Redeemers

Sons of the Lion

Part I

Shadows of Death

The sun glared down through the clouded heavens like an angry eye but did nothing to melt the ankle-deep snows as the clans arrayed themselves for war.

Mathen was just one of the thousands of young princes prepared for battle that day. Wearing the heavy fur cloak of a warrior and ill-fitting battered black armor that had been passed down through his clan for generations untold he stood by his brothers and cousins and waited for the storm.

They were young but all were well versed in the ways of battle. The warrior clans trained their sons and even their daughters to fight as soon as they were strong enough to hold a blade, and Mathen had fought many battles against marauders and raiders seeking to steal his own clan's wealth.

Life was hard in the highlands and the clans were almost constantly at war with one another. Making alliances and breaking alliances; one winter's friend could be a summer's foe. Some of the boys that would march with Mathen today were of the same blood he and his kin had spilt not a season ago.

Even so, there was one time when rivalries and enmities would be set aside for a while. No time of peace and joyous good will, this was a time when the warrior clans could unite and practice their art together rather than opposite one another. The time when the young warriors of every clan were called 'prince' and marched at the van.

When the Seers predicted the rise of the green-skinned daemons who marched from the lowlands, the Lands of Mists.

In the valley of Aceldama where the highlands met the lowlands like a shore meeting a lake their ancestors had gathered for generations to fight back the daemon hordes, and now the time had come again.

The foe had begun to reemerge, raids on the villages near the mist line had intensified and some villages had been wiped away entirely. The Seers had prophesied, the skies had cried fire in the night signifying the return of the Shadows of Death, and all these things meant that the foe would come upon them soon.

And the clans would answer the green-skinned tide with steel, blood and cleansing fire. The War Princes-and War Princesses, Mathen had been surprised to find-had gathered their hosts to face the threat and banish the monstrosities for another generation.

In the distance he could hear the screech of the scythe talons, the great riding saurians that would bear the mounted fury of the clans into battle. They hated the cold and the snows though they could endure both for long enough periods.

To ride a scythe talon was an honor most often reserved for women; men were too heavy for the lithe but deadly creatures.

He supposed it must be the Great Spirit's method of keeping balance. Though his father, War Prince Vorlen, had many daughters only his sons and the sons of his warriors would represent their clan in the vanguard today.

The 'princes' could be the blood of a War Prince, or a fatherless mongrel, blood didn't matter to the Seers. What mattered was that they were male and the greatest of their generation; the strongest, the fastest, the smartest, the hardiest or any and all of those things combined. They had to be young; no younger than ten years and no older than thirteen.

Mathen gripped his hammer tightly. In his clan he was the strongest and he had been given the war hammer of his father's father. Kayren his younger brother of the same mother was their clan's smartest youth, and Darken his same aged brother of a separate mother was the hardiest.

His cousin Jorgen was the fastest, his cousin Vorken the most blooded with more than a score of foes slain in his two years as a warrior.

Some others of their clan stood alongside them, totaling one and one half score, a proud number and respectable force for the clan of Vorlen resplendent in the white and yellow and gray of the high northern clans and the yellow of Clan Vorlen.

He could see Kayren trembling under his heavy fur cloak and placed a reassuring hand on his younger brother's shoulder.

Mathen was not afraid. He had been before his first battle, but in the year since he had been blooded he had come to know that battle was not a thing to be feared.

It was a calling. Not every man or woman was suited to slaying, some were meant for planting and herding, for fixing and for thinking.

But still some were fit only for thieving and ruining the works of those others. It was for the warriors to stop them, to stand forth and protect the property and the lands of the War Prince and lives and livelihoods of the cousins and kin who could not defend themselves.

It was an honor to fight the green-skinned daemons, an honor to stand as part of the vanguard.

Kayren was blooded, but against a foe such as the green-skinned daemons Mathen supposed he could understand a bit of unease.

"No fear." He told his brother. "Our father and our father's fathers to the beginning of our blood have fought the monsters of the mists."

