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The Misfits of Dametreos IIChapter 18: Defore Defeated
“THEY’RE gone! Willem Blackcloak and Graygon are gone!” came the cry, ringing out from the King’s personal quarters on board the flagship Tiderunner.
“How in Dametreos did this happen?” shouted Radjar.
“They slipped right through our fingers sir! Our men could not even tell they were gone!” Gereld complained.
It may sound like a lousy excuse, Radjar thought, but Willem’s the stealthiest best-lock I've ever met.
“We can’t let them go to their deaths. We have to leave for Daggerfall. Now.”
“Sir, what of Fraun and Trevelayn?”
“Gereld, for this long, we still do not know if they are alive. We last heard from them three days ago. I hate to think of it Gereld - but they could be dead.”
Gereld nodded solemnly.
“They will hear of our leave, if they are still alive; but we must go. I feel that Defoe is growing in power, and though his armies have shrunk, he is still fearsome.”
“What of Sheath?”
“I have received a letter from the garrison at Siastrahkan,” Radjar said somberly, “That Sheath was executed shortly after his arrival.”
Gereld slumped back in his chair.
“The poor fellow... I barely knew ‘im.”
“Gather our forces...we depart tomorrow morning.”
The waters of the Fell Sea, the channel that divided the main lands of the Wolfpack and Dark Forest with their overseas strongholds, were blue-green and deep, foamy as the waves broke upon the hulls of the corsair fleet. The skies were darkened with dark, swirling clouds...the clouds that announced the presence of Dark Magic in the winds. Radjar looked up at the brewing storm.
“It’s Defoe. He’s already preparing his defense.” he whispered.
The fleet numbered ten ships, packed with Dark Forest soldiers, in all total numbering nine thousand men. Radjar knew this would not be enough to storm the capital fortress of the Wolfpack- a dark, jagged spear jutting from the barren horizon- Daggerfall Spire. The spire had been built many centuries ago by a Dark Sorcerer, an ancient monument made of black stone and iron, the fortress consisted of the main keep to the west, and to the east, several passageways from the keep led to the spire itself, a great tower topped with a red burning flame, a beacon to ships seeking refuge. The place was walled up, and garrisoned by ten thousand soldiers, maybe more. Radjar didn’t know. But the shore was nearing, and the storm was about to begin.
Daggerfall Spire was a black, jagged claw jutting from the Plain of Gineus. It was built centuries ago by the first Wolfpack king, Hadar Shadowlire, as a refuge for those the world cast away. Gereld thought it was fitting that it was Defoe’s fortress, as the world had seemed to reject him. The fortress consisted of a proud main keep, built around the base of the main tower, the spire itself. Atop the spire were four spikes and a blazing red flame, a beacon meant to summon corsairs, pirates and mercenaries to the Wolfpack banner in times of war. The whole place was walled off and garrisoned by a countless number of elites. Gereld chuckled. If Willem was trying to get in there right now, he betted his was wishing that when he'd been king he hadn’t put so much defense into it. The Dark Forest main army was ready to siege the castle, trebuchets lined up and packed for the trip, troops in marching order.
“King Kath, Defoe is for sure bottled up in the fortress. We can reach it by midday, but I fear fighting would go into the night.”
“So be it, Gereld. All the better to show Defoe my new powers. He'll pay for the deaths of all who died in this war.”
Gereld nodded his head.
“ALL BATTALIONS! STRAIGHT FOR DAGGERFALL! AHEAD, MARCH!”
Defoe Grimtongue sat skulking on his throne. Around him, torches lined the cold stone walls of his stronghold. He knew the end was near as he heard the roar of the Dark Forest battle cry.
Outside, the Dark Forest men were gathered all around the castle. Wolfpack archers were firing into their ranks and laying a few low, but the battle had nary begun. Gereld and Radjar sat on their horses. The trebuchets wheeled up. The captains gave the orders to fire. Five blazing stones singed the air around as they crashed into the walls of the castle. Archers fell in every direction. But behind the walls, the real strength lay. The Wolfpack army charged out shouted like devils, whirling and brandishing weapons of war as they shouted curses to their foreign attackers. Thunder clapped overhead as the storm finally came crashing down on the two opposing forces, the berserker fury of the Wolf-soldiers struck fear in the hearts of the Foresters. Steel met steel, steel met flesh, blood met blood. Radjar bore out his long ebony sword and galloped, screaming, his lavender hair streaming behind him, into the line. Hacking and slashing, Wolfpack fell everywhere and blood launched into the air, carnage piercing every bit of earth on that ground. Gereld desperately rallied his troops, cutting down any who dared attack him, when he looked up. Radjar was riding unopposed to the gates. The time of vengeance was nearing closer.
