In this free preview, one of the central characters in the series, Duke Morgin Grenfell, is leading a column of his knights in a defensive campaign on his eastern frontier. Morgin is one of the highest ranking Outlords of the realm, and seeing war and dark times coming, he has forged an alliance of local Outlords in the western provinces, naming it “The White Company.”
In this scene, Morgin visits one of his staunchest allies, the province of Bomark, which sits on a high plateau to the west of his lands and serves as a strong shield for all the Western Outlords. During this visit to Bomark’s new young King Erik, Duke Morgin learns of travail and fire just north of Bomark, where a peaceful people known as the Wends are under threat from barbarian tribes further west of their woodland settlements. The tribesmen of the Hunding and Gorg have crossed the river Barymath on the western frontiers of the Wending lands, and they are burning their way through the woodland. The Wends have retreated east, now standing in East Wend, the last of their settlements. Learning of this barbarian incursion, Duke Morgin decides to take his knights north from Bomark and intervene. He is soon joined by two strong allies, the stony soldiers of Bomark led by their King Erik, and a part of the Dwarrowkin Host from the far north in Irondale under Lord Frey.
Together these three allies forces faced down and assail the Barbarian tribes, but in doing so, word travels further west onto the land of Dark Mornaland, where a great enemy takes notice, and stirs to life.
This scene begins with Morgin entering Bomark from the south and traveling along the north to south rim of the plateau.
The Duke and his knights rode north again through the Wrathful Glenn, an old battlefield from the first age. Beneath Lord Hard’s tower, a winding road ascended to the top of the plateau, unlike many other towers which could only be accessed by climbing steep stone stairs. Hard’s Hold was nonetheless well defended, with the woods of the Wrathful Glen on its front left quarter, and the fells of Barhulian on its front right. In spite of the easier road to the top, no one would get onto the Bomark plateau here without the leave of the guardsmen in that tower.
Duke Morgin led his knights in a column of twos back up that winding road, climbing to a spectacular view of the Little Sea behind them, where the sun dappled surface waves were moved by the wind, the light playing over the shallow blue waters. That sea was a great gathering of melted snows from the Greystone Mountains that formed the hard spine of Bomark. In the spring the snows would melt on Snowmass, Torghatten and the Greystones, and flow in small streams over the plateau, eventually cascading over the edge and down the sheer cliffs in lovely falls. The air as they climbed was cool and fresh, with a hint of autumn and a warning of winter.
Morgin could have taken a track through the fells and north along the western edge of the plateau into Evenissil, but he wanted to thank King Erik for both his hospitality and support, and know his mind. Nine other High Walds had sat on the throne of Bomark since the time of Lord Hard. King Erik was the 10th.
Morgin and his knights were welcomed, and passed quickly through the fortress Hard had built. They would linger only to water and rest the horses before passing through and out the rear gates and taking the road north to Dwinsingarth, another twelve Marks on. There the Duke would meet with King Erik, who graciously rode from Carrig Branwydd to join him.
Dwinsingarth was a small city, with most every building there made of stone, for unless they were cut and carried up from the Wrathful Glen or all the way from Dreminwydd, few trees grew on the Bomark Plateau. Morgin often shipped timber from the Ravenswood as part of his trade with Bomark. They in turn sent him hard stone quarried from their mountains so he could fortify his own cities and towns. Dwinsingarth was surrounded by cultivated fields, in a patchwork of green, brown and grey. The Duke would meet young Erik in a city hall, and the older man gave him a hearty handshake.
“I thank you for allowing the passage of so many men at arms in your lands, King Erik. Our work is done, and I hope that Ermenrich and Ivinghelm will be safe, at least for the near future. That said, I fear this is but the first time we may have to sortie in defense of the Western Outlands. What news while we were so engaged?”
“One came here with your name on his lips, one of the Dwarrowkin, a Lord Frey. He left a message for you, should you return this way.” He handed Morgin a small rolled scroll, and the Duke thumbed it open to break the wax seal, seeing it was on script from Irondale. A prominent rune graced the upper left corner, a single vertical stroke with two smaller strokes angling from the center at a 45 degrees to the upper right. That was the rune Faihu, corresponding to the “F” sound in the common speech. In this case it was also the initial of the sender of that message, Frey, but Morgin noted that it was signed “Lord Frey, High Lord of Irondale.”
“Ah,” said Morgin. “This is good news. An heir to the throne of Gherin has been named, Frey, son of Frost. Did you speak with him?”
“I did, and he opened his mind to me concerning the plight of the Wendfolk.”
Morgin rolled the scroll and tucked it into a pouch in the lining of his Burgundy cape. “And what was his mind on that?”
“He said he would not stand by and see them slaughtered by the barbarians. I think he means to march to East Wend and fight the Gorg and Hunding tribes that have plundered Dreminwydd. In fact, he asked if we would join him.”
