This is not a story of the righteous but that of its twin.
This is the Story of John Vasilius Draconius.
“Surrender!” its magically enhanced voice was heard by all, it echoed off the cold hard walls cutting deep into the minds of all who heard its cry.
A dark figure stood facing the front gates of Alu’en, the fortress of Venar, a mere shadow of its former self, but its walls and towers still standing strong.
Rising behind Alu’en was the Gates of Venar, two dominating mountains marking the only path into the lands beyond. The fortress itself was tiny when compared to the towering mountains.
A rising wall surrounded the black haunting keep, large towers dominated the corners of the outer wall and catapults could be made out sitting atop the keep.
The Dark Figure, its black robes whipping around it in the wind, its face hidden deep inside the cowl of its cloak stood watching the bustling walls, armoured men running along its battlements.
On the castle walls stood the three hundred men at arms of Venar, wearing the black and grey livery of there Duke.
“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 commanding figure wearing heavy gilded armour stepped into view on the wall.
“Why have you come here to our lands?” he shouted, the ring of command unmistakable in his voice.
“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, he had told it so many times, even to himself; it was too early for his true reasons to be known.
“Your lands,” the Duke scoffed. “These lands were ruled by savages, uncivilised barbarians. But look now there is order.” The Duke waved his arms around, indicating the cleared lands and the dark fortress.
“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 flood gates.
John raised his hand, palm out. Without even the groan of wood the main 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, briefly bathing John in shadows, when the hiss of arrows had ended surrounding John was a barrier of wood and feather.
From atop the wall the men could see a field of feathers encircling the magician.
With another wave of his hand a path was cleared through the hedge of arrows, orders to load the catapults could be heard. By now John’s slow walk towards the gate had brought him close enough 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 needed. Again his hand appeared raised, waiting. Hundreds of rocks the size of a man’s 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 at least fifty 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 spears 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.”
Raising his hand John pressed out with his well of Power, he felt it meet their wall of steel. He could hear the grunt of exertion from the men as they tried to hold the line against the unending press of magic.
Forcing them apart he broke their shield wall. A line was parted down the centre of the square, armour clad men were thrown to either side leaving a clear path to the keep’s gate.
Out of the clusters of armoured men crossbow bolts flew, the sound of their release hidden by the clang of steel.
The bolts bent and shattered before they reached John, who didn’t miss a step in his walk towards the keep’s gate.
On the walls all around the courtyard archers turned their bows inwards, notching arrows.
“Enough of this!” yelled John, “I am done playing games with you.”
Pausing in the centre of the courtyard he tore his mind apart, partitioning of as much of it as he could. With his mind sectioned off he reached out, sending his Power and with it his mind in a hundred different directions.
The bows of many archers fell from the walls, dropped by surprised men as their bow strings snapped. Their cries of confusion and worry echoed down from the walls.
John rocked on his feet as parts of his mind tumbled back, a portion of his partitioned mind came to the surface, watching out for any threats as the rest of his shredded thoughts knitted themselves back together.
“See!” roared the duke, “he weakens. His Power ebbs and his mind betrays him.”
Turning his face, still masked in the shadows of his cowl, to face the Duke, John whispered “I tire of you.” The cold words carried to the heights of the walls, freezing the heart of every man.
Extending his arm towards the Duke, John sent his Power out, wrapping it around the Duke. Suddenly a bright light flared, a golden shield circled the Duke and flashed where John’s Power touched.
Sparks of light lit the darkening courtyard. The golden shield dimmed as John withdrew his Power.
Through the gold tinted air John would see the smug grin on the Duke’s face.
“You see,” he bellowed, “I have a Magician of my own, you cannot take my castle or my lands. Now you will see what happens to those who challenge the King’s Law.”
The Duke turned to a small loosely robed man standing in his shadow, “Kill him for his insolence.”
A meek, small voice reached Johns ears, “I am sorry, you are strong but you are no match for a Guild trained magician.” A sprout of rich flames shot down from the wall, roaring out of the small magician’s hands.
John stepped back at the unexpected attack, his young face illuminated by the fire for a second before he disappeared in the swirling flames, the earth scorched black by the searing heat.
“It is over,” said the Duke as he turned from the display of Power.
