BlackThorn's Doom Page 0,62

beginning to blister. He shook his head and looked at the devastation in horror.

Timosh had been breached! The stalwart keep that had long warded his home was now little more than a smoking ruin. Two thirds of the structure lay strewn throughout the comb. Shattered masonry intermixed with the bodies of her fallen defenders. Only a small portion of the wall remained, a sad reminder of the strength this keep had once displayed.

On a hilltop a mile to the north four riders watched in stunned disbelief.

Connell drew his sword. “Now while confusion reigns!” He shouted. “Make for the keep!” He spurred his skittish mount forward. “Let nothing stop you, no matter what befalls us. Word must reach Gaelan of the quests failure.”

Spurring their mounts forward they galloped across the rough ground with reckless abandon. Leaping small fissures and ducking to avoid low branches they tore through the night.

The Army of Sur’kar was in complete chaos. Morne lay dead by the tens of thousands. Many more wounded cried out in the darkness as giants blinded by the brightness of the blast and driven mad in pain fell about themselves with their mighty cudgels.

The four warriors raced past wagons by the hundreds and into the heart of the devastation.

Connell’s heart sank as he could clearly see the damage done to the great keep. Several hundred years worth of arduous labor had been reduced to smoking ruin.

They rode through the scattered ranks, riding down any who failed to leap clear. Connell’s blade flashed in the scattered firelight, mowing Morne down as easily as a farmer reaping standing hay.

He caught a glimpse of Sur’kar wreathed in emerald fire driving the Morne onto their feet with blasts of power. At his side stood the fuming Ma’ul, the demon watching their passage with mild interest.

Something hissed through the air just missing his left ear. Connell flinched and huddled low across his horse’s neck. The Morne were recovering and a few were now firing arrows at them.

Another black shaft thumped into his saddle just missing his thigh. The iron tipped shaft easily piercing the leather and plunging deep into his horse’s back.

The Animal kicked high and Connell was thrown off its back. Maddened in pain the horse bucked in circles seeking to free itself of the arrow.

Connell hit the ground hard, the air rushing from his lungs. He watched in dazed amazement as Yoladt’s racing steed leapt over him. He rolled onto his side and was nearly trampled by Turlock’s mount as it passed.

Less than a hundred yards separated him from the battered Morne. The dark warriors were drawing their blades and rushing for him.

Connell grabbed his fallen blade and raced for the safety of the keep. He ran as he had never run before. His lungs burned and his back ached. He could see that Turlock and Ild had made it through the rubble of the keeps wall.

Yoladt waited until the men were beyond the opening, with a harsh yank upon his reins he hauled his horse about and galloped back towards Connell.

Up the steep slope the Prince of Kesh dashed, until he came to a leaning wooden post. From the rough timber hung a body, preserved from corruption by the biting cold.

Connell slid to a stop and fell to his knees struck by both intense grief and anger. He shook with fury staring up into the dead eyes of his father.

The deceased King’s body was battered and peppered with at least a hundred arrows. No blood stained the shafts; his father had been shot after his death.

Connell tore off his cloak and came to his feet swiping the air before him with a savage swing of his sword.

Stepping around his father’s corpse he stood facing the onrushing Morne, Rage now overpowering his common sense.

The Morne had closed the distance to less than fifty yards. Black shafted arrows bounced from the stone at his feet.

“Ye charock!” A voice of power roared above the clamoring Morne.

The disorganized charge came to an abrupt halt, the Morne lowering their weapons and hastily stepping aside as a towering warrior strode forth.

He was encased in ebon plate, an imposing figure with fire burning within his helms visor. Although great strength seemed to flow from him, his armor yet bore the damage of combat. The right horn upon his helm was severed near the base and upon his thigh a smoking rent marred the ornate steel.

Yoladt reined his horse in beside Connell. “Come,” He said holding out his hand. “You cannot hope