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Prologue from The Darkweaver Legacy: Book 2

'Blast those Tarmin damned recruits! What are they up to now?’

Sergeant Dren slammed his quill down on the table so hard that the rolled parchments, which littered the tabletop, jumped, causing several to fall to the floor. Standing, he pushed his chair forcefully away from his desk and strode angrily across the stone tiled floor of the workroom to the window. Outside, recruits were running in every direction across the weapons training area, all discipline seemingly abandoned. A great commotion of confused shouts enhanced the chaos, and the anger that consumed Dren’s thoughts swelled to a new level.

Ever since Baron Keevan had gone south to Mantor with the majority of his private army, Sergeant Dren, together with the somewhat ineffective Captain Risslan, had been struggling to maintain discipline levels amongst the fresh intake of recruits. The major problem was the fact that with virtually all of the Baron’s trained soldiers away, the recruits were being used to fill duties for which they were not yet ready. All of the Corporals most experienced in training new recruits had also gone south, leaving the Sergeant with an unseasoned training staff who seemed to add to his problems rather than solve them. However, limited as his training staff’s abilities may be, the mayhem that reigned within the castle at this moment in time was unforgivable, he thought to himself as he wrenched the door open.

‘STAND STILL!’ he bellowed, the anger boiling in his gut adding even more decibels than normal to his phenomenally powerful voice.

For the most part, the recruits around the eastern side of the castle froze at that huge shout. However, two recruits ignored the order and continued running towards the armoury.

‘ARE YOU DEAF? I SAID STAND STILL,’ Dren yelled at the two recruits who had seen fit to disobey his first command.

‘But, Sergeant...’ protested the nearer of the two young men, his steps stuttering to an indecisive halt.

‘Don’t, ‘But, Sergeant’ me!’ Dren growled, his voice low and dangerous. ‘When I say ‘stand still,’ I mean STAND STILL. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, Sergeant, but we’re under attack...’ the recruit blurted so fast that Dren was unable to chastise him further for answering back before the fact sunk in.

‘Under attack?’

‘Yes, Sergeant. There’s a huge Shandese raiding party approaching the eastern wall.’

‘Then why has the alarm not been sounded, recruit?’

‘Reldan tried to blow the horn, Sergeant, but he couldn’t get a sound out of it. So he ran as fast as he could to tell Captain Risslan...’

‘All right. The rest can wait,’ Dren interrupted, immediately recognising from where the chaos had originated. ‘You five,’ he ordered, pointing at his designated choices. ‘Get swords from the armoury. You, you and you... collect as many bows as you can from the bowmaker’s store. You four - go into every room in the castle and ensure that everyone... and I mean everyone, is out on the walls. The rest of you get up on the walls now, and be prepared to start dislodging enemy ladders and grappling hooks. Move, people. You haven’t got all day.’

Dren was angrier than ever by now, but he gave his orders in a clear, unhurried manner, conveying a calming confidence to the panic stricken recruits. As a result, with clear directions to follow, the recruits began moving with a sense of purpose that had been lacking only moments before. The Sergeant had no need to ask where the Captain was. He could guess.

The quietly fuming Sergeant walked purposefully across the weapons training area and bounded up the steps to the eastern wall. Each powerful stride carried him up two steps at a time, and on reaching the top, Dren’s square jaw clenched in annoyance as he sighted Captain Risslan near the guard tower. Pursing his lips in a hard line, Sergeant Dren moved swiftly to intercept the Captain who was transmitting panic through the new recruits. As Dren strode along the wall, he noted that the enemy would be in a position to begin an assault within the next couple of minutes. He had to act quickly.

‘Captain Risslan,’ he boomed, unable to totally conceal the anger in his voice.

The flustered Captain was oblivious to the undertone, being totally consumed by panic and stressed to breaking point.

‘Sergeant, we’re under attack. We are not prepared for this. We haven’t any trained troops to hold the lines...’

‘Sir, forgive me for interrupting,’ Dren interjected quickly, unable to waste any more than a few seconds on the panic stricken Captain. ‘I think that it might be wise if you went and prepared your horse for battle.’

‘My horse?’

