The Portaellen War Chronicles E-Book

C.P. Bird

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 418

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

It is the Portaellen year of 1420. The Dual Blood World is on the brink of war. Just off the coast of Fantaellen, is an armada of Wulfdaeden warships. They await a signal to attack. The exiled Napoleon Victory has ordered the secret murder of the Sovereign of Portaellen; the King of Fantaellen. His twin brother's death will be the signal. In the Earth year of 1920, Jonti Quixall, a proud Dual Blood, and a First World War veteran, is ordered to return to Fantaellen. It falls upon him and his men, to safeguard the future, royal bloodline from the evil clutches of their uncle. The Portal World stands on the brink of a conflict, that will become so much more, than just an invasion, it will become a bloody massacre.

Leseprobe

Contents

Imprint2

Dedication3

Portaellen Portal Facts5

The Last Knight of Fantaellen7

Prologue9

Part I The Coming Storm12

Chapter One13

Chapter Two25

Chapter Three32

Chapter Four42

Chapter Five56

Chapter Six71

Chapter Seven104

Chapter Eight123

Chapter Nine138

Chapter Ten155

Chapter Eleven167

Chapter Twelve188

Part II The Dark Epoch205

Chapter Thirteen207

Chapter Fourteen216

Chapter Fifteen231

Chapter Sixteen252

Author’s Notes268

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2021 novum publishing

ISBN print edition:978-3-99107-273-7

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99107-274-4

Editor:Hugo Chandler, BA

Cover images:Robert Adrian Hillman |Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting:novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

Dedication

For, my Helen Clare.

Thank you, for your support,

of my leap of faith.

Portaellen Portal Facts

for Everyone

Only Dual Bloods’, with Portaellen ancestry, can pass through, a Portaellen portal.A Portaellen portal, will only transport flesh, bone and body fluids. Everything that constitutes, a living form.If, it is your first time, exiting a Portaellen portal, you will land in the other world naked. (See point two).If, it is not your first exit, you will land, wearing the clothing and the items, that you had with you, upon entering.You will not remember, your journey through the portal.There is one reported portal, on Earth. Two in Portaellen, which are connected directly, to the one Earth portal. No internal link, between the two Portaellen portals, exists.The distance between Earth and Portaellen, is incalculable. It cannot, be measured. If, you were to ask some Dual Bloods that very question, you would get a tongue in cheek response.

‘How far, is the distance between Earth and Portaellen, you ask?’ A momentary silence, would usually be followed by a smirk, or even sarcastic laughter, before an answer would finally be given. ‘About five hundred years!’

Some, of the above facts, are centuries old. Passed down, through the generations. Hopefully, they will help any Sole Bloods, who will never experience a Portaellen portal journey. Or other Dual Bloods, yet to have an experience. It will also save you from getting a sarcastic response, from a Dual Blood.

It is important to remember, that today, over five million Portaellen Dual Bloods, live amongst us. Only a small percentage, know of their lineage. An even smaller percentage now travel between the two worlds.

Are you one of them?

The Last Knight of Fantaellen

An ode to a warrior

An ordinary man

He is an ordinary man,

A father, a son, a brother,

A man of this life,

A man of the next life,

He is of this world, and another,

He is alive, he has died,

He is yet to be born,

He is all men, yet one man.

On this day of his destiny,

He stands alone.

Around him, a battlefield,

In his hand, his bloodied sword,

having sent many, to their death,

His armour, having defended

against an enemy, so brutal,

and great in numbers,

And yet, he still stands alone.

He is an ordinary man,

A father, a son, a brother,

A man of this life,

A man of the next life,

He is of this world, and another,

He is alive, he has died,

He is yet to be born,

He is all men, yet one man.

On this day of his destiny,

He still stands alone.

Around him, a battlefield,

Seen or unseen, he knows

the enemy surround him,

Therefore, his defiance is roared

long and loud,

He now no longer, feels alone.

This ordinary man is ready,

This father, this son, this brother,

The man of this life,

The man of the next life,

The man of this world and another,

He is alive, not dead,

He has been born,

He is all men, yet one man.

He is ready.

And, into the storm he charged,

with sword in hand,

That one-man war,

The last knight of Fantaellen.

Prologue

The Beginning

Across, the many lands of Portaellen, there is a legend, that has been passed down, from generation to generation. Every word, every line, has stayed the same since its first telling. It would become known, as the ‘The Beginning’.

