Rise of the Stormcrow

The whinny of a horse made Ryper spin around. Ignoring the barmaid he focused his attention on the closed doorway. He could hear the commotion outside clearly now, the voices of men and the sound of hooves striking the ground, audible despite the roar of the rain. Ryper’s head felt fuzzy, as if a thin veil had been placed over his senses. He threw off his thick black cloak and with a smooth motion drew his longsword, Kingsbane, from over his right shoulder. The blade glinted red in the firelight and the feeling of cold steel in his hand was reassuring, dragging him back to some form of coherence. The door clashed open with a bang; Howell began to stir a little beside him. The old man that had almost spilled their drinks stepped through the low archway, although he no longer seemed as old. His back was straighter, his shoulders jutting out at proud right angles. He had a sword in his right hand and the grey woollen cape under which he had huddled was now thrown back to reveal the glint of breastplate and mail underneath. Ryper should have recognised the grey cloak immediately. Judges. Three other Judges crowded in behind him, their tall owl helms reflecting a burnt orange as the firelight flickered and twisted in the wind billowing in through the open doorway. Ryper gritted his teeth. “My Lord, I hope you enjoyed your mead,” said the old man, who was not so old. “I doubt the dungeons at Skyfell will offer such hospitality.” Ryper glanced at his half finished tankard and grimaced. “Is that the way of it owl? Need to drug your victims to carry out your justice these days? How did you find me?” The tall judge smiled a broad, triumphant smile and stepped closer. “There are not so many roads North that we couldn’t send a message ahead and have the taverns and inns watched. We knew a thirsty belly would be your downfall my Lord.” The last two words dripped with icy sarcasm. Ryper moved to retort, but as his hand clenched around the hilt of Kingsbane, a crash behind him caused him to pivot. “You shall not take me!” cried one of the two burly, bearded men behind Ryper, hurling a flagon of ale at the faces of the Judges and then upturning a heavy wooden bench. Ryper took his chance, heaving his longsword in a great arc he split the closest knight’s great owl shaped helm in two. The movement had felt slow and clumsy in his drugged state, but the knight had been off balance and had not had time to react before the deadly blade had parted his scalp. The commotion had finally awoken Howell although his eyelids still drooped heavily. Ryper pulled him to his feet with his free hand but the old Judge was upon him, sword in hand, grey hair unfurled behind him as grey as his cloak. “My orders were to take you alive traitor, but the world will forgive me for casting down a worthless murderer like you!” Ryper barely had time to parry the blow. Despite his age, the Judge was quick as a viper, and Ryper’s arm felt weak and heavy. The old owl knight came on relentlessly, beating Ryper further and further back until his body was wedged against the jagged stone wall. More and more Judges poured through the open doorway, swords and armour glinting red in the firelight. Their blades met the axes of the two outlaw men who had shared their ale with Ryper, and Howell squirmed away under a table as two more Judges advanced on him. Ryper had sustained a heavy cut under his furs and mail but he had managed to regain a little composure and his glistening longsword screamed as it clashed repeatedly against the owl knight’s grey blade. Ryper spun away as the Judge’s sword smashed, sparking against the stone work behind him, and lunged with all his might. The owl knight parried the clumsy attack with ease but his sword had been chipped and dented in places. Ryper came on in a storm of blows, lashing relentlessly at the knight, not aiming to cut him, but to break his sword. Kingsbane was a sword of old, a runesword, King of lesser blades. The sound it made as it bit and tore at the owl knight’s steel was like a song; a song of swords. Shouts of men and the ring of combat shook the air and the heat in the room became almost unbearable. Howell ran to stand by Ryper, nothing more than a dagger in his hand to defend himself. Ryper parried low and then swung high, clashing the edge of his sword against the old man’s wrist. The blow had not been hard enough to sever the hand but the Judge fell back cursing, his own blade hitting the floor with a clatter. As the two other owl knights advanced Ryper kicked aside a table and shoved it hard towards them, roaring defiance and urging Howell towards the doorway. From the corner of his eye he saw that the larger of the two outlaws had fallen, his lifeless fingers clutching at his side, but he had left his axe buried in another knight’s skull. The other, a blond bearded man, was nowhere to be seen, but he had left a trail of dead Judges from his upturned table to the door. Ryper and Howell stumbled out into the rain-filled darkness and tried to make for the stables, but to Ryper’s horror the path was blocked by two more owl knights on horseback, long lances in their hands. At the sight of the two bedraggled warriors, they spurred their horses and charged, lances dipped, points aimed at hearts. Ryper lunged sideways, rolling as he landed on the soft wet mud, barely avoiding the sharpened tip. Howell was not so lucky, the boy, still groggy from the drugged mead, dodged too late and the lance speared him through the gut. He cried out meekly and dropped to his knees. “No!” cried Ryper. He raised his sword and prepared for the knight’s next charge. Outside the inn, the remaining Judges had gathered by the doorway to watch his fall. He gritted his teeth and waited, the heavy black clouds that clung to the sky seemed to mimic the clouds that swam through his brain. The knight drew closer, steam bellowing from the nostrils of his mount, rain crashing against the metal of his armour. Ryper braced and then at the last second dodged again, this time swinging his sword down against the horse’s neck. The beast reared in agony, but Ryper reeled backwards too. He had been too slow; the tip of the lance had pierced his thigh and gouged out a hole under his breeches. The wound blazed like fire, but the pain shot through him, reinvigorating his senses and snapping him from his drug induced haze. He rounded on the fallen knight, limping slightly but spurred on by the rage that burned in his veins. He held his sword in two hands and in one great sweep severed the owl helm, and the head within it, from the man’s shoulders. The rain stung his eyes but he stared wide-eyed anyway. He saw the other knights moving in all around him, he saw Howell lying on the ground, wriggling in agony and clutching at his open stomach. He heard the whinnying of the horses in the stables and wondered what had become of Grathus. Is this the end? he thought, but he dug his heels into the mud and bared his teeth in a snarl of defiance. The knight that had impaled Howell had dismounted and joined his other four brethren. The five men advanced steadily yet cautiously, the old knight hanging back slightly, holding his injured wrist. “Ryper Kilstroke, you are charged by order of the King’s Justice with conspiracy to commit murder and treason,” he said. “Yield and we shall show you mercy and take you back to face trial.” Ryper barked in answer and swung his blade angrily. “Spare me your justice owl.” “Only guilty men run,” declared the old man. “But then there is no question of your guilt is there sir?” No, thought Ryper, but he ignored him and focused his attention on the four knights that bore down upon him. He was confident he could take two, but four? At least he would die on his feet; die like a man.