepest wound he
had, was in no way visible.
Branwen was a fantastic nurse, she would often fit
into the role of the alchemist, if one were not
available. She had noticed that all soldiers, no matter
how battle hardened, had the same wound, their
minds would always be tainted by battle. To Branwen,
Harris was just a soldier, he had, however, seen more
than most, his mind was a cesspit of frightening terror.
Chapter Five The Prophecy.
smoke-filled chamber met Brenin, he woke
early that morning. Walking from his