Prologue

No man alive that day had ever before witnessed a rain so complete and earth drenching. The sky had been dark and brooding throughout the siege, forcing the already grim faces of the defenders on the wall into grimaces of hopelessness. Veterans knew what it meant; when, on the third day, the sky opened and let loose a torrential down poor; today would be the day.

Uurrusk had fought long and hard for his pay. A simple soldier since his twentieth birthday, Uurrusk had seen his fair share of death; the quite lifeless faces almost serene in their final rest and those who hadn’t been so lucky; their faces wide, eyes opened as if unwilling to accept that death had come for them so swiftly and unannounced.

Warhorns sounded in the attackers’ camp, and, as if of a single mind, the hulking wooden towers groaned as they started forward towards the wall. Uurrusk checked his sword, a rusted battered piece of steel with more than a few nicks and notches in its blade. It had seen him through situations far more dire, through the White Sand of Aealemon, a battle so hard fought by the enemy it was said the Aealmen were more demon than man. That day, he had suffered his first real wound, an Aealmans’ wicked curved sword had bitten through his chainmail coat, through the leathers underneath and deep into his life hip. It sill pained him considerably on cold, damp days. He pressed his right hand against the pain absentmindedly.

“This Rain…Ne’er seen the lies of it meself,” The voice startled Uurrussk back to the present. He knew it well enough to put a face to it, but he was surprised to hear it here.

“These walls are no place for a priest, father.”

“Every man has a right to be blessed by his gods before he dies for them,” The priest was an old crumpled man not to dissimilar from the old leather bound book he was seldom seen without; was the only true religious man in the castle, but soldiers could find their zeal when arrows fell amongst them and prayers were as good as shield and mail.

“Then get on with it,” Uurrusk had no need for gods or blessings. More often than not he found the men who had been blessed starting with open eyes and sprawled out, missing limbs or befouled by an enemy in some way or another. The priest muttered his words and moved down the line of defenders, clutching his book to his chest like a plate of steel meant to protect him.

Horns sounded again, an echoing mournful call that sent shivers up Uurrusk’s spine. He scanned the rows of men to his right and left, each gleamed in the rising sun as wet steel caught and reflected its light. Had this been any other day Uurrusk might have called it beautiful, but with death a prospect and battle a certainty the rain and sun held little in the way of captivating his attentions. Uurrusk let his eyes slide unto the ranks of the enemy. They outnumbered the defenders, that much was sure, but they looked green and unbloodied, young boys given a chance at glory in their fathers and grandfathers armor. The rains came down in heavy wet sheets, battering the armors of all the men gathered to create a cacophony of hollow drumming and pounding.

A brace of horns sounded from behind him in the courtyard and he turned just as a flight of arrows rushed over his head with a sound like a thousand angry hornets. Each arrow was a comet in the storm, a tail of fire as long as most men’s forearm trailing after them. A smile spread across Uurrusk weathered and wrinkled face, So, the boy had decided to waste ‘is tar, arrows and bowstrings in the rain. The boy sat atop a great white stallion, clad in a suit of armor the color of thick cream, he commanded the castle garrison in his father’s absence. Barley sixteen, the young lord stood a head taller than Uurrusk, and at least as twice as wide in the shoulders, a legacy of his father, a giant of a man who, in his haste to please one of the twelve kings, had started a war with his neighbors.

“I hear the Crowsblade commands them…,” Whispered a grizzled man to his left, whose face would have been fully bearded if not for the mass of scars that marred his left cheek.

“Aye, but no man, not even the Crowsblade, can block an arrow with a great sword.” Uurrussk had tired of this rumor, which had spread though the defenders like a plague or a pox, “Much better to have a shield at your side,” Uurrusk hefted his own shield, a large triangle of hardened dry oak and burnished steel, “That swords big enough to run three men through with steel to spare, he can’t be as quick as it’s said.”

The men around him muttered their agreements or arguments, a few chuckling nervously. Uurrusk turned his attention forward. The enemy seemed to all but ignore the arrows that fell in around them, although a few screams and wails did rise from their ranks. The siege towers, prickling with arrows, a few still burning, had closed the gap with the wall, and now stood a mere eight or ten feet from the wall, each thrummed with the sound of men rushing to their tops, steel on wood sounded like a rolling, crushing thunder. Uurrusk placed his helm over his head and drew his sword. The weight of it calmed him, as if by holding the weapon his life was insured. He set his feet, staring at the nearest tower, clenched his teeth, and resigned himself to give his life, if he must, at a cost much greater than his worth.

The ramp came crashing down a mere four feet to his right breaking and chipping the wall where the hooks on the ends dug deep scars into the stone. The enemy rushed them, each calling out a battle cry.

“Whitehall!”

“Earren! Earren and honor!”

“For those who have fallen!” Uurrusk always used those words as his cry. He belonged to no noble family that would give him words, but to the men, the simple soldiers, and he honored his fallen brothers whenever he too might fall.

