THIRTY-EIGHT
PRINCE ODHRAN
Faeries, being creatures formed of magic, are able to tesser if they are disciplined in their skill development.
This does not mean humans are unable. Those of witchly descent can acquire the gift through the use of a rune painted on their skin and with enough dedication to harness the magic of Nature.
The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper
My raven lets out a grating croak, fading into tendrils of darkness when I recall it, feeling its wings return under my skin, settling upon my shoulder.
“Tell me everything,” I say to Sloan. Leather and armour replace my three-piece suit, making me feel more like myself than the pretentious peacocking of grandeur at the coronation.
“Sheridan is surveying the valley ahead. Our scout never returned as he should. It’s too quiet.
It shouldn’t be this quiet.” Sloan’s hand closes into a fist. The sound of strained leather echoes through the quiet woods.
We have three hundred men, all crouched and hiding behind the thick stumps surrounding us.
Lightning flashes in the clouds. Hooves drum against the ground, echoing through the valley. A lone horse gallops toward us as its rider sways from side to side. My jaw clenches, and my eyes narrow as I behold the rider. Headless. His blood glistens in the moonlight. Our scout.
“Grab his horse!” someone calls out to the front.
Three of my men rush forward, snatching the bewildered beast’s reins.
Its neck is drenched in a thick layer of white sweat.
Its nostrils are enlarged, and its eyes reveal their whites.
My muscles tighten, but I refuse to let my men perceive any hint of concern.
“Untie him.” My words are a grating command. The raven’s wings stir beneath my skin before being set free once more. Its task is simple. Find whoever did this.
“Yes, Prince Odhran.” An eager soldier nods, immediately attacking the bindings around the scout’s thighs. I don’t miss the wooden spear piercing his palms, securing his head between them or the smile carved into his face.
Blood splatters as the headless rider topples from the horse. Fury spreads through our ranks like wildfire. Swords are unsheathed, arrows notched, and shields raised. We stand united, ready to face whatever horror approaches.
Raising my palms to the sky, I send hundreds of ravens flapping beyond the treetops. “Bring Sheridan back and find who did this.”
Silence stretches into unease as the men stare into the night, none making a sound.
Raindrops begin to fall as thunder rolls against the mountain tops.
Severe weather almost always brings severe consequences, and the tension amongst those in my command is palpable.
Their eyes dart in my direction, searching for instruction, but I have only one. Wait.
One of my ravens catches a glimpse of our enemy shortly before being shot down. Its death burns across my skin.
“There! Along the cliffs to the right!” a soldier announces. Specks of red glow along the jagged ridge. A distant howl sends a chill down my spine—one I haven’t heard in a very long time. One I’ll never forget.
Daglomon. Hounds as tall as horses, their fur green as grass with sharp spines between their shoulders, and a bite ten times as poisonous as nightshade.
These beasts, notorious for abducting faeries and humans, strike terror into the hearts of all who encounter them.
Summoners exploit their aggressive nature to do the unrighteous biddings of their lords or ladies.
They break treaties by using them to torment the humans, hiding behind their unpredictable and unruly nature.
There’s no proof of their control, and so there can be no prosecution, but I’ve seen it happen too many times to know it’s no coincidence.
Another howl.
I step out from the line of trees, looking at my men as I pace the open space before them.
“When I was given command of this battalion, our king thought he was punishing me, setting me up with a band of rejects. He was wrong! After tonight, the king will command us no longer. His reign passes down to his son. A son we have pledged no oath to. Tonight, we fight our last battle under the old oath. Tonight, we will teach them to fear the colour black, for tomorrow we are free. Stand with me in our last battle in the name of King Darragh. Tomorrow we return home!”
A third howl echoes through the valley.
Without hesitation, I raise my sword high and bellow, “Let the ravens feast tonight!” My battalion snaps into action, their weapons gleaming in the rain.
Daglomon emerge from the shadows, charging toward us, their eyes burning with a feral hunger.
“Archers!” I call out, turning my back to the valley to see silver arrow tips glint in the night.
“Fire!” Arrows whistle through the air, finding their mark in the beasts’ hides, but they keep coming, undeterred.
Some daglomon, as large as horses, fall into the muddy valley.
The majority pick up their pace, charging at us with arrows in their backs.
“Summoners! At the back of the pack controlling them!” Sheridan says, gasping for breath as he joins me at my side. Summoners are the only ones strong enough to manipulate the beasts. They contaminate the magical realm with their self-centred use of it. “Brogan’s men are approaching.”
“Sloan! Have riders flank the beasts! Attack the summoners at the back!” There’s no time for Sloan to respond.
The hounds are almost within reach. A line of soldiers kneels before me, planting their spears into the dirt, angled at the daglomon as they draw close.
I’m ready, my shadows forged into weapons.
Hooves pound like thunder. Giving the beasts a wide berth, I raise my snare, trapping the beasts before they collide with the front line.
Yelping and growling. Snarling and gnashing.
My men charge, taking advantage to kill as many as they can.
A soldier falls to my left. I run toward him, the youngest member of our battalion. I don’t even know his name.
The fallen soldier’s chest is cleaved wide open. Torn by sharp claws and scorched by their venom. I clench my jaw, dropping to my haunches as Sheridan fights alongside me. My heart pounds heavily in my chest.
“You fought bravely,” I tell him, standing in time to bury my blade into the shoulder of a beast. Blood spills, mixing with rain and mud as I defend my ground.
Teeth sink into my shoulder, spreading their venom in a searing pain.
I can’t see my friends. The valley is flooded with chaos.
Daglomon tear men to pieces, their screams deafening.
Mounds of green and black fur line the valley, unmoving and lifeless.
Every swing of my sword is met with a snarl, every strike parried by razor-sharp claws.
The scent of fear and adrenaline fills the air, driving me forward.
My shadows spread out before us, gripping the legs of the monsters to slow them, but I can’t hold on long enough to keep them grounded, to give my men the advantage they need.
Drums of war pound behind us, sounding out from between the trees we’d abandoned. I look back to see orange cloaks and copper armour joining us on the battlefield.