Assault on Coldstone Keep

“Aim…Steady…Fire!” 

 

The arrow whistled through the cold winter air as it soared towards its target…Or so Geoff hoped. He didn’t want to disappoint Roran. From what his friends had told him, the Captain of the City Guard only personally visited each recruit once. And Geoff was determined to make this count. But his hopes were shattered as the arrow whizzed past the thatched dummy and clattered against the stone wall. Beneath Roran’s thick black beard, Geoff saw his mouth twitch with disapproval. 

 

Roran bent down, so he was face to face with Geoff. 

 

“I-I’m sorry…Sir.” Geoff stammered. He had to remind himself to call Roran sir. It wasn’t easy. 

 

Roran didn’t have the good looks of knights of legend. He was tall, but built like a bull, with broad shoulders, an unusually thick beard, and a shaven head; more of a hill tribesmen than a guard of the citadel. Hillsmen weren’t uncommon in Coldstone Keep. After all, it was the northmost of all the Keeps, and the front line of defence against the onslaught of the barbaric Orcish tribes. 

 

Geoff wished for the strength of the hill people. His weak arms could only shoot an arrow so far. 

 

“Keep your arms up, at shoulder level. And don’t hold your arrow in position. Your arms tense up.” Roran spoke with difficulty, a thick northern accent layered over his Common tongue. And that was all he said, before he straightened up and marched off to another position. 

 

Geoff bit his tongue to keep him from spitting a vile curse. Who are you mad at? A voice in his head asked. Roran had only been trying to help. Geoff loaded another arrow and fired, this time holding his arms at shoulder level and exhaling. The arrow pierced the target dummy right between the eyes. Or what would’ve been eyes on a person. Instead, the dummy had two crosses, crudely painted on with red dye. Geoff sighed. If only Roran could’ve seen. Geoff sat down upon a tree stump, dejected. 

 

“Rough time, eh?” Roran turned to see Old Captain Gerald, leaning on his spear. 

 

Immediately, Geoff stood up and saluted. Gerald might’ve been a friend, but he was still a Captain of the Third Legion, and the Code of Honour insisted that all men of a position of power be treated as such. 

 

“Oh, there’s no need for that.” Gerald insisted.

 

 “Take a seat, sir.” Geoff offered him the stump. It wasn’t much, but Geoff figured it would suffice for an old soldier. 

“Thank you. The years aren’t kind to men, as you’ll learn.” Despite his old age, Gerald had earned himself quite a reputation as an honourable and skilled fighter in his youth. Some even insisted he had challenged Rikke, the King’s own guard, in single combat, and, despite all odds, bested her. He had received a commendation from Magnus Aurienshield III himself, and served in the First Legion of Aurienshield Keep before retiring to Coldstone Keep, his birthplace. 

 

Suddenly, the old man’s usually cheerful eyes were overwhelmed by a mixture of sadness and nostalgia.

 

 “The world is changing, Geoff” He stared at Geoff in the eyes.

 

 “You of all people know this. The Rift grows closer every day. Attacks are becoming more common. We need able young men like you to fight.” Geoff had begun to sweat. Gerald had always been a kind figure in Geoff’s life. Never had he spoken with such purpose and warning. 

 

“I can fight.” Geoff replied weakly, trying to convince himself more than the old man.

 

 “I don’t doubt it.” Gerald stood and hobbled off, leaving Geoff feeling more estranged than ever. The world is changing… The old man’s words echoed in Geoff’s mind. It was true that attacks were growing more frequent. Almost every other day the Orcish tribes attacked, brandishing bone spears and riding horrible Frostshamblers; blind, four-legged beasts with thick white fur and an unnatural appetite for human flesh. Coldstone Keep’s defensive measures had been tightened; the walls restructured, the armoury restocked, and, most of all, all the recruits, including Geoff, had been training harder than ever. 