Within seconds everything was chaos, men screamed, steel clashed and shone and the rain pelted them all drowning out all but the loudest outburst. The enemy were young and inexperienced, it became evident up close with them, but what they lacked they made up for in numbers and with courage. Uurrusk moved down the line to his right, replacing a man who had taken a thrown spear through his midriff and fallen backwards over the wall into the courtyard, eyes alive with pain and fear. Uurrusks’ sword clashed with a boy who couldn’t have been a day over fifteen. They traded blows for a few seconds, one clash, two, and three and then Uurrusk had him. He lowered his left shoulder, crouched behind his shield and lashed out with all his might. The shields edge caught the boy just under the chin, cracking his jaw and throwing him backwards over the rampart with a howl and a desperate scramble for a handhold. Uurrusk watched him, hanging in the void between wall and earth before he plummeted out of his sight and his attention was drawn to the siege towers ramp and the man standing on it above him. He was a large man, in a chain shirt that hung to his mid-thigh, with a war hammer raised held above his head with both hands. Uurrusk’s shield barley made it up in time to save his skull from being pulped like an overripe orange. The shock of the first blow shook his left arm to the shoulder, rattling his chainmail with soft clinks muted by the rain. The second blow cracked the heavy oak planks and left a dent the size of a melon in the shining steel sheet above them.

His shield still held high, Uurrusk thrust his sword underneath it, aiming for the man’s legs or stomach, and when the tip met a soft resistance before plunging onwards into a softness he knew well; he threw his wrecked shield aside and caught a glimpse of the hammerer rolling atop the ramp, bright red spurts occasionally bursting from the inside of his right thigh before a hulking shadow stepped over him.

Uurrusk had never seen the Crowsblade, but he’s heard of him from the mouths of men who said they had, none had done him justice. His plate mail shown white as new snow but for the few drops of the hammerer’s blood that shone like fire before being washed away in the down poor. A heavy black cloak hung from his shoulders, fastened in place by two fist sized obsidian crows, one on either collar bone. His helm, a great helm that matched his armor in color, was adorned with a beautifully wrought black steel crow, who’s wing were spread as if attempting to take flight and who’s beak jutted down and forward nearly blocking the thin slit that was the Crowsblade’s visor.

Uurrusk had never seen a man look half as beautiful or deadly as Aearn Crowsblade did standing above him. He raised his two-handed great sword, his namesake, a sword forged, as legend would have it, with spells the world no longer knew or had need to know, the blade, a black that matched his cloak pins, shone with deadly intent. There was nothing in the word, just Uurrusk and that sword coming down at him in an arc aimed to hit him at his left shoulder and cleave; he had no doubt; downward through his chest and into his gut. It was a death blow, and Uurrusk cursed his own stupidity at having thrown away his shield that may have stopped that blow in its tracks. Uurrusk brought his on sword around, placing it’s chipped and rusted blade into the path of the Crowsblade. There was a clash as steel hit steel and then his sword was lighter somehow, and the spellforged blade came onward accompanied by a pathetic clanging at his feet. Biting into and through the steel plate the protected his shoulder, through the chainmail underneath, through the leathers and then there was a flash of pain and Uurrusk slipped backwards, an involuntary scream ripping from deep inside him, rattling his bones and surprising himself.

He felt the warm slickness of his own blood clawing its way out of the wound and wondered how he still drew breath, by all right that blow could’ve cut him asunder and probably should have. He let his head fall back against the cool stone of the wall, his strength ebbing way with each pulse of blood that clamored to be free of him. The rain dripped through his visor onto his face, refreshing him, cleaning away the years of hardship that had been his life. He was tired, very tired, but he couldn’t allow himself to sleep just yet. The Crowsblade jumped from the platform onto the wall, standing over Uurrusk. Two soldiers came at him from both sides, and Uurrusk watched.

The Crowsblade lazily swept the first soldiers sword aside, side stepped the seconds spear thrust, and then with a practiced flick removed the broad steel tip from it. The first soldier came at him again, bellowing and raising his blade. The Crowsblade seemed to dance, as his blade flashed against the first soldiers’, he spun, leveling his sword and driving its point through the first soldiers’ visor. He yanked the blade free, dripping viscera as the soldier clawed at his helm, blood gushing out its thin slit accompanied by a desperate gurgling. The Crowsblade turned to face the second soldier just as he finished drawing his sword in favor over his now useless spear.

Uurrusk swore Aearn the Crowsblade moved like lightning, and he took it back, he could be that fast, first cutting the soldiers sword hand from his arm and then, with a savage blow, laying waste to the man just below the rips. Entrails poured from the jagged flesh, and the second soldier fell to his knees, silent, as blood coursed down his legs to pool under him. His eyes were locked on the blade that Aearn was bringing up with both hands, point aimed downwards and at his chest, and then it flashed and Aearn grunted as the blade punched through the soldier, entering just under his throat, and exciting in the small of his back before the Crowsblade, placing a foot on the man’s shoulder, slid the blade free and moved on to his next victim, sodden black cloak trailing behind him. The second soldier fell backwards; his now lifeless eyes looking at Uurrusk, and Uurrusk recognized a scarred left cheek that marred an otherwise magnificent beard.

He could feel it, all around him, the stickiness of death and the rankness that seemed to accompany defeat. The fighting continued, he could hear the clashes and screams as men fought and died, cursing or yelling encouragement, but the fight itself was lost…

Uurrusk knew it, and finally he closed his eyes. “Twelve Kings…” he whispered, “But I am tired…”