"I'm not afraid of the mist-born." Kayren said, "I only fear the Shadows of Death."

Vorken laughed, "That old wives' tale? You think giants in black armor with burning eyes are going to sneak up on us?"

"With swords made of teeth that scream like a thousand scythe claws?" Darken joined in the laughter.

This was no ridicule, only good-natured banter and Mathen told his brother, "You have to admit, we'd probably have seen one by now."

"Or heard." Jorgen put in, taking Kayren's sword and imitating the scream of a scythe claw as he held it aloft.

The boys all laughed, even Kayren.

The wind kicked up as it began to snow. The scythe talons voiced their displeasure again and this time as if in answer the horns sounded.

Horns, horns, across Aceldama the clansmen blew their horns and from the mists Mathen could hear the sound of drums.

An old warrior stood at the front of the vanguard, a War Prince no doubt. He would be leading the charge though it would fall to the oldest prince of each clan to lead his kin. For the clan of Vorlen that honor fell to Vorken.

"Come on boys, time to earn your lines in the song of warriors!" Vorken shouted to them.

Mathen fell in behind the older boy with Kayren and Darken on his left and right. He gripped his ancestral war hammer and fixed his eyes to the distance where the mists met the snows.

The march began, the clan of Vorlen marched near the front of the van and the roars of the horns and the screams of the scythe talons were like fanfare to their ears.

Mathen steadied his resolve and held his hammer ready to strike as the pace quickened.

He could hear the drums more clearly now and he could see the horde of green-skinned monsters emerging from the mists and charging across the valley.

He could see their enormous mouths open wide enough to fit a man's entire head and heard their blood stopping roar.

"Waaaagh!"

The old War Prince at the front roared a response, the war cry of the clans and all the princes in the van were swept up in the call.

"Laytoom!"

The monsters came nearer and the sky grew dark as thousands of arrows flew overhead, a volley loosed by thousands of warriors from hundreds of clans.

It barely made a dent in the green tide that advanced, and now Mathen could see the monstrosities clearer.

The war prince raised his broadsword with a shout of, "Shields!"

The older princes relayed the order to their younger kin and quickly the princes raised their shields just in time to deflect a hail of sling stones.

One passed through the front ranks to strike Mathen's shield with more force than anything he'd ever felt before and he was thrown off of his feet by the impact and heard a loud crack along with the screams of dozens of boys who hadn't raised their shields in time.

Or else boys whose shields had not made a difference.

"Waaagh!" The monsters roared, far closer now.

Darken and Kayren quickly yanked Mathen to his feet, and he saw that his shield made of wood and iron had been shattered to splinters so he discarded it as another volley flew into the oncoming green sea.

The grizzled old war prince raised his sword again and roared, "Charge! Charge! Laytoom!"

"Laytoooom!" The princes of Vorlen roared and the vanguard advanced.

Mathen felt his heart pound in his chest as the ranks clashed. The thunderous cacophony deafened him as war and death cries alike broke out along the front ranks. Shields smashed against teeth the size of knives, stone axes struck chain mail and iron swords pierced thick green hide and fist met claw.

Some of the princes ahead of him threw their shields together creating a small wall that their kin could stab their spears through, and it seemed to work well until a smaller green daemon rolled between the legs of one boy, bringing a stone knife up as he rose slicing the unfortunate prince across the back so that he stumbled forward into the waiting claws of a larger green monster who brought a stone maul down on the boy's head.

The sons of Vorlen charged, Darken punched out with his shield, its rim slamming into the throat of the smaller green beast throwing it backwards grasping its throat and gasping for breath until Jorgen's spear ended its struggle.

The princes of the shield formation had already fallen into disarray; more of the smaller green monsters were swarming them while the larger one cut them down one by one.

Vorken threw himself at the larger beast with all his weight and force, and only succeeded in being knocked back himself.

The monster raised its stone axe into the air and Mathen rushed forward, thrusting his hammer out, striking the creature in the stomach.