“And your answer?”
“I said I must confer with my Captains, and with you, Duke Morgin. Being a member of the White Company, I thought it rash that I should act without first hearing your mind on this.”
“A wise choice. In this case, I would say this would be a good time to show the barbarians some real strength. Here I sit with a thousand knights in armor. So I think it would be good if we took the road to the cleft between Gossantyr and Gambatyr, and then rode down onto the Issil Fields. By that route we would come up behind any Barbarian horde assailing East wend, and that would be a most unpleasant surprise for the Gorg, and a most welcome arrival for Lord Frey and his men if they stand there. They may not need us, yet not seeing the host that has already come to Dreminwydd, I cannot judge this. Better to render aid than not. Will you come with me?”
“Of course! I have many men at arms all along the north edge of the plateau. I have spoken to my Captains, and both Fenmark and Thrand agree that we should not sit idle with the Wends in need. We may already be late, but we will come. I have already sent word to Lord Frey on this.”
“Good then, that is decided. But what was your wish in this? Would you sortie, or stand fast in the towers? As I take my knights forward, it will be good to know a strong arm is behind us, watching our backs. It may also be good for you to get the feel of a saddle beneath you on a field of battle. Particularly where the odds will look good for our side. If we join with the host of Irondale, we show the barbarians some real muscle. Perhaps it will deter their return.”
“Then I will come myself.”
“Excellent. King Erik, remember always that you are King here. Take council of your Captains if you feel the need, or seek my advice if you wish, but you are King of all Bomark now, and what you decide shall be the order of the day. Get used to that, as I once did when my own father passed Rhaingoll to my hands unlooked for.”
“Thank you, Duke Morgin. That is good advice. One thing more… When Lord Frey was here, he spoke of a common thread shared by our three realms. They are joined, he said, by a world below this one—the Underworld.”
“Indeed,” said Morgin, suddenly interested. “It is said there are ways leading down into that world within all our three provinces. Have you found the way down here within Bomark?”
“I know nothing of it at all. For me such tales were merely stories, things dreamt up to frighten children and make them behave. Is there such a hidden gate in my realm?”
“My good King, between Dwinsingarth and Torghattem Mountain, and deep beneath all that ground, I’ll warrant there lies a vast underground chamber, a great chasm which is but a small part of the Underworld, wherein Morwenna sits in her fortress of bone and skulls, Witch Queen of the Dead.”
“What? Right beneath our feet? I thought this to be nothing more than a story.”
“Yes, a frightful story, but one based on reality. I have learned this from my Magister. Dig deep enough in this world, into dark, forlorn places, and you will sometimes find things that were best left undiscovered. Come, let us not speak of the Witch Queen, but do not forget her. First we have a battle to fight! After that, I will think on the Underworld again, and how it might be entered.”
“Entered? Surely you would never want to go there, Duke Morgin. It would be suicide,”
“A man must sometimes do things he does not favor or desire. We will speak on this again some other time.”
Map for this engagement: (You may want to download this and open it in a file image viewer so you can zoom in to see things better.
Chapter 20
Some hours later, Duke Morgin led his Knights down along the road towards the north edge of the Bomark Plateau. (Just off map, Bottom Right corner). There he saw the two stone towers standing their watch, Gambatyr to their left on the edge of the plateau, and higher up on the knees of the Greystone Mountains, there was Gossantyr. The way down from Gambatyr was only a stone stair, which would not do for a heavy armored knight on a charger. But the road between the towers descended through a cleft in the plateau wall, and so it was manageable for horsemen.
Down they went, a sinuous column, the sun gleaming off their silver helms, the long lances pointing skyward. By the time they assembled on the Fields of Evenissil below, they saw the men of Bomark marching behind them in their dirt brown leather jerkins, carrying round shields, javelins, swords, and axes. They were already forming dense columns after their fashion of war.
The word Issil in the common tongue meant ice, and the province they had entered now was called Evenissil, the land of perpetual ice. It was still late summer, so there were no great blocks of Ice on the fields here now, but beneath the sun warmed soil, just a few feet down, there was permafrost, the remnant of the hard winter this summer had followed.
From up on the edge of that high plateau, Morgin saw how badly the Dreminwydd forest had been burned, all along the road from West Wend through Mittawend. The grey smoke was still heavy over the woodland, and blowing east on a stiff west wind, until it gathered at the knees of the Greystones like a shroud. Beneath it, at East Wend, the last fighters and archers of the Wendfolk thought they would make their final battle that day, and they had little hope of seeing another sunrise, or so they feared. The Gorg and Hunding tribes were too much for them to hold at bay, no matter how good their archery was.