‘Yes, sir. It wouldn’t be fitting for a Captain to go into battle unprepared. Besides, who would take command if you were killed up here on the walls? You are our only Captain at present, and we would be leaderless if we lost you.’

‘Great Tarmin! I hadn’t thought of that!’

‘Well, sir, that’s just what you have Senior NCOs for. I’ll look after things up here, sir. I suggest that you direct the fight from the relative safety of the Weapons Training Area. That way we don’t lose our leader, and you will get a good view of what’s going on by being on horseback.’

It was a ridiculous proposal, but it was the best that the Sergeant could think of on the spur of the moment. However, the Captain was not thinking rationally and to his panic-filled mind, what the Sergeant was suggesting made perfect sense.

‘Very well, Sergeant. I will go at once and prepare my mount. I shall endeavour to be in position as fast as I can.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Sergeant Dren breathed a quiet sigh of relief as Captain Risslan virtually sprinted away along the wall towards the nearest steps that led down into the castle interior.

‘Tarmin forbid that you ever have to direct the men in anger,’ muttered Dren through gritted teeth at the rapidly disappearing officer.

It had not been a surprise to Dren that the Baron had left the young Captain behind when the army had marched south to Mantor. However, what had amazed the Sergeant was that the Baron would entrust his entire castle to someone as obviously incompetent as Risslan without leaving at least one other Captain to moderate his decisions. Captains, though, were in short supply: particularly the good ones. Appointing Captains because of their family background rather than for their ability as leaders was undoubtedly the main reason for the shortfall in able commanders. Only a handful had ever been promoted up through the ranks and those had never held more than junior Captain positions. It had never failed to amaze Dren that someone as obviously intelligent and in many areas, progressive as the Baron, would not break with tradition to improve the efficiency of his army.

With no time to reflect further on the Baron’s reasons for appointing Captains, Dren focused his attention on organising the troops on the wall, and bottled up his anger and frustration as best he could, saving it all for the enemy. With his gruff voice he growled short sharp words of direction and encouragement to each group of soldiers. The recruits that he had sent to collect weapons arrived with armfuls of bows and bundles of arrows, which were rapidly distributed along the wall. Dren grabbed a sword from the pile of weapons that had been brought up from the armoury. As he did so, a great clamour of war cries from the enemy announced the commencement of the assault.

‘Bowmen, ready!’ Dren yelled. ‘And... FIRE.’

A wave of arrows sheeted into the enemy ranks. Some found their marks, but the horde continued their charge undaunted.

‘Ready. FIRE.’

Another flight of arrows plunged into the Shandese warriors. However, this time the thrum of crossbow bolts, which were launched in reply, resulted in a clatter as most of the bolts smashed harmlessly against the battlements. A single cry from amongst the defenders rang out signalling their first casualty, as one of the recruits fell back clutching at the crossbow bolt deeply embedded in his shoulder.

The seething mass of Shandese raiders reached the base of the castle walls and there was another clatter as dozens of scaling ladders were thrust against the battlements. Many of the young defenders were eager to push the ladders away quickly and thus exposed themselves to more crossbow fire.

‘Easy, lads,’ Dren yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Archers fire at will. The rest of you pick off the men as they reach the top of the ladders. Every now and again push some away at random. It’s impossible to fight and climb a ladder, so use that advantage to reduce the odds.’

Dren’s voice was such that despite the ululating cries of the enemy, his booming tones carried to the furthest of his troops and they responded without question to his orders. Dren himself moved to the nearest of the scaling ladders and hacked at the first of the Shandese warriors to appear at the top of the wall. The swarthy-faced fighter fell backwards off the ladder with a cry of pain, but the view from the eastern wall as Sergeant Dren dispatched his first opponent caused the breath to freeze in his chest. A great dark cloud of unnaturally black smoke was billowing across the field from just behind the attacking force. It only took a split second for Dren to assimilate the fact that firstly: the smoke was appearing from apparently clear air; secondly, it was growing phenomenally fast and finally, it was moving against the wind. It would undoubtedly engulf the wall within the next few seconds and there was nothing that he could do to stop it.

‘Great Tarmin!’ he cursed. ‘They’ve got one of their damned Magicians with them!’