He knocked the wind out of it and it fell back as Kayren thrust out, stabbing it in the stomach with his sword.

Mathen expected to see red blood and innards pour from the beast but there was only black ichor. It roared at them, but its voice was fading and Kayren silenced it forever as he rolled to his feet and swung his hammer into its head with such force that one of its beady eyes shot from its head and struck Mathen in the face.

Disgusting.

More of the green monsters charged, larger ones urging on their smaller, uglier counterparts and Mathen wondered for the briefest of moments if these gross monstrosities were somehow mimicking their own traditions. Were these smaller beasts the princes of the green horde?

It would be a question for the storytellers to pose around campfires he supposed. There was no time now.

One of the smaller beasts thrust out with a knife and Mathen lunged forward, thrusting his hammer out and taking the beast in the face before its stubby arm and short blade could reach him. He kept going, stomping its ruined face into the ground and striking out at one of its kin that tried to strike Jorgen with an axe that seemed entirely too large for it.

Mathen struck the axe out of its hands and let Jorgen skewer the thing through the chest.

Kayren's shield deflected a blow that would have taken Mathen from behind, but before the young warrior could retaliate he found another of the little green beasts coming at him with a ball and chain that he must have stolen from a fallen prince.

He threw himself back and Jorgen's spear was broken by the iron ball before he could remove it from the greenskin he'd felled.

Mathen was out of position to support his cousin, but Darken came on, throwing his axe.

It struck the runty monster in the shoulder and Jorgen thrust his broken spear shaft into its unarmored neck, snatching the iron ball and chain from its dying grasp as Mathen tore Darken's axe from the corpse to toss it back to him.

Before he could however he was forced to use it to deflect an oncoming spear point. Kayren slammed his shield into the spear-runt giving Mathen time to toss Darken his axe then use both hands to bring his hammer down on the fallen beast.

He heard a screech and for a mad instant he thought he saw one of the Shadows of Death.

Clad in black armor beneath white robes the warrior he saw however was no Shadow of Death, but a scythe talon rider astride her mount.

"Laytoom!" She screeched with a timbre that nearly matched her steed's, and her sisters echoed the cry as they charged into the fray, both riders and mounts slashing hacking and cutting their way across the enemy line.

Regardless of clan the riders wore black armor and white robes, it was said to be in mimicry of the Shadows of Death and Mathen thought for an instant that that was likely all that the Shadows of Death truly were; a legend impersonated by others so that a distracted mind might be fooled and take heart, even if only for an instant.

Nevertheless he felt a thrill of exhilaration as the riders cut a path through the enemy's ranks giving the vanguard time to regroup, the princes of Vorlen leading the charge now.

Mathen was a little surprised to see the old War Prince was still alive, though his shield arm was hanging uselessly at his side.

A particularly large daemon charged for him, it held a stone axe in one hand and had what looked like a sharpened tusk lashed to its other arm. It caught the War Prince's sword with its tusk, and then hacked into his abdomen with its axe.

The old warrior let out a blood-stopping cry and fell to his knees. He swung his sword with what must have been all his might and the large green skin deflected it again, this time with the axe and it thrust its spike into his chest with enough strength that it punctured the old man's breastplate.

This monster was not like the others; it was enormous. Easily a head taller than the largest that Mathen had seen so far and stronger than anything he'd ever imagined.

And he felt its beady black eyes on him, its gaze locked and in a mad instant he was glad.

Never mind my line in the song, he thought. When I kill this beast they'll write me an entire verse!

It charged. Its legs were short; too short for its body, but they propelled it with blinding speed closing the distance between him and it in a heartbeat as it roared its guttural war cry, "Waaaaghhh!"

"Laytoom!" Mathen answered, and started to move forward, but Kayren beat him to the punch and sprinted ahead.

Mathen felt a moment of confusion and wanted to rebuke his younger brother but it was far too late. Kayren charged and then dropped down, curling up into a ball.

