The Crown of Treason

Chapter 1. Fire (part 2.)

The seams of the long stairs ran with blood. The unfortunate souls running out onto the street lay slain on its steps. Ewan rode onward. There was but one thing that mattered, getting to the Court of Falclau before Yserthorn's forces could lay waste.

'Ilene, I'm coming!' he shouted to himself.

He tried to get his thoughts straight to be of a single mind against the chaos in the streets around him. Smoke was burning in his longs as his heart pounded in his chest. One house after the other was being engulfed by the flames. The Nobles District burned like a witches pyre.

Servants and huscarls poured into the streets, armed with whatever they managed to get their hands on. The wailing of women and children grew numb in the black smoke. Aaaah, if one could only know the stench of that smoke... reeking of death and burned flesh. The smell of revolution.

In the Street of Monks Ewan saw a group of soldiers herding together a group of children under the shrine of Mortigena with the Iron Figners. The soldiers intended to let the goddess sort them out, but Ewan didn't know.

Ewan wanted to halt his flight.

'Ride on, you fool! Think of your own children!'

The voice inside his head outcried his heart.

'Yserthorn will pay for this.'

Flames, ferociously lashing out lit up the sky above his home.

The Court of Falclau...

'Faster!' he barked.

Thousands of firefly wood splinters flew sky-high and tumbled down towards the soldiers blocking the gate. They were about thirty of them, their pikes aimed at the gates, ready to butcher his family.

Flares of the fire were dancing in reflection upon their silver and white fittings. Yserthorn...

Ewan wanted to charge but Vydar and Lance had fallen behind.
He held his reins and forced himself to use the moment to catch a breath.

'Those cowards intend to let the fire do the dirty work for them.' Vydars voice sounded raw above the smoke.

'They'll suffocate or they'll run right into a wall of pikes.'

'They forgot to accounted for us in that equation,' Lance spoke, sword in hand.

A touch of a moment Ewan closed his eyes. He had to remain calm. The cold nights air filled his longues.

Thirty armoured soldiers. Behind every helmet he saw the smirking grin of Yserthorn, the Butcher of the Yser Valley. Steel slid from its sheath. The leather grip of the hilt filled his fist. But a few times in his life, had a sword felt so good in his hand.

He drew another deep breath. None of the soldiers had noticed them. Their minds were fixed on the iron-reinforced gate before them, ready to run through the inhabitants, armed or otherwise.

'My family,' Ewan thought.

'Die by fire or die on the spike of a halberd.'

Those were the choices the Iron Scrapers wanted to leave them.

His heart became cold as ice.

'Not if my sword still has a voice in this city.'

He spurred his horse.
'Fearinn!' he shouted.

His steed charged into the pack of armoured backs. They clattered to the ground like pins in a game of balls and pins. Like loose helms of grass being blown away by a summer storm.

His sword mowed around to the left of him, to the right of him then to the left again. Cutting at every soft spot he could reach.

'Claaaaaaaaaaaaaw!' he heard bellowing over his shoulder.
'Claaaaaaaw!' shouted Vydar and Lance.

'Kill them! Kill them all! For Faearinn! For Silverfort. Kill them! For Falclau! Claaaaaaaw!'

Iron Scrapers were smashed to the ground.

'Vengeance!'

Every cut his sword made was vengeance. Sweet vengeance.

'Justice... Justice! JUSTICE!'

He raged and he cut. He cut and he raged, until what felt like a steel wall stood his hand. A soldier had parried his sword.

'Bloody fool!'

He cut another blow. His hand struck a stone.

Ewan panted. Rage began to leave him...

His sober mind came to back to him. Vydar and Lance had left his side. Soldiers were climbing to their feet, regrouping even. They tried to close in around him. Challenging before him, he saw the white rooster feathers of an officer.

The warrior struck at him. The stolen horse reared away from the slash. Hooves kicked through the dark of the night. The warrior didn't flinch. He lunged forward. Ewan yanked the reins of his steed. Everywhere about his person enemies began to find their feet again. Mortigena's cold finger of fear lay a touch in his heart.

'Retreat!'

'Reform!'

'We've got to disengage!'

'BY THE SHIFTING GOD!'

He had to be of better judgment than allow himself to be pulled into a standing fight. The tied of the bout had begun to shift against him. He had to get out.

An Iron Scraper took a fling at grabbing the reins of his horse.

Rearing and kicking he managed to turn his mount. Vydar and Lance fought themselves toward him, their horses bucking from the entanglement.

With a quick kick from his boot, Lance managed to avoid being lifted from his stirrup.

A halberd thrust Vydar in his chest. The pole broke upon the rings of his mail. Screaming, Vydar fought on.

Ewan felt his own blood seep underneath his tunic. His blue coat of arms, embroidered with the silver falcon of his house was torn to pieces, his chest full of cuts he did not know from where or whence. It had been reckless, even suicidal to charge without any armour to protect himself. If that halberd had been lunged at him, he would have fallen to the streets that instant. Ergodix be praised for Vydars mail.

Ewan forced himself to calm down. He was outside the reach of danger. Vydar and Lance managed to break free. They fell in beside him. In front of his eyes a wall of pikes was forming. This time, aimed at them...

A helmet with rooster feathers stared him dead in the eye, fire burning through the eye slits.

'That man lead the assault on my house...'

'Time to pray, Iron Scraper!'

Ewan wanted to charge, break through that pitiful excuse for a wall of shaking spears.

He took another deep breath.

The looking shield on the gate of slid open, closed, opened and closed again, then slid open and close once more. The Court of Falcau was signalling for contact.
Ewan nodded.

'Claw!' he shouted.

'Claw!' bellowed Keryll.

The steel-studded gates of Falclau swung open. Keryll, the Red Giant of his house and his men behind him smashed into the backs of the Iron Scrapers. Sharp metal found its way to unprotected links in armour. Shoulder pauldrons were caught, helmet yanked off.
Ewan watched.
When the final halberd had fallen to the streets, he spurred his horse and charged.