BOOK: Chapter One

Lord Eshin


The Archer Dallon grimaced behind the coarse homespun scarf and tightened his grip on the cold bow.
‘Bloody trolls’.
This part of the legion had been assigned to ‘search and destroy’ detail in the freezing foothills of Berkham. It was months since the enemies defeat in what was proving to be a yearlong campaign and counting.
A flicker in the shadow haunted valley ahead caught the eye of their commanding officer and he put heels to his mount. Dallon and his foot weary companions dutifully followed.
Dallon’s fingers were wrapped in rags as a preventative against frostbite, but the gnawing cold refused to leave him even when he was inside. Which he had not been for days now.

‘ A short killing stab at the forces of chaos!’ That had been the promise of the recruiters. Easy victory. Girls, gold and probably promotion to the kings court into the bargain eh.
That had been twelve months ago in sunny Hartenland. The recruits had since lost their illusions in the campaigns endless skirmishes as well as a few fingers and toes to Berkham’s seemingly endless winter.
‘Bloody trolls’.

Dallon wondered whether their commander had harboured such illusions of a hastily won campaign. The young looking officer was reputed to have been well used to the ways of war before arriving in Berkham to aid the beleaguered forces there. Dallon had seen little of the man but it was said that he took a dim view of tales of death and glory and was as likely to spit on the ground as lend an ear to those who spun them. As if they brought some foul taste to his mouth.
Sergeant Tharn was ahead of them by the officers mount; scanning the valley and now he pointed and spoke to the officer.
“ There, on the left”.
Sure enough, the troll had flashed across their field of vision to shelter behind a rise in the terrain.
The officer motioned the archers to let fly.
Twenty shafts were sent over the rocks hiding the trolls position. It appeared. Running shambolicly to avoid whistling, iron tipped death from above.
Trolls all looked different. This one was covered in dirty red fur and hunched low to the ground like some shambling ‘proto man’.
The thick fur would have made an excellent shield against the cold. Indeed, several in the legion had attempted to fasion troll skin into functional cloaks. But the stink lingered on the fabric like and unwelcome guest and most men gave up the practice. Preferring to be cold with their friends than warm but shunned by all for the stench.
No amount of washing seemed able to rid the fabric of it’s musk and so all such attempts had long since been abandoned.
The cold, it seemed, was an opponent to be feared, respected and fought as much as rebellion itself.
‘Bloody trolls’.

Now their officer heeled his mount forward and powered into the fleeing troll with the force of a comet. He buried his twin swords in it’s back and then wrenched them free in one swift motion, wheeling his mount as he did so. The troll stood for a moment as if unaware of it’s own demise. Then the legs buckled beneath it and warm blood steamed and fountained onto the cold ground.

The officer always refused a lance or helm. Now the twin swords, his curious affectation, were briefly passed to Tharn who cleaned them with a rag before returning them with the air of one passing over some holy relic.
The cleaning rag would be burnt or buried, as would the troll. Trolls could not be left. For some reason, even carrion would not suffer to feast upon their cursed remains.

If tales around the legions camp fires were to be believed, trolls did not rot when buried but stayed fresh beneath the soil. As if waiting to be reanimated by some ancient evil. The tales were false of course. Dallon could testify that they rotted well enough. Where trolls were concerned however, the necrosis could only improve the smell.
The troop were relieved. It showed in their body language. Some joked as they poured pitch over the fallen body and brought tinder to it. They had been following the troll now for three days. Scouts sent endlessly back and forth to the increasingly distant camp in the south.
Burning icy wood by night in an effort to feel cold rather than frozen and trying to make frozen rations do the job of feeding twenty men and their support staff. Their commanding officer had done well in keeping morale alive in the chilled nausea of a long hunt. He too looked relieved as he dismounted and clapped his sergeant on the back.