TheworldofPortaellen,wascreatedbyRamazen, a Guardian, (aGod). He was given an atom as a gift, with which, he decided to create a world, for his two argumentative sons, Zada and Yetus.

Firstly, he made the portals between Earth and his newly created World. Then, came the land, fertile and green. Followed, by a river, clear and clean. The elements quickly followed, wind, rain, snow, with two suns and two moons, spawned in honour of his sons. It would take him five hundred years, to develop and form his World. On final completion, he gave his creation, a name. The axis, of Portaellen, now rotated, for the very first time.

Now, that he was happy, with his creation, he presented it, to his son’s, with the hope, that they would work together, to establish and create, a brotherly bond, between them.

From the start, the brother’s ideas were different, on how to run their new world. Quickly, arguments turned to conflict, as brother fought brother. Other Gods and warriors from Earth, were recruited for the fight, as all-out war, was declared. It would become known, as The First War.

Their Father, finally intervened, when he had seen enough. Ramazen, angrily split the world in two, by creating a sea. He named it, The Stoirim Sea. Each brother was banished to the land, either side of the stormy, body of water.

Even, this did not work. Zada and Yetus, gathered massive armies, and many ships, in the hope, of invading the other’s land. War raged on, on either side of the Stoirim Sea. Countless, warriors and Gods died. And finally, after years of unyielding conflict, a stalemate existed.

In, what was to be the final battle, both brothers were killed. Their blood was said to have soaked the land, of what would become known, as the country of Wulfdaeden.

On hearing the news, of the death of his son’s, the grief stricken Ramazen, annihilated, what remained of both armies, with bolts of fire and white-hot lightening. No living creature was left alive.

The scorched earth, remained empty, for many future centuries. Before, Ramazen disappeared, (never again, to be seen, at the God’s table), he had said, that he hoped, that future generations, of Dual Bloods, would one day inhabit, the world that he had created. And, that there would be peace.

***

It was late, in the Earth year of 1919, when the first rumblings, of another possible conflict, in Portaellen, were being spoken of. Many Dual Bloods, were tired of war, having fought in the First World War, on Earth.

Many, Fantaellen’s and Wulfdaeden’s, (the two biggest countries, in Portaellen, and mortal enemies), had fought on the Western front, as comrades. Rivalries, of the past forgotten, as the war raged on, in the mud, for four long, and bloody years. Men, who had fought in that mud, and the trenches, as allies for their Earth country, now looked likely, to become enemies.

Most Dual Bloods did remain sceptical though, of a Third War in Portaellen. The Second War, some hundred years previous, had lasted, just two hours. It had dragged, all nations of the Portal World, large and small, onto opposing sides, once Wulfdaeden and Fantaellen, had declared, war on each other.

When, the two-rival generals, had met on the battlefield, for, what was to be, the first and only time, they both dealt each other, deadly, fatal blows, and died of their injuries. Because, neither army, really knew why they were fighting, the armies dispersed, and the Second War of Portaellen, was over.

So, entering a new decade, the talk of a Third War in Portaellen, was still being brushed aside, as Earth became used, to its newfound peace, in the winter of 1920. Even, the rumours, of the sovereign of the Portal World, banishing his twin brother, from Fantaellen soil, the previous year, in an incident, that remained a mystery, did not ring, any alarm bells.

Since, being small children, the twin brothers, had always stuck up for one another, and been inseparable.

With the death of his beloved wife, as she gave birth, to their twin children, a son and a daughter, the sovereign, received his greatest comfort from his twin brother, who was there with him, through the hardest times. However, it would be a grief, that he would never, fully recover from.

When, the reports, filtered through, of the exiled twin, having fled to Wulfdaeden, and quickly amassing, a huge fleet of ships, in the ports, facing the coastline, of Fantaellen, those alarm bells, did start ringing. Loud and clear.

In the first few weeks, of the Earth year of 1920, a First World War veteran, and proud Dual Blood, received his call to arms. JJ Quixall, (James, Jonti), or Jonti, as he liked to be known, had sworn, that he had seen enough death and destruction, in the trenches of Belgium and France, to last a lifetime. The official, piece of paper, in his hand, told him otherwise. He was weary and tired but knew he would get over it. His second country needed him. He would answer the call. That would never have been in doubt. Ever.

Now, with the feud between two twin brothers, once again, bringing Portaellen, to the brink of war, the portal world’s, century of peace, looks likely to be broken, and men like Jonti, will once again, have to answer the call to arms.