 

His train of thought was broken as a war horn sounded on the parapets. An attack! Geoff grabbed his bow and sprinted towards the parapets, follower by hundreds of soldiers, young and old, all brandishing steel. His palms grew slick with sweat as he sprinted up the uneven, yet familiar cobblestone stairs towards the city walls. Geoff shoved between two of the many City Sentinels and gazed at the enemy. He gasped in surprise. These aren’t orcs… Orcs were savage and strong fighters, but they were also unorganised and attacked in mobs. They never formed ranks. The more Geoff stared at them, the more he realised they weren’t orcs, but something far more horrible. Black iron glinted wickedly in the winter sun as the forces of the Shadowlands advanced towards Coldstone keep, marching with cold, precise, determination. 

 

Suddenly, their marched ceased just as quickly as it had begun. From their ranks, a single rider emerged, and, in a deep and unnaturally loud voice, spoke: “PEOPLE OF COLDSTONE KEEP!” A murmur emerged from the city guard. 

 

Geoff heard one beside him whisper to another. He couldn’t understand everything, but he did catch one word: Darok. At first, he thought he was hallucinating. Daroks were little more than a legend among men, and tales of the horrible creatures bred in the Shadowlands grew into little more than fairy tales for children. And yet, acting as mount of the rider, a Darok stood. Glowing red eyes glared at Geoff as its long black tail, topped by a shard of bone, flicked in the thick air. The winter sun’s light reflected off of its dark, feathery plumage. 

 

A low growl grew deep from its throat as its wolfish head snapped hungrily at the air. “I GIVE YOU AN OFFER OF LIFE, IN THE NAME OF OUR DARK LORD! SURRENDER YOUR KEEP, AND ALL ITS SOLDIERS, WEAPONS, AND GOLD, AND WE WILL LET YOU LIVE! YOU WILL RETURN TO YOUR PATHETIC KING AND GIVE HIM OUR MESSAGE! REFUSE OUR OFFER, AND YOUR PATHETIC CITY WILL BE RAZED TO THE GROUND!” 

 

The Dread Knight’s voice echoed off Coldstone Keep’s walls as he spoke. “WHAT IS YOUR ANSWER?” 

 

Roran pushed Geoff aside as he stood on the city parapets, in full view of the dark army. 

 

“Why should we respond to a pathetic force which knocks at our door? Why should the last line of defence of the North bow to a ragtag group of soldiers which threatens us?” Roran spoke with such purpose and promise that it was hard not to be inspired. He drew his blade, 2 meters of cold, hard steel. “This is your answer!”.

 

 “VERY WELL! YOU CHOOSE DEATH!” The Dread Knight turned to his army and spoke a single command: “DESTROY THEM!” “To arms, men! For Coldstone Keep! For the king!” 

 

Roran yelled as he descended from the parapets to join with the infantry.

 

 “Draw your bows!” The sentinel next to Geoff commanded as the archers drew their bows and, as one, let fly a flurry of arrows. 

 

Fiends of the Shadowlands fell as well-fletched arrows punched through their armours and sunk into their flesh. Despite the valorous effort of the city sentinels, the army continued their charge, the Daroks howling at the top of their lungs. The city doors were flung open as hundreds of infantrymen emerged from the walls of Coldstone Keep to fight.

 

 Geoff continued to knock and fire arrows at a pace faster than he had ever reached, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. For every enemy they slew, two more emerged from behind to take its place. The soldiers engaged the army as the roars of men and the clashing of steel filled the valley. One of Geoff’s arrows hit an enemy right in the chest, piercing his armour and punching a sizeable hole in his heart. However, they weren’t the only ones with ranged weapons, and, soon, pure-iron arrows began flying from the fray of combat, one hitting the sentinel beside Geoff between the eyes with amazing, albeit worrying precision. Despite this, Geoff kept loading and firing arrows, until he reached for his quiver for another, but it was empty. Cursing silently, he crouched, taking shelter beneath the city walls as he unslung his quiver and wrestled another from the corpse of the nearby, now dead, sentinel. 

