Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 17: A wicked curse

Cw: for blood, death, gore and violence as well as slurs and violent language.

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Hampton Court, day of the battle.

It was at dawn when the first of the crimson Ardowenian flags crested over the horizon.

The crowning heavens illuminated the troops into stark, fiery glory. Red and gold, barely bleeding into the dark of the night, like the dragon head embroidered on the banners. Hundreds of soldiers, armed to the teeth, lined into columns. At the head of the formation, the most formidable of them all.

A gleaming helmet encased his marbled features, gilded wings flaring from the sides of his high cheekbones, past his temples, like knives raised out. From the slit at his temples, two sharp horns protruded, almost as sharp as his smile. King Torin.

Amidst the walled barracks, the human troops still slept. It would still be a few moments before they awoke for their daily duties. Would have been. Many would never get the chance to open their eyes. A mercy granted upon them. The others would not be so fortunate as to pass in their sleep.

Ahead of them, a few soldiers on guard began to take notice of the men marching their way. Eyes widened, skin paled. Their fear was practically palpable, an aphrodisiac to Torin and his blood-thirsty brethren.

The first to move was a young man high on the battlement around the barrack. His eyes widened, and his legs scrambled to rise, as he turned to sound the horn to alert the others. But rather than a hasty alarm, what left his mouth was a garbled groan.

Blood trickled down his mouth. Shocked, he looked down to see the fiery arrow that pierced his chest, right at his heart. Still clutching the horn, he barely seemed to register what had happened, before he collapsed in a heap.

Torin raised his hand, and the crowd behind him rumbled. He unsheathed a sword, the slick metallic sound cutting through the vibrating silence. The other guards atop the battlement hastened to rush down, but it was late. Much too late.

With a single lifted hand, the soldiers parted, and from their midst, huge, black creatures emerged. Skorpines, the size of small horses, their pincers lethally sharp and gleaming in the light. The creatures skittered towards the front lines, hissing like frying oil, curving their stingers up high.

A young black-haired elf advanced through the ranks, a gleaming bronze helmet held under his arm, a proud smirk stretched over his lips. The creatures chittered excitedly, seeming to follow his every move. Prince Damon Eagan and his prized Skorpine pets.

The guards at the battlement blanched. They tripped over themselves in their haste to alert the other, charging their bows and readying their swords. It was no use. King Torin gave a sharp nod to Prince Damon, and with a grin, the prince parted his lips and hissed something in an unknown tongue. The creatures screeched and snapped their pincers, and with the keenness of a pack of hunting hounds set loose, they skittered full speed across the land, eating the space in a matter of seconds.

The guards cursed and aimed their bows at them. The measly arrows simply slid off the hardbacks of the Skorpines like smooth butter. They charged ahead, undeterred. In a matter of moments, they began to scale the rough walls of the keep, like single-minded beasts.

Torin waited for the first one to arrive at the keep, and then, he raised a hand, and boomed, "Charge!"

The soldiers moved in neat columns, shields raised high, easily deflecting the arrows aimed their way. The lines parted, and from between, a group speared forward, carrying a massive battering ram.