Then, as they watched war bands of the Gorg begin to emerge from groves of trees below them, many carrying torches to fire these woods as well, they heard a steady, rhythmic drumming. An officer dropped to the ground and listened, hearing the tramp of many feet on the march.
“They come on our right flank!” he warned, but to their great surprise, they looked north and saw the long lines of Dwarrowkin axemen from Irondale beginning to arrive. The dour face warriors, bearded, stocky men bearing heavy axes and strong steel shields were a sight to behold under their grey steel helms. They sang as they came, of old Irondale and the battle on the Barymath an age past. There was a joy and ardor for war in their song, and a warning in their deep throated voices. Three companies formed on their right, the clansmen of Lords Mith, Palhor and Nafni. Two more companies under Alegog and Lord Frey formed up behind them, giving strength and hope to them all. Perhaps, they now thought, the young boys of East Wend might live to become men after all.
Up came a horde of Wolf riders, and behind them a warband of the Gorg. The archers of the Wends pulled and released a shower of white arrows, which fell like sickles of ice on the Gorg, and heavily on the wolves they rode into East Wend. Then Frey and Alegog both gave a shout and led their men forward, through the lines of the Wends and falling on the barbarians with those heavy axes.
They cleaved the wooden shields of the Gorg, smashing them down with fearsome strength. Some of the Hunding tribe carried wicker shields, which they shivered into pieces with a single blow. Half the entire strength of Irondale had come this day, but even as they fought, a swift rider came from Gherindelve looking for Lord Frey. He was easy to find in his bright silver chain mail and helm crowned with the likeness of a raven. His wild yellow hair flowed in the wind, and he seemed tireless as he fought, side by side with his men that hour.
The messenger forced his way through the ranks, and shouted. “My Lord! Word from Irondale. You must attend me!”
At this Frey brought down his axe on the helm of a Gorg tribesman, crushing the man to the ground. Then he gave way and fell back through the ranks to take the scroll carried by the rider. When he read it, he knew his battle here must be swift and decisive. He had just learned that another barbarian host had come to the wide plains of Emyl-Issik north of Dreminwydd, and now posed a threat to the Tower of Baelgyr and all the western frontier of Irondale. His men would need to return north soon.
The Dwarrowkin met the charge of the barbarians, broke it, and then hammered it back. The lines of the Gorg were buckling in many places under the sharp edges of those heavy axes. Then Frey heard a horn call, and looked to see knights on armored mounts forming to charge into the flank and rear of the barbarian host. The knights of Rhaingoll had come, many hundreds strong. They lowered their lances and started riding the fleeing tribesmen down.
This was entirely too much for the barbarians to withstand. They had thought to fall on the last of the Wending archers, holding up their round wooden shields until they were studded with arrows, and then breaking in upon them with their spears and short swords to quickly slay the men and then carry off the women and children. They thought their torches would burn these woods as easily as they had just burned Mittawend. Then came this storm of steel against them, the fierce ranks of the Dwarrowkin clans of Irondale, and now these heavy chargers with armored knights and those terrible long war lances. They had no answer for this other than to turn and flee, their war bands shattered, the wolves butchered and mostly dead. They were a long way from the Barymath River, and only the woods would give them any cover. Soon they learned that farther south, on the fields of Issil, the men of Bomark had also come out against them and they knew their great raid was over.
Now they fled as fast as they could, ever west, through the gaunt burned trees of Dreminwydd they had savaged earlier, over the smoldering fallen trunks of ash and oak, west towards the River Barymath, the watery border of their homeland; back to their cities of Daggah-Bur and Akale-Bur.
But word of this defeat would soon be carried by a terrified rider, over the Barymath and on west to reach the stinking fens of the Weir. Up to the black stone spike of Weirwatch Tower he finally came, set upon by swarms of horrid black flies. The scroll he carried would be passed to another rider, who spurred his horse up the flinty flanks of the Lierstone Mountains to another fortress. There a lesser Dreadlord took it in his steely mailed fist, and bore it to his dark master, his breath hot as he labored up past Lierstone Hold and on to Magamord to seek the high towers flanking the arches of the Draelomor Gate. There, the Master of all those blighted lands, Luthgondriel, and the true master of Gorgathor was finally handed that message, and a wail cut through the souls of any who heard it rise up from the high turrets of his hold that hour.
It promised vengeance….
The Chronicles of Innisfail recounts a great war where a combination of barbarian hosts and other forces led by the Dreadlords of the land press upon the lands of Free men, and the Empire of Innisfail. The fighting in the Western Outlands is but an overture of what is to come later in the series.
Hope you enjoyed this free preview! Thanks for reading. For those interested in reading further, the opening volume of the series is now on sale for a limited time at $2.99. You can find it at the link below on Amazon.
https://www.amazon.com/Chronicles-Innisfail-I-Kinstrife-ebook/dp/B09W3YBX9R