Now the bloody troll was burning. Foul smoke spiralled into the blue sky like a giants black fingers. A signal to the distant fort that something evil was dead to the north. The men could re bind their rags and head for home. Or at least for the comparative comforts of the legions camp. The officer passed Dallon, as he walked through the men, speaking in more relaxed tones to sergeant Tharn.
“ Good work sergeant. Tell the men they can rest awhile before we turn this lot around. We have at least four more hours before we loose the light”. He scanned the Valley ahead, as if seeing it with new eyes now that the kill was made. “and send some men to scavange the area for dead hawthorne. Those trees should burn well”.
The old sergeant smiled and motioned for two of the men nearby to make it so. “There may be some rabbit tonight Lord Eschin, I will have some brought to your tent”. The order was given for the men to rest easy. Dallon watched as lord Eschin moved to rest in some nearby cover, accepting a drink from the skin of water that was now being passed around. He released a breath that he had not realised that he was holding and set about unpacking some dry wood in order to prepare a hasty hot drink.

Eschin closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the scent of wood smoke as some of his men prepared a small fire.
In the surroundings of Heretenland the action would have incurred his wrath. Smacking of laziness and un disciplined behaviour. But here among the hills of Berken a hot drink could mean the difference between life and death and a good leader learns to be flexible or ends up leading dead men.
Removing his gloves, he gratefully received a cup of hot Skaal from the aging sergeant Tharn. The hot steam felt good on his cheeks and the foul, alcohol laced contents made him gasp for a moment as it hit his throat.
His relaxation was interrupted by the sounds of screaming from the vally ahead. Eschin’s horse stamped and whinnied nerveously, scenting blood in the air.
Tharn was rushing past him now swearing at the men around him to scramble to ready positions.
“The bastard wasn’t alone! Theres another one up there sir”.
All around him men wearily forced themselves back into action. The fire was kicked out, drinks flung into the cold earth and bows re strung.

Sloppy. The cold had made him sloppy and foolish. At any other time, he would have insisted that scouts sweep the valley before setting a rest order.
Now there was more blood in the air to pay for his foolishness and the prospect of who knew how many days in the frozen foothills.
Eschin re donned his gloves. It was his mistake and he would pay the price. With a sweep of his arm he ordered his men to fall back.
Grabbing the pommel of his mount, he vaulted into the saddle and ordered a nearby man to un hobble the reigns.

Tharn hurried up to him and spoke too quietly for the other men to hear as he held his commanding officers eyes.
“ if you are about to do what I think you are about to do, doesn’t it violate the Princes standing orders my Lord?”
“Prince Tasaam’s orders be dammed. He isn’t here woth us and if we spend much more time in the open we will start taking casualties to cold rather than chaos sergeant”
Eschin turned his mount away from the man. In all likely hood, the prince would never find out about the illegal action that he was about to take. There were no superstitious peasants around these godforsaken areas in any case.
He heeled his mount to the valleys head and, gripping the reigns a little tighter despite himself, he shouted the command word.

A bunch of powered muscle. A leap. A sound like a demons gasp and the horses wings burst from it’s flanks in an explosion of power and fury.
The blur of speed quickly resolved as mount and rider levelled out and scanned the scene below.
He regarded the smoke from the kill, the troop, still poised at the valleys head, faces gazing up at him. Scouts fleeing back from the Hawthorne trees that lined the valley and…there!
Hidden from view by a curve in the valley; dropped wood and a crimson stain on the ground.

Eschin slowly circled in the air, seeking the trail of the unfortunate soldiers killer. He sighted the black form of his quarry some hundred yards distant, already fleeing towards the north.
The sign would not have been difficult to follow even on the ground as the troll still carried the bloodied head of it’s victim. But protocol had already been broken and, Eschin reflected, he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.
Whispering to his mount, he followed behind the fleeing troll and, as they closed the distance, he freed his feet from the stirrups and drew the swords.

Both mount and rider understood what was to come and no word of command was needed. The troll had finally become aware of his presence in the air above but too late. Eschin had already leapt from the saddle.
Gravity took him in it’s embrace but Eshcin rode the air like a sycamore seed, swords blurring a silver circle around him as he dropped.
The trolls head was struck from its body with ferocious force whilst Eschin landed perfectly on it’s torso, letting the huge ribs snap and break his fall as his impact drove the creatures body lengthways into the earth.
He rose smoothly as his mount gently alighted some yards away, it’s wings once again folding invisibly into it’ s flanks.
The horse whinnied and trotted towards it’s master and the broken ruin that was all that remained of their enemy.