Radjar screamed, his yell echoing around the battlefield. Twenty pikemen stood to stop him, and a jagged spear lodged into his shoulder. Radjar cried out in pain as he wrenched the shaft free of the muscle and tissue, and stabbed its former owner with it. His sword lopped limbs of three men in one blow, and he trampled past six more. The eleven others chased after him as he charged through the gates of the fortress, cutting down all who stood in his way. Arrows blotted out the sun, and fell down on the Dark Forest army like deadly rain. Men dropped like flies. Radjar's horse toppled over, dying from exhaustion. Radjar stabbed through three approaching men and cut through the rest. The throne room was getting closer.
Trevelayn, Fraun, Dordrot and Voolmark appeared in a swirl of vines outside the fortress gates.
“How did they get here?” asked a guard.
“Who cares?! Kill them!” yelled another as he rushed at them. Dordrot slashed with his sword and one guards head fell on the dirt, while a blow by Voolmark’s staff snapped the other’s neck. Guards walked down the stone hallways of the fortress, eager to join in battle.
“Where are they?”
Fraun tapped one on the shoulder.
“Right here, mate,” he said, pulling four nocked arrows back with his bowstring and letting loose. Trevelayn cut through the guards, and Voolmark magically hoisted one in the air and tossed his soon mangled body ten feet away.
“Radjar is in the courtyard,” said he, “Surrounded. We must help him.”
The doors shoved open. Radjar was fighting off a band of rough-looking knights. Trevelayn leaped down on top of one and slit his throat. Fraun killed three more with his bow and hacked through the rest with his blade.
“Fraun? Trevelayn? Dordrot? We thought you were dead!” exclaimed a bloodied Radjar.
“Well, you don’t think we’t leave all the fun to you, did we?” laughed Fraun.
“Fun indeed,” grumbled Dordrot.
“We don’t have much time. The throne room is just in…”
Radjar shoved open the door. Defoe stood, barely ready for battle.
“Here.”
In the center of the room, a blazing, huge red fire burned eternally.
“You came just in time, Radjar Kath.” Defoe mocked. Coming from his mouth, issued a vicious, evil growl. In a burst of red magic, standing there was not Defoe, but a giant, black...werewolf.
“YAAAAARGH!” Dordrot charged the beast with his broadsword. It swiped him aside, and he skidded on the floor. Fraun shot arrow after arrow at Defoe, who was rampaging nearer and nearer. Wolfpack guardsmen were also coming through the doors to add to the inconvenience. Trevelayn slashed at them with his saber, while Radjar stood at his back, fighting off the rest. Voolmark struggled to heal Dordrot and keep himself alive at the same time, while Fraun bravely held his ground.
“Oh, tyco…” he muttered as Defoe, jaw gaping open, leaped straight for him, giant black claws shoved ahead of him. The black wolf crashed into the smooth marble floor as Fraun jumped to the side, only to be struck in the shoulder by a flying piece of tile. He yelled out in pain, and killed a Wolfpack guard. Trevelayn consistently held off the advancing guards. Radjar beheaded one and grabbed his spear as the man fell.
Fraun launched arrows at Defoe, striking him in the legs and chest, but the arrows were naught but pinpricks to the giant beast.
“Not good Radjar, last arrow!” he yelled in desperation.
“Here!” Radjar yelled, throwing him the spear.
Fraun caught it and threw it at the beast. It struck him in the abdomen, and he threw back his head, roaring in pain. Defoe hit Fraun and he too flew across the room.
Radjar looked out the giant window in the hall. The moon was shining perfectly. He felt the shadow energies burning. Radjar fell over with exhaustion, and was hunched over. The Wolfpack guards swarmed over him. Then came a bright flash. With a tremendous bellow, the Wolfpack troops were thrown aside. There stood not Radjar, but a tiger. A pure white tiger, growling, its fangs and claws stained with blood. The two beasts circled each other, around the burning fire, erratically growling and staring down each other. Defoe pounced. Radjar knocked him aside, then leaped at him. Defoe slashed him with his paw, Radjar cringed. Radjar gnashed his teeth and once again pounced, to be knocked aside. Both leaped in the air, biting and scratching each other, until Defoe heard a scream. Trevelayn was running straight for him, spear raised above his head. Trevelayn jumped in the air, a shoved the spear through the top of the wolf’s head, and through his mouth. With a horrible gagging noise, Defoe staggered, dying. Radjar threw his paw out. Defoe flew backwards into the fire and was destroyed instantly. The Fell War was over.
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