Hearing a gasp of shock from his magician he turned back to see the dark clad magician standing in the courtyard, his hand raised, a shimmering shield extending out from his palm to surround his body.
Again John sent his Power out, this time forming and shaping it. Dark black tentacles of Power raced up to the shocked magician. Another golden shield appeared around him and the Duke.
The black tentacles wrapped around the shield, bright flares of light blinded those watching the display. Feeding more Power into his attack John felt the shield weaken and cave inwards.
Surrounding the Duke with his Power John lifted him off the wall, his magician lying in a heap on the battlements, his energy drained.
The Duke roared in pain as the searing touch of the black tentacles as they ate their way through his armour and cooked his flesh. The men around John rushed forwards, hoping to kill the invading magician before their Lord was killed.
With a quick wave of his other hand he sent them flying, he was done playing, and he was done waiting for them to see reason.
Clenching his fist, he watched as the Duke was crushed by his magic. The crack of burnt flesh and broken bone echoed around the now silent courtyard.
Cutting off the thread of Power feeding his creation John watched the body fall. With the wet smack as the body hit the hard earth of the courtyard the men on the walls erupted with activity again, swords were drawn and orders were yelled.
A soft rain began to fall, the wind picking up. All around the courtyard soldiers advanced on John, shields raised and swords drawn while up on the wall John could see an argument breaking out among the Dukes officers.
He watched as a young looking officer silently walked up behind one of the two men arguing and slipped a knife into his back, giving his a small shove he sent the old grey haired officer over the walls, his crack of bone and crash of armour drawing the attention of the advancing soldiers who turned to look up at the young officer.
“We are not all as blind in our loyalty to the crown,” said the young office as he bowed slightly, adding as an after thought, “my Lord.”
Almost all the men around John lowered their weapons, but a few, rage written on there faces rushed forward, some signal was passed from the officer to the other men in the courtyard. Those men loyal to the now dead Duke were mobbed and unarmed before they could reach John.
His dark cloak flapped in the wind and rain as he watched the young officer descend the battlements, thinking to himself silently.
It has begun
He walked down the steps from the wall, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark cloaked man, this man who proclaimed himself John Vasilius Draconius. Well he would see if he was truly who he said, otherwise there was always other options.
Even watching him he could see the Power emanating from his body, the air around him shimmered as if his very presence was heating it. Even from his vantage point he could not see the man’s face, hidden deep inside the hood of his cloak.
As the young man approached John took in his armour, eyeing a small twisted pendant hanging around his neck, only partly hidden below his breastplate. He had a young face, looking no older then eighteen or nineteen, his eyes so blue they almost hid the surging fear that lay inside.
He bowed stiffly in his heavy armour, “I am Gerith Kilarn, Second Warden of Venar.” Leaning forward a little and lowering his voice he continued, “Your name is well know among those in Venar, but the Duke would not of known you by that name, Shadow Walker.” He paused, looking deep into the darkness that hid Johns face, seeking some reaction to his words.
A rich laugh erupted around the courtyard, it took everyone a second to realise it came from the dark ominous man who had killed the Duke.
“I am not here as Shadow Walker, I am here as John Vasilius Draconius.” A great number of the men around the courtyard who had being struggling a second before seised there protests and stared in stunned silence.
Still speaking quietly Gerith said, “Your mothers maiden name is still well known in Venar, as if your fathers, John.” He smiled weakly at his use of John’s name.
A crossbow bolt flew down from the keep, whizzing over Johns shoulder and pausing in the air only inches from Geriths breastplate, he stared fixated by it, as did all the men in the courtyard until as one they heard a blood curling scream from the keep, all turned and looked up as the man who had fired the bolt was forced through the arrow slit in the keeps wall.
His cries soon ended shortly followed by his body hitting the ground, John not missing a step leaned forward and tapped Geriths hand which was curled around the pendant, “It would seem that as my names are not forgotten here in Venar, neither are the names of the old gods.”
Gerith flinched at Johns words, his hand returning to his side, raising his voice so that all could hear he said, “You have my word that no more threats will be made against your life, on the condition no more blood is spilled.”
**I really dont like that bit, it sounds wrong to me so if you have any ideas please feel free to comment, thanks**
