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The Misfits of Dametreos IIChapter 2: Battle Scars
Radjar rekindled the memories in his head. A great fortress stood unopposed, risen from a black mass of trees on the bleak terrain, blocking a gray sky. From the highest tower, the fires of the border towns could be seen. The Wolfpack army was beginning its assault, and the castle was a bustling hive. Troops were being mustered to face the Wolf horde. And in the depths of the gray stronghold, a brooding king sat on his throne, built by skulls, and held his sword, forged by blood. He had hoped to put his bloody past aside. But Grimor Blackcloak had other plans.
The aging, bitter old man had spited against his brother for many years. He had hoped the young Willem to be his son. But it was not to be so. Fallmir Kath was but a speck of dirt awaiting to be brushed away and the Dark Foresters would not stand a chance against the Wolfpack.
Hade, master barbarian, readied his cavalry and gave his men perhaps the last speech he would ever give. Geth Manders handed out weapons to eager Dark Forest knights. Firar Kath pleaded with the Wolfpack generals to stop the bloodshed. And Larn Guranst strapped into his officer's armor, brandishing his Dark Forest battle-axe. The bloodshed would end here. Or the Dark Gates should bar the way.
Lord Drakken, former Dragon Master and lord of Mar Tache, peered down at the stoic little prince who kneeled before him. The brave fellow had much impressed the hardy Drakken, and he was held in his favor.
“Sir Kath,” he said benevolently, “I am honored that you have journeyed many miles to reach my stronghold. For this, I will grant you a force of Slayer troops.”
Radjar beamed.
“No, good sir, it is us who should be honored,” spoke Firar eloquently, “You’ve shown us much compassion."
Hade, however, had a feeling of unease about him.
“Something is not right,” he whispered to Radjar, “Larn and Geth have still not returned.”
Radjar’s grin turned sour. He knew that something was very, very wrong indeed.
“Lord Drakken, I hate to be so abrupt, but we must leave. Our two other companions seem to have disappeared.”
Drakken nodded. He sent for the platoon of Slayers who would guide them.
“This is Slayer Captain Gereld Vos, a great Royal mercenary who will guide you well,” he informed.
The captain was a slim, well-armored man with shoulder-length blonde hair and a twirled mustache. A pointed goatee was on his chin, and a deep crimson cape was clasped around his neck. He held in his hand a curvy golden sword, and in the other his ebony helm.
“Is this the legendary Radjar Kath? I am truly flattered!”
“Gereld, who served under me at Derenere? How good to see you!” shouted Hade.
“We must be on our way,” said Firar, returning from out of the gate. “There has been an incursion at the Emperor's barracks!”
“Good Chodan! Who would ever do such a thing?” exclaimed Firar, staring at the looted barracks.
“I hope Larn and the others are all right,” sighed Radjar.
Captain Gereld emerged from the building. He had a shattered look on his face.
“Your companions are dead,” he regretfully announced.
Inside, Geth stood in death, pinned to the wall by five arrows in his chest. Firar and the others gagged. In the next room was Larn, facedown on the floor in a pool of blood. A gasp came from his body.
“Rad...Radjar…you must avenge us! Avenge us all!” Larn gasped.
“Who did this? Who did this!”
“Grimtongue…” said Larn, as he slipped into eternal slumber.
Radjar's face lit up with burning hate. He stormed out the barracks. Suspicious looking troops were scampering away from the barracks. Radjar leapt after them, toppling bystanders and stopping a cart in its tracks.
“Come back! Come back you cowards and have some more blood!”
The soldiers kept darting off. Radjar unsheathed his emerald katana and bounded at the highest speed he could manage.
“YOU MEGABLOKS! I’LL KILL YOU ALL FOR WHAT YOU DID!” Radjar shrieked.
His katana soared down and cleaved one soldier who was straggling. A window on a tall tower opened. Crossbowmen opened fire, long jagged arrows whizzing around Radjar. Persons fell dead. Radjar jumped as high as he could go, the power of the katana lifting him. He killed all six crossbowmen in one cruel blow.
“BLAST YOU ALL TO THE DARK GATES!” he cursed.
The group of other soldiers surrounded him. His sword sliced the air. Blood flowed from the street. A scimitar blade ripped open Radjar's chest, and blood poured from the wound. He fell on the ground, and the soldiers fled, fearing retribution from his friends.
Radjar lay on a cot, bandages wrapped around his bleeding wound. Firar stood concerned next to him, a look of anger on his face.
“Firar, what happened? Where am I?”
“You were ambushed by Wolfpack saboteurs,” said Firar, “I’m sorry we where not there to aid you. You’re on the deck of the Tiderunner, on the way to the Knight’s Kingdom apothecary.”
Radjar felt a burning pain on his chest, and looked down. There was a huge gash in the shape of a slash on his breast.
“I'm afraid it will never heal fully,” Firar sighed.
“We've almost reached the shoreline,” came Hade, scrambling down the gangplank.
Inside the apothecary, white-clad paladins carried healing equipment all around the marble building. Radjar was in an isolated room, being cared for by a band of Knight’s priests.
“May Chodan guide you to life again, young heir,” said one.
Radjar felt a resurge in his chest, but a scar still remained.
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