 

“Sorry” he whispered quietly to the cadaver as he finally pulled free the quiver from its deceased owner. He reached into it and drew an arrow. It was far more well-built and well-fletched than Geoff’s training arrows; Geoff only hoped he would be able to make good use of it. He loaded it and aimed as the city doors exploded open, as the force of soldiers, pushed back by the unrelenting assault of Darkness, made a retreat. Geoff saw Roran, still fighting with courage and vigour, in the fray, slashing back and forth with his massive greatsword.

 

 A Dread Knight fell from his Darok as he was cut down by Roran, who gave a terrible war cry as his face was showered with black blood. Geoff felt a heavy, iron-clad hand on his shoulder seconds before he was yanked back violently, hitting his back against the parapet. 

 

The Dread Knight stood over him, silent. Still without saying a word, he drew his sword and lunged at Geoff. Geoff scrambled backwards, narrowly avoiding a vicious stab from the Knight’s wickedly sharp blade. Geoff fumbled at his belt and drew a dagger, little more than a kitchen knife, yet it was his only defence. Geoff stood up and brandished the knife threateningly, but he knew it was all a great farce. Dread Knights were the cavalry of the Darkness, trained in the shadow in the arts of Combat and Magic. Geoff would’ve been an easy picking. The Dread Knight walked forwards, swinging his sword in a manner that only expert swordsmen could do without losing an arm, curving it with such fluidity and elegance. 

 

Geoff was as good as dead. The Knight lunged forwards, bringing his sword in a downwards hack, which would’ve split Geoff’s head in half. Luckily, he had barely managed to roll between his knees, and, while the Dread Knight was turned, attempted a stab at his unguarded back, but to no avail. The knife bounced uselessly off of the Knight’s expertly forged armour, not even leaving a scratch, let alone a dent. The Dread Knight turned, swinging his sword as he rotated. 

 

Geoff ducked and, amassing all of his strength, shoved the Knight back. The Knight, unfazed, slashed at Geoff, this time connecting, leaving a deep and painful scar on Geoff’s right arm. Dazed, Geoff dropped the dagger and fell to his knees, feeling sick at the sight of his own blood. 

 

The Dread Knight stood over him, victorious, and raised its blade, almost ceremonially, to the sky. It emitted a strange growl from deep in its throat as it prepared to bring it down before… It dropped the blade and fell to the ground, a fountain of pitch-black blood bubbling from its neck, leaving a disgusting stench in the air. 

 

Behind it stood Roran, with his face covered in blood, his beard unruly, and his eyes crazed with bloodlust. “Get up, boy. The battle’s over.” He spoke grimly, not in the tone of a man who had won a great victory. 

 

“I would, sir, but my arm…” Geoff felt his pride shatter as he admitted to the Captain of the Guard that he couldn’t get up on his own. “Very well, boy.” Effortlessly, Roran picked Geoff up like a sack of flour, and slung him over his shoulder. He placed Geoff back onto the ground as Geoff asked: “Now what?” Roran looked at him with mild irritation, like an adult forced to care for and endure the laments of a squealing toddler.

 

 “We’ll rebuild, as we have before.” He turned his back to Geoff and marched back down the steps. Geoff gasped as he gazed at the damage, and suddenly understood Roran’s grave tone of voice. Coldstone Keep was in state of disarray, with wounded men on the ground, moaning softly. The soil was darkened by the black blood of the Shadow-Fiends as their corpses lay strewn across the ground. Geoff amassed his courage and spoke: “With all respect, sir, we can’t rebuild on our own. Either we get world to the Citadel or we die on the next attack.” Roran turned, with fire in his eyes, and for a second Geoff thought he had overstepped his boundaries. Then the fire died, and Roran nodded gently. 

 

“We’ll treat that arm of yours, then we’ll fetch a steed from the stables.” 

 

“For who, sir?” Geoff asked, dreading the answer: “For you, boy. You’ll go to the Citadel and speak to the king!” 

by: Luca Salvatori