I - Blood of Kings An Empire is Born #3

He spun round sharply at the sound of iron anklets clinking together behind him: years of experience in war had dimmed his eyesight, but sharpened his hearing.

As he turned, he seized his attacker by the wrist and managed to disarm him.

He swept his legs out from under him, and, before he fell, to bring his family’s legend to life, he bent his knees and spread his arms, clad in the black tunic like raven’s wings.

He swung the sword from right to left. His opponent’s torso and legs fell, severed, at his feet.

He was in excellent physical shape, yet at times his body worked against him, proving a worse enemy than himself in defying his ego.

He took a deep breath. As he scanned his surroundings, his vision blurred for a few seconds and he could hear the voices of his retinue nearby, along with the fervent cries of battle and pain.

He reached for a piece of cloth hanging from his waist to wipe away the spattered blood.

Suddenly, arms wrapped around his chest and pushed him backwards.

Before he fell, he twisted in an attempt to break free, but found himself face to face with someone he knew: Maed was on top of him, and both were buried in the soft, fluffy snow.

At his feet, Gwion, armed with nothing but a shield, parried and blocked every blow from the two enemies who had the king’s life hanging in the balance.

He was unarmed, covered in other people’s blood — or at least most of it — and yet he moved forward and back as he dodged and shoved.

Between blows, he glanced sideways over his shoulder at Maed, and that was enough for Maed to take Narg’s very own sword and hold it out to him.

Gwion shoved hard at the Ubberian — or Wolestian — who was pressed against his shield and trying to wound him. He took advantage of the distance and struck the man’s throat with the upper edge of the shield, right in the gap between his helmet and breastplate.

He moved to his right to take the sword his brother was offering him, but the soldier, lying on the ground, despite being unable to breathe, kicked his knee, and he fell face-down on top of Narg and Maed.

Both their heads were buried in the icy mound of snow as a chill ran through Gwion’s body.

The tip of a dagger was embedded between his ribs.

With a deep, fierce cry, despite his injury, he fought back from the ground.

Gwion’s strength and stature surpassed that of the rest of the elite troop.

Of considerable height — taller than average — with broad shoulders and long, muscular arms and legs, he struck fear into the heart of any enemy.

But the hostile invader seized the advantage and lunged at him, sword raised, ready to kill him as he stared him down.

A spark flashed and lit up Gwion’s face. The enemy, momentarily blinded, squinted to sharpen his vision. Flanking the ridge of steel rings that descended from his chainmail, Gwion’s menacing, ravenous gaze paralysed him.

Gregor, who was standing a few paces away from them, pulled the axe from his unfortunate opponent’s chest and, without him even realising it, split the head of the man frozen in place before Gwion in two.

'You owe me three, and counting,' said Gregor, pulling him to his feet.

They were comrades, but the bond between them was stronger than blood. They stood back-to-back, axe and sword, and finished off the few remaining enemy soldiers around them.

From inside the tent, Arwel and Cheas pushed Halfdan out to bring him before Narg. Maed helped him to his feet whilst shaking the snow from his clothes.

The war — the last one for the Empire of Móntria — was drawing to a close.

Narg, recovered, watched his long-standing adversary approach.

The end had come, and yet he held himself still — swallowing the urge to tear him apart right there, to force him to his knees and perform the Blood Eagle upon him.

How many days of war and death had this old man sown, this defeated wretch who now stood before him.

But he kept his composure. 'Mercy is a virtue,' he thought, and walked towards Gwion to take back his sword.

'Halfdan, thy land now belongeth to me,' declared Narg as he slowly turned to look over his shoulder at the elderly monarch of Ubberia.

'It is Odín who granteth me victory; the blood of Alfredo floweth through my veins; the steel of my sword is Truth.

I shall spare thy life if thou kneelest before me. '

Halfdan bowed his head; surrender appeared inevitable, yet the glint of steel within the fire’s glow about them gave warning. The stubborn old man had drawn his blade.

'I know thy truth; I possess Perkolon’s manuscript, and with it I shall cleanse thy fabricated blood.'

The clash of metal sent sparks flying that lit up the night; the sky cleared and the stars descended upon the earth. The royal weapons of Old Minister and Ubberia clashed for the last time, bathing the virgin snow in Halfdan’s sweet crimson.

The ravens’ feast began.