This is the Story of John Vasilius Draconius.
“Surrender!” his magically enhanced voice was heard by all.
A dark figure stood facing the front gates of Alu’en, the fortress of Venar, its black robes whipping around it in the wind, its face hidden deep inside the cowl of its cloak.
On the castle walls stood three hundred men at arms, wearing the black and grey livery of the Duke of Venar.
“Leave these lands before we send you to the halls of the dead.”
“You are one man, you cannot take this castle alone, no matter how powerful you are,” shouted a man from above the gate.
This was followed by more taunts, which abruptly ended when a man, wearing heavy armour stepped out onto the battlements.
“Why have you come here to our lands?” he shouted, a voice used to giving orders.
“I have come to reclaim the lands of a once great people. All I want is for you and your men to leave. Go home to your cities. Once I have my ancestral lands I will be of no more trouble to you or your King.” The lie came easily; it was too early for its true reasons to be known.
“Your lands,” the Duke scoffed. “These lands were ruled by savages, uncivilised barbarians. But look now the people thrive.”
“No, I will not give up these lands that my King so graciously bestowed upon me and my family.” His voice turned hard. “I warn you magician, I tire of this banter.“
“I will ask you one more time, leave my lands,” said the dark figure, its voice still carrying to every ear.
“Your lands!” roared the Duke. “Who are you to claim these lands?”
“Who am I,” Its voice had gone cold, sending a chill down the spine of every man on the walls. “I am John Vasilius Draconius and by the setting of the sun this night, I will have these lands.”
“These are my lands and you alone cannot take them!” roared the Duke,
“WRONG!” yelled John, his voice, so filled with Power it shook the very walls of the castle.
The air began to shimmer around John as he drew on his magic, the deep reservoir of Power inside him bursting open its floor gates.
John raised his hand, palm out. Without even the groan of wood the gates were shattered, blowing inwards. The cries of men on the walls went up, orders were passed and arrows were notched.
Walking toward the gate John heard someone shout, “Fire”. Raising his hand, faster then the eye could see, a small wave of shimmering air echoed out.
Arrows, fired from the battlements, whizzed by his head, striking only the ground, hundreds were loosed from there bows, turning the afternoon to dusk, John was surrounded by a barrier of wood and feather.
When the arrows stopped the men atop the walls could see the circle of ground around the magician was clear of any arrows. A field of feathers circled him.
With another wave of his hand to clear a path through the hedge of arrows, orders to load the catapults could be heard. John was close enough to the walls to see the worry written on the faces of the men manning the walls.
The sharp twang of the catapults was the only warning John had, or needed, again his hand appeared raised, waiting. Hundreds of rocks the size of a mans head rained down around the magician. All those falling toward him slowed, until they floated in the air above his head.
Waving his hand to the side, as if shoeing a fly, he sent them tumbling across the flat grassy land around the castle.
“You cannot beat me,” he told them again.
“Your power will drain and when it does I will show you the hospitality of our dungeons and headman’s block.”
John stepping into the arch of the gate, on the other side he saw the courtyard, standing in the centre was a squad of men at arms. All brisling steal, shields locked together, with the emblem of Venar painted on them, the curled mountain lion.
From both sides of the gate spear shot out, jabbing at him, while burning oil poured through the roof of the gate house. The spears twisted to either side of his dark robes, while the oil flowed around him, washing across the hard soil.
The cries of officers could be heard, “Hold fast.”
