C.P. Bird - The Portaellen War Chronicles

Henri now felt for a pulse. Nothing.

Gently, the royal physician pulled the eyelids of his king, over his lifeless eyes, and closed his mouth. He then softly kissed his sovereign’s forehead, before wearily pulling himself away.

Turning a final time, to his king and sovereign, Henri bowed. Tears flowed down his face. He was suddenly so exhausted, to the point of collapse. He felt so helpless, alone and vulnerable.

Would the king’s advisors blame him? Make him into a scapegoat? Questions now flashed through, his exhausted mind.

His king and sovereign had just died. He had been unable, to save him. And, he had never seen a body react, to a fever, like that before.

Wiping away his tears, the royal physician slowly walked towards the door of the royal bed chambers. Before turning the door handle, he took a deep breath, prayed to whichever God listened, and then turned the handle.

The door to the royal bed chamber, slowly opened. Henri appeared in the doorway, with his head bowed. Conversations now stopped abruptly, and the whole corridor outside the king’s bed chambers, presently fell silent.

The royal physician took a deep breath. He then lifted his head.

‘It’s,’ he stuttered, ‘with regret, that I have to report …’ The words began to stick in his throat. Henri coughed, and then swallowed, to coat his dry throat. ‘… that King Stefan, our king and sovereign, has died.’

Silence. Nobody moved. Everybody stared at him. Henri now felt extremely uncomfortable and suddenly vulnerable.

‘God rest his soul!’ came a sudden, and unexpected shout.

Groups of servants, maids and lords embraced one another, as a collective grief, instantaneously, gripped the gathering. Many now had tears in their eyes, others, their heads bowed, as the enormity of what they had just been told, sank in.

Robert Scotten beckoned to his fellow advisors to follow him, to his office. Through the crowds of tearful, grief-stricken courtiers, they walked, the chief advisor, striding ahead. Thoughts, and hastily laid plans, racing through his head.

He quickly ordered a communication to be sent, to the coastal defences. They must be told, about the death of their king. The enemy would know, soon enough, he reasoned. There were spies everywhere. And, once that fog had lifted, the Blackhearts would come.

‘An attack is imminent,’ Robert started, when they reached his office. ‘Once, the news of the death of the sovereign, reaches the enemy fleet they won’t care about the fog. The news would be enough, to drive them through the fires of Hell, and out the other side. They would be unstoppable.’ He paused for a moment, as a thought entered his head.

I need to buy the coastal defences, some time. Yes. That’s it!

‘Put the castle on a lockdown,’ he suddenly, blurted out. ‘Nobody is to leave, or enter, without my written permission.’

This, would hopefully, buy the coastal defences, a bit of time to ready themselves, for the attack, Robert reasoned. Whenever, it did come.

Robert Scotten, being the most senior advisor, within Guinlance Castle, was now the Guardian of Fantaellen. A title suddenly bestowed upon him, by the death of King Stefan. He was not of pure blood, but he was the most senior man, in the country. The whole of Fantaellen, would now look to him, for his experience, leadership and strength of character. Just, what his country needed, right now.

***

The two Portaellen suns were rising, on a new day. In a wooded area, just to the south of Guinlance Castle, five horsemen, waited. They had hidden in the wood, for a few hours now. They were tired and impatient. Their faces were blackened, their heads, covered by the hood, of their black robes, and their blades stained, with the blood of the enemy.

‘There!’ one of them, suddenly called. ‘The signal.’

The larger man of the group, who had a prominent scar across his forehead, dismounted his white steed, and ran towards, a clearing up ahead.

As he looked up, he saw it in the dawn sky. The fire arrow, released from the roof of the southern ramparts, of the royal quarters. The signal.

The arrow, whistled through the air, as the flames danced on its tip, before it thudded, into some soft earth, up ahead.

The large man, then quickly ran towards the arrow, before pulling it out of the ground, examining it, then extinguishing the flames, with his hand. He did not cry out in pain, or wince, as his skin sizzled, and smoke came from his hand.

The King of Fantaellen, the Sovereign of Portaellen, was dead. Killed, by an assassin of Wulfdaeden. The message was now on its way, to the armada of Blackheart ships, in the Stoirim Sea Channel. Carried, by five black hooded, horsemen.

Their king and master’s plan would now begin. Fantaellen, was at the mercy of Napoleon Victory. The once, Prince of Fantaellen, the younger twin brother, of the deceased, King Stefan.

Chapter Two

England

1920

The shooting star, that flew across the clear, crisp, night sky, caught the eye of a lone figure. A creature of the shadows. A troll.

Normauss is a troll, with questionable morals. He is a tenth generation, Fantaellen mountain troll. His ancestors once came from Wulfdaeden. They were captured and cleansed, in the Great Cleansing. More, than five hundred years ago. Normauss preferred the seclusion of the shadows, as he could move about, virtually undetected, and would only show himself, in the daylight if he had to. He was a very good tracker. One of the best.

He is built like many of the males of his tribe. Short in stature (about four feet tall) and as strong as an ox. He has an enormous head, with a dark beard, that covers his chin. Above his round, dark eyes, his bushy eyebrows protrude, and arc around the top of his eye sockets. His hair is dark, and long, and is parted in the centre, which allows it to hang, either side of his head, before touching his broad shoulders. His mouth is wide, and supported by pointed, yellow teeth. He has a brawny, hairy chest. Short, stubby, hairy legs and arms. Normal shaped, hairy feet, with two large toes on each.

Normauss’s personality, differs from his kith and kin. Fantaellen mountain trolls are a peaceful tribe, who will only use violence, if provoked. Normauss, is the opposite. He carries the mutant, evil gene. He is highly strung, unpredictable and would use his strength, to kill anyone or anything, that got in his way.

Napoleon Victory, his king and master, had not bothered to have Normauss turned. He had said that the troll did not need turning. He was already evil. His heart was already black.

Normauss, cursed out loud. He was still several miles from the portal. He shook his head, at the stupid complexities of the Portaellen portals. He hated them, so much. It hadn’t helped his mood, when the frost on the ground had appeared, and began to chill his feet. Onward, he continued though, determined to reach the portal, quickly.

Normauss had made good time, and he briefly had to stop to rub his hairy feet. They were numb with the cold. Desperately, the troll began to roughly massage his toes, to get some blood circulating through them. He was so fed up. This was mainly due to his last trip through the portal when it had been warmer. Therefore, he only wore a cotton shirt and short trousers, on this winter’s night.

The troll watched, as another shooting star flew across, the clear night sky, before it disappeared towards the horizon. Gratefully, feeling the circulation slowly returning to his feet, Normauss began to make his way, again. He was in a hurry. His king and master waited for his intelligence. The troll’s mind began to race.

The sudden stress of his situation began to instantly engulf him. Normauss began to shake violently before screaming and cursing, as he ran towards a tree and punched it.