Every story has a beginning. This is ours.

Part IThe Coming Storm

Chapter One

The South Western Coast of Fantaellen

Portaellen year of 1420

The unpredictable swell of the coastal waves pushed a small rowing boat, over the crashing breakers of the Stoirim Sea, and onto the sandy shore. Six hooded figures, with their faces blackened, quickly jumped clear of their vessel, before running at a pace, up the sands, through the black, inky darkness, of the dead of night, towards the shelter of some rocks, up ahead.

The hooded figures, remained in the shadows of the rocks for a short while, as they watched and observed for any enemy, sentry movements on the headland and the high ground, that overlooked the beach. The dark horizon before them, was illuminated by the two Portaellen full moons, in the star strewn sky. The beams of both moons were extended beyond the higher ground, and were rested, just in front of their hiding position. The hooded figures remained as still as possible, as their eyes continued to scan the high ground.

The order to break cover, was finally given, with a hand signal. The six figures now made their way across the sand towards a grassy bank. Every man, watching, observing and being careful, to stay as low as possible, as they ran.

Within a short distance, they became spooked, when two sentries suddenly appeared, at either end of a path, on the headland, and proceeded to walk towards one another. All six, instantly hit the sand, and remained still and silent, for a moment or so, as they observed the sentries, walking towards one another.

The two sentries, eventually came to a halt, when they met, on the high ground. For several minutes, they spoke. Their voices carried faint, on the wind. The six hooded figures waited patiently. Their existence on the sand, engulfed by the darkness and the shadows, just beyond the reach of the moon beams. There, they stayed, observing the enemy sentries, not a muscle twitching. Their breathing controlled. Their blackened faces watching and waiting for their moment to move.

As the two Fantaellen sentries parted, and began to walk in opposite directions, the order was given by several hand signals, for the group to split up. Two, were sent in the direction of one of the sentries, and two sent towards the other. The final two, made their way, along the beach, towards a grassy bank.

The larger figure, a man who had a prominent scar, across his forehead, that was red and swollen, was the leader of the group. He watched closely, as his men moved into position, ready to attack. He then turned to the younger man, who was a lot smaller in stature, and carried a satchel, which he looked into checking the contents.

‘Do you think, you have enough poison, to get the job done?’ enquired the leader.

‘Yes. More than enough,’ replied the younger man.

‘Good. You must not be seen entering. Remember, present yourself, as if you’ve been there for a while. Learn all the routes quickly, through the passageways and corridors. No one must suspect. When you have completed the mission, send the signal. And don’t forget. If you need them, we have someone, on the inside.’

‘Yes sir. I remember their name.’

‘Excellent. Our ships in the fog, are relying on you. The signal, must be given.’

‘Yes sir. I will not let them down.’

‘Right. Excellent. Now make ready. The sentries, are about to be dealt with.’

The two now watched, as simultaneously, a hooded assassin, crept out from the shadows to stand silently behind each sentry, before forcibly placing a hand over their enemies’ mouths. Instantly, there was a flash of a small blade, followed by a thrust of the weapon, deep into the lower back. Quickly, but silently, the two sentries were pulled to the ground, where their throats were then slit. The hand of the assassin was only released, when their victim, showed no signs of life.

A signal now came from the high ground. It was time to move.

The leader now watched, as the younger man stumbled at first, before making his way up the grassy bank, towards the summit of the high ground. It wasn’t long, before he disappeared from view completely, having run into a large, wooded area, on the northern edge, of some distant headland.

The rest of the group of assassins, now listened intently, as their leader gave them his order’s. They had cleared the immediate path of danger, for the lone assassin, and they now had a mission of their own. Nobody would hopefully know of their existence, till morning, when the lone rowing boat would be found, and the bodies of the two Fantaellen sentries were discovered.

Quietly and silently, five hooded figures swiftly vanished into the shadows of the night, away from the light, cascading down onto the headland, from the two Portaellen moons.

An unknown enemy had landed on Fantaellen soil, undetected and intent on fulfilling their deadly mission.

***

A dense, heavy, menacing fog had descended during the night, about a mile or two, out to sea. The sentries on the cliffs, beacon points and the walls of the coastal fortifications, that guarded the entire length of the Fantaellen coastline, had watched as the thick white blanket, enveloped everything around them. Many, anxious, nervous eyes, scanned the Stoirim Sea, looking for the enemy ships, that they knew were there, as the waves slammed into the rocks and shoreline, below.

