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Lachesis
Category:
Fantasy
Publisher: Lachesis
ISBN-10: 1897370571
Type: Fiction
Pages: 416
Copyright: 2007
The kingdom of Vallon has been at peace for many years, due in large part to its dutiful and steadfast King. But that peace is about to end. The young sons of the King, Lycien and Shander, are separated in a terrible accident. A woman of dark power stalks the southern mountains, wielding an ancient and terrible magic, and the realm is under threat of war from expanding empires. Then comes the King’s champion, Jotham Windiin, the finest swordmaster and Guard Captain of Vallon, seeking justice and striving to maintain the fragile peace. But unbeknown to him, the Darkness has chosen a champion of its own. This is a tale full of wonder and dark sorcery, romance and brilliant swordplay, terrible loss and great triumph. As one young Prince must grow into the mantle of King, his brother is raised in shadow. And as the brothers are driven together into inevitable conflict, the fate of Vallon rests on the outcome.
Excerpt
Windiin was surprised, at least initially, at the fury of Crol’s attack. The man was remarkably fast and obviously deadly, moving as if anger itself fuelled the engine of his untiring routine.
Windiin parried solidly a half-dozen times before settling into the rhythm of their martial dance. Crol swung wide and greedily, his eyes flashing with hate as each slash, strengthened with savage purpose, was meant to split Windiin in two.
Crol was a terrifying opponent. Though his style at times flickered with brilliance, he allowed anger and rage to propel his attacks. Windiin recoiled – never in the delirious dream of a disordered mind could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish, be conceived than Crol’s dark form and scarred, rancorous face.
Windiin parried, and then countered, his blade meeting strong and impenetrable slashes of steel. The Guard Captain shifted and moved, agile and alert, as he waited patiently for Crol to expend his heartless energy.
And Crol did tire, though it took longer than Windiin had expected. He seemed to draw from a hidden reserve of energy as he slashed, twisted and screamed. At last his routine slowed, the fires of hate spent, and Crol and Windiin found a steadier, more controlled pace of combat.
Crol thrust forward with violent force, his face upturned and a snarl seething from his lips. Windiin batted the weapon aside with the flat of his blade, twisting his hips sharply to accept, and avoid, the powerful strike.
Crol attacked again, this time using a broad slash from left to right, eager to spill Windiin’s insides onto the leather mat. But the Guard Captain parried with cat-quick skill, then rolled his wrist to execute a fine and competent riposte.
Crol blocked the attack and back-pedaled from second and third counters from the Guard Captain’s dancing blade. The dark swordsman’s own sabre worked furiously up and down, out and across, in an effort to keep Windiin away. The combatants tested one another for some time, each clever attack parried, each riposte fed with a second, even fourth, counter. The dueling chamber was filled with echoing sounds of steel on steel, their clashing reaching high into the chamber’s ceiling.
Windiin moved slower then, on the balls of his feet. He felt the warm grip of his blade, wet with perspiration.
A fine pair we must appear to be, dancing to the silent melody of martial music.
Suddenly, Crol’s eyes flashed and he roared in anger. He was eager to finish their blade dance. His attacks resumed their barbaric intensity, his great haymaker swings intending to cleave Windiin in two.
Windiin parried, then ducked, his knees buckling for an instant before he pounced forward. Crol reeled in pain – Windiin’s counter had opened a thin slash over his chest. The mercenary blinked, then attacked again.
Even a novice could see that Crol was tired. Though far from incompetent, his routine was becoming ineffective, anger and fatigue stealing subtlety and skill. And only a subtle and cunning sword routine would defeat Jotham Windiin.
The combatants clashed again, the exchange intensified with lightning-quick flashes of steel licking at the air. Crol staggered away as they disengaged – Windiin had cut him again.
The Guard Captain blinked away sweat from his eyes and readied himself for another exchange. Crol stood before him, his weapon held in readiness. His breathing was shallow and blood trickled down his wolf-lean frame from two wounds, to pool at his feet.
Crol grinned. “Think me finished, do you?”
“Nearly.”
Jes Crol smiled. The light was fading from his eyes; he looked so tired then, his face pale and body trembling with pain and exhaustion. He attacked, both hands gripping the hilt of his weapon, a downward arc screaming for the Guard Captain’s head. The muscles and sinew in Crol’s arms and shoulders tightened with power, his lanky frame wired taut with his fury.
Windiin didn’t bother to parry the slow and clumsy attack. Instead, he stepped forward and delivered. The point of his sabre slipped into Crol’s chest between two ribs. A great sigh exhaled from Crol’s mouth.
But suddenly, the mercenary had his opponent by the throat, gripping with strong and meaty fingers. Windiin’s eyes widened in panic, unable to free himself from Crol’s grip as his own sword was trapped inside his opponent’s body.
Crol began to squeeze with hellish power. Windiin was choking in Crol’s grasp, a toothy and maniacal grin playing across the mercenary’s ugly face.
Windiin’s vision swam. His fists pummeled Crol’s forearms feebly. He could hear the rush of blood coursing in his veins. Crol’s fingers dug deeply into his throat, painfully digging into flesh and draining the life from him.
Windiin panicked. He couldn’t break free!
This is how it ends. My life pales into memory in the hands of a black-hearted murderer.
Tears stung his eyes. Darkness was fast engulfing him.
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