The big green-skinned daemon seemed almost as confused as Mathen was. It stumbled, apparently unsure whether it should stop and stab Kayren or just keep charging.

It tripped over its own over-sized feet, then it tripped over Kayren, who came up swinging his sword as his did, gashing it across the ankle.

It roared, this time in a mixture of pain and confusion as it fell to the ground. It had the presence of mind to kick Kayren though and he went flying.

Mathen rushed forward as the green monster began to try to struggle to its feet. He struck out with his hammer, knocking its knee backwards as it tried to rise and Jorgen slammed his iron ball into its face before it could rise to its full height and take such a tempting target from their reach.

Darken's axe flew between the both of them and burred itself deep in the creature's chest. It roared and swept both its arms out, knocking them all away. Its axe cut through Jorgen's midsection and its spike threw Mathen aside like a rag doll.

The creature struck out again, this time its axe found Vorken's shield and turned it to splinters, knocking the older boy to the ground in a spray of blood.

Mathen didn't know if Vorken was alive or dead. He saw Kayren battling two of the smaller creatures at once, but two of their kin were rushing to his aid already.

Most were giving the green giant a berth. Most . . . but not Darken, who came in, swinging his shield hard at the green skinned giant and rolling with the swing to take the iron ball and chain from the fallen Jorgen.

Mathen didn't have time to mourn his cousin; he took his hammer and rose to his feet. He charged for the giant screaming one last defiant "Laytoom!"

There was a sound like thunder and the giant's head exploded.

Teeth and black gore flew everywhere; Mathen stared in confusion as the muscular green body slumped down in death.

Vorken rose shakily to his feet and Darken recovered his axe but they were both staring at Mathen.

Not at him, he realized. Behind him.

He turned slowly.

His heart stopped.

He beheld a giant in black armor with glowing red eyes. It was head and shoulders taller than any man Mathen had ever seen, so large it would have been able to look the green-skinned giant in the eye. It had massive dark blue pauldrons. Its knees were mismatched, the right was blue and the left was quartered in black, gray, green and white.

It wore a white loincloth and had a golden insignia over its chest of a sword with wings. Its own sword-if that was what it was-was blood red, except for the blade which was made of dozens of metal teeth just as the legends told, though it was motionless and silent hooked to its wearer's armored waist.

In its hand was a smaller weapon, a sort of thin box with a smoky metal tube.

Without a word it lowered the weapon and drew its sword and it came to life, the teeth moving and roaring so loudly it made the scythe talons seem quiet.

The giant said nothing.

It walked past Mathen-carefully it seemed-and past Vorken and Darken.

Mathen could see a few others of its kind all calmly moving to the front and slowly it dawned on him that the daemons were fleeing now.

The Shadow of Death-for it could be nothing else-raised its sword and roared in a voice that sounded both human and alien to Mathen.

It spoke words he did not understand, its voice somehow seemed to echo and project from it and it and its brothers charged, running faster than any man had ever run and striking with greater speed and strength than any man could ever hope to achieve.

It hardly seemed necessary now, but Mathen found himself running along in their wake, he and Darken and Vorken and Kayren, all of their kin, all of the princes.

They charged and they slew anything that escaped the path of destruction the Angels cut. Horns blew and it was clear the green sea was being turned back.

The Shadows of Death were not satisfied with chasing the monsters to the edge of the mist though; they followed them and sounds of thunder and the roars of their swords carried up into the valley of Aceldama for hours.

Mathen realized he'd been wrong.

The Shadows of Death were no mere legend. They were real, they were fact, they were terror and doom.

And he had no doubt that he and his kin owed one of them their lives.

To Be Continued . . .

Note: How is this chapter for length? As future parts will range from about the same as this to double this, would it be preferable to separate them into shorter portions or simply post long chapters? I know some people prefer something under three thousand words and while I don't anticipate many readers or responses I'd love to hear from anyone who stumbles across this story. I plan to try to update weekly.