Captain George Corder, the officer in charge of the South Western Fortress, walked out of the main gates, towards the coastal path, that ran along the edge of the cliffs, of the headland. The high point of land had been battered by the winds and waves of the Stoirim Sea, for centuries, and he looked out towards the coast of Wulfdaeden, which on a clear day, can be seen.

The fog had made any visibility impossible. The captain looked for the waiting armada, riding the stormy waves, out at sea. Unable to see very much, he walked a little further, looking for the rock formation, known as Needle Point Rock, a weather-beaten chunk of chalky, white rock, about half a mile out from the main coastline. On a clear day, it could be seen standing proud; a first line of defence in the swells, of the merciless waves of the Stoirim Sea.

As he looked to the east, a brief opening appeared in the white murkiness, and the captain spied the Corridor Of Arches; another rock formation of twelve archways, attached to the mainland, where the elements and thunderous waves, passed through and out one end, to build up and be driven, back onto the coast.

He watched the archways disappear, into the murky white blanket, as he continued his walk, acknowledging the salute of his sentries, with a smile, as he passed. He could sense the tension in his men. He knew his soldier’s, would look to him, for leadership.

The captain was middle age, standing six and a half feet tall, thick set, with broad shoulders. His commanding stature, his face, worn from war and conflict, and his reputation, as a killer and a leader of great repute, made him, his sovereign’s first choice, to organise the defence of the country’s, most vulnerable point.

As a soldier and a ranger, fighting the Wulfdaeden’s, and other enemies, he had earned his reputation. Many of his men, had fought beside him, before. The ranks of his battalion were then swelled with proven fighters, from other battalions, and young, raw recruits, who had grown up, listening to tales of their captain’s exploits.

The truth was, he too, felt uneasy. Like the worries that you get on the eve of battle. He hated the fact, that he couldn’t see the enemy. It always, made him a little nervous. They would come. He knew that. The fog bought them time.

The captain had readied his men, the best that he could. Being garrisoned, at the tip of the south western coast, directly facing the Wulfdaeden coastline, meant that it would be the likeliest place, for the start of the attack. Like the general’s, he was sure of this. The other defence points, along the coast, were also on high alert. Now, all he and his men could do, was to sit and wait.

Looking up at the sky, the captain spied a lone bird; a hawk, its wing’s spread, gliding on the contours of the gusting winds that blew onto the coast. Fascinated, the captain watched as the hawk, made its distinctive hoarse screech, before being swallowed up, by the thick, white mass of fog.

The captain now chose this moment to pray. It was something he always did, when needing comfort, or to gain fortitude. Closing his eyes, he muttered a prayer, asking for guidance and the courage to lead his men.

Then, with purpose, he strode back to his fortress, to check on the final preparations. The fog would lift in the coming hours. The Wulfdaeden Blackhearts will come then.

***

The lone hawk finally breached the other side of the wall of fog. Below, in the dark unforgiving waves, floated an incredibly large mass of ships, that stretched across the entire channel, that separated Wulfdaeden from Fantaellen. Every ship had their oars raised, as they waited for the signal.

Upon, the grandest looking ship of the fleet the admiral grew impatient. He cursed the fog out loud, as he collapsed his telescope. He knew, that Fantaellen coastal fogs, can last for days, and this one, was thicker than normal. He had been pacing the bow for hours, growing more and more impatient, as time passed. His officers had given up telling him that the landing party, had only just landed. Their departure had been delayed by several hours, due to extremely rough currents and waves. The admiral had grown impatient, and eventually yelled at his officer’s, to get the boat in the water, as time was precious, telling them that the fog, would provide the perfect cover, for the landing party. The strong Wulfdaeden oars, would glide through the merciless waves, he reasoned. So, against his officer’s better judgement, the boat had been lowered into the water. The mission had to begin. The signal had to be given.

The fog provided the Wulfdaeden armada, with the perfect concealment. The admiral knew that the Fantaellen’s would know that they were there. The surprise, would be the size of the fleet, and the completion of the mission, of his master’s shadow assassin’s, the landing party.

If the God’s were with him, then the fog would hold just long enough, for the admiral’s ships to remain concealed, before the sight of the lit beacons, came into view, along the Fantaellen coast.

This would be the signal, that he and the hundreds of Wulfdaeden ships waited for. The lit beacons. The completion of the assassin’s mission. The signal for the invasion, to begin.

