I - Blood of Kings An Empire is Born #2

Halfdan, sovereign of Ubberia, who had travelled to the main theatre of war, remained sheltered in his tent, awaiting news.

His advanced age prevented him from fighting, as did his lack of skill.

He was impatient; if Narg fell, he would become the undisputed king of the empire.

Having planned everything down to the last detail, he rejected the tempting treaties sent by Old Minister and sold part of his loyalty to the king of Wolest, with a view to later dividing the lands between them.

The news Halfdan was receiving was encouraging. The commanders of his troops reported on events every hour, but he had not yet given orders for sacrifices or festive preparations, for he was well aware of the reputation that preceded Narg. He would only celebrate once he had his head on a pike.

A humble shelter for the night kept the warriors warm. The mead was running out, but the blood continued to flow. Narg, gathered with his retinue, would issue the next orders before the attack; it would be the last night before the festive silence of peace.

A canvas stretched over a wooden frame, on which they had mapped out the terrain of the area, served as their tactical guide, and the nine of them gathered around it.

Narg was in no doubt: if they did not act that very night, after the festivities, Ubberia would regroup and become invincible. One final move remained to be made; it was not to his liking, but he resorted to it: surprise.

He summoned every man and woman, peasant or merchant, blacksmith or priest, sorcerer, servant or cook, who wished to join the cause of their own free will and was able to hold a weapon in their hands.

When the crowd stood before him, made up mostly of the kingdom’s inhabitants, he stepped out of the shelter, removed his modest crown and handed it to the first soldier who passed by his side.

He walked amongst them and tried to look at each one in turn.

He recognised some of them; others he had never seen before, and yet there they stood, fear in their eyes, their muscles tense, a fervent sense of duty coursing through their bodies.

When he reached what he considered to be the centre, surrounded by them, he thrust his sword into the snow and, with his head bowed, raised his voice.

'Tonight you shall not fight for me. Do not dare. You shall fight for yourselves — for your families, for the ideals that, as your leader, I have striven to uphold and pass on to you.' He gripped the hilt. 'You shall kill and die for peace. For Odín. For Alfredo.'

He raised his head and shook it, clearing the loose strands of grey from his face. The scar that cut roughly across the left side of his forehead caught the light. He chose a soldier at random and fixed his blue eyes on him.

'I may carry the blood of the raven — but it runs through each of you.

Every one of you is as much a raven of Odín as I am.

' He turned, and took the time to look at their faces, one by one — weary, wounded, streaked with dirt.

'Tonight there shall be no difference between you and your servant.

Tonight we shall fight side by side. Sword to sword.

No armour, no shields — only our bodies.

And if it is the will of the Father of All that we fall, I ask him to receive us as the heroes we are. '

He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs to the brim.

He was agitated — he felt every one of his own words, for in them lay his soul and the fate of all those before him.

He pulled his broadsword free of the snow, kissed the blade as it caught the torchlight, and raised it above his head.

A hundred black, brown and grey wings broke from the dark — the ravens were answering their lord’s call.

'By Old Minister, by glory, by Odín!'

The sky was sealed. Thick clouds drove a heavy flurry of sleet earthward — snow swirling and striking the warriors’ weather-beaten faces, cracked by the cold.

The whistling wind cut through them as it swept past, lifting the thin crust of snow that lay over the vegetation.

A moonless, pitch-black night — natural camouflage in the grey mist that swallowed them whole.

The Ubberian camp fell within a few hours. Despite the exhaustion of Narg’s troops and the inexperience of the villagers, they managed to slip in unnoticed. Moving silently, without armour to betray their movements, they ensured that those who were asleep found eternal rest.

The murder of ravens, led by Narg, attacked in groups, swooping down on the helmetless soldiers. They pecked and tore at the flesh. Pecked and devoured the eyes.

Those who survived retreated to defend the last remaining tent that was still standing and not engulfed in flames.

But amidst all the commotion, a handful of fleeing Ubberians recognised Narg as he passed.

He was alone, and even though his Santiana sword was feared, they did not hesitate to surround him.

Narg turned — and found himself vulnerable against eight enemies who would kill him, and with him the dream of turning Old Minister and the Raven’s Standard into an empire.

He spread his legs to steady himself on the snowy ground; with both gloved hands he gripped the hilt firmly and arched his back.

With the blade pointing forward, he bent his knees slightly and flexed his elbows to relax his shoulders.

He was ready; his eyes did not blink. Exhaustion set in from the muscular tension of his guard, but he could not allow himself to be attacked; if they all struck together, he would have no escape.

He chose an opponent and lunged at him. With simple movements of his sword — as if it were an extension of his own body — he made it sing the melodies of death to the wind.

Then, he braced himself to face the two who attacked him together and annihilated them in seconds.

His loyal warriors fought their way through the blood, teeth and flesh of the last remaining soldiers to reach his side.