***

Stefan, the King of Fantaellen, and the crowned Sovereign of Portaellen, was very ill. What, had started as an ordinary fever, had progressed over the past few hours. The Royal Physician, Henri, a tall, lean man of advancing years, had tried everything to help the ailing king. His servants were running back and forth with bowls of cold water, which he used to try and bring his sovereign’s soaring temperature, down.

He had tried proven medicines, but nothing seemed to help, as the king’s health rapidly deteriorated. His body, had reached dangerously high temperatures, resulting in violent convulsions, and frothing at the mouth.

Henri now quickly put his sovereign, onto his side, and watched, as another spasm gripped King Stefan’s body. Henri was gravely concerned.

‘He cannot die Henri.’ One of the king’s advisors had said, as the royal physician had spoken to a group of important looking men, when they had entered the Royal chambers, unannounced.

‘It’s only a fever!’ One of them called out.

Henri looked up briefly, after recognising the voice, and saw his friend and King Stefan’s chief advisor; Robert Scotten, stood with his arms folded, a concerned look on his face.

‘I cannot bring his temperature down Robert,’ Henri began to explain. ‘The infection is escalating.’

Robert Scotten could hear the frustration, in Henri’s voice. He watched, as the royal physician, was stooped over their sovereign, gently wiping his brow, as another violent convulsion, pulsed through his debilitated body.

Henri could only watch in horror, as his sweat drenched king and sovereign, suddenly turned onto his back, his body becoming rigid and taut, before collapsing onto the bed.

The convulsions had suddenly stopped. The king appeared to be breathing still. Only just, Henri noted, as he checked his pulse. It was weak and very faint. Almost absent.

The door closing behind him, instantly woke Henri from his trance. Turning to see that Robert, and his advisors had left the royal chambers, bought him some relief. He had not welcomed their presence. He had heard them, whispering and talking in hushed voices, behind him. He had not heard, what they had said, nor had he chosen to, as he had more pressing matters.

Henri looked at his king and sighed. What type of infection was this? He asked himself. His thoughts, now turned to other causes and different treatments, as his mind, processed, his thinking.

Deep in thought, Henri was suddenly interrupted by a young servant, who bought in a fresh jug of water. Henri thanked him. He did not recognise him, but had seen the young man, several times, as he had replaced the bowl, during the passing hours. The servant smiled, nodded his head, and left the chambers, closing the door behind him.

***

The young servant, quickly hurried away, from the large gathering, outside the enormous, gold rimmed, white oak doors, of the royal bed chambers. Panic and mayhem ensued, as servants, footmen, and maids ran around, the corridors of Guinlance Castle, with orders ringing in their ears, from worried looking, generals and lords.

In a quiet corner, away from the commotion, five men dressed in the royal purple, tunic and breeches, of someone in office, stood talking amongst themselves, quietly, but with purpose. These men were the king’s advisors.

Robert Scotten, a large, giant of a man, was the chief advisor. He and King Stefan had become close, when Queen Annabelle, had died during the birth of the royal children, the twins, Joshua and Madeleine.

‘Our king and sovereign is gravely ill. It does not look good, gentlemen.’ Robert paused for a moment, as the other advisors, moved in closer.

‘Is he really going to die?’ one of them asked.

No answer, came from the chief advisor, as he rubbed the top of his bald head. Briefly, he closed his eyes, before opening them to carrying on.

‘Listen.’ He continued in a low tone, as the other advisors stared at him, their gaze unflinching. As always, Robert held court. He had their attention. Just, as he liked it. They listened, waiting, for his every word.

‘We are within hours, of a Blackheart attack. Their invasion fleet, led by our king’s Judas brother, is sat in the Stoirim Sea Channel, waiting for the fog to clear. When, the word of the king’s death …’ Robert, now saw the look of horror, creep onto their faces, as the last few words, hit home.

‘He is going to die!’ cried out, one of the advisors.

‘Look. We have to prepare for the worst,’ another advisor suddenly stated.

‘We do,’ agreed Robert. ‘We need to get our best men, to the portal. The twins need to be taken from the safe house, and bought back to the castle, before their uncle plans to take them. They are our future gentlemen and must be kept safe.’

When, the queen had died, King Stefan had placed his children, into the care of his younger sister. Unconfirmed reports had come through over the years, that she had been turned. These reports were dismissed, after a lengthy period of time, when it was established, that the children, were still within the confines, of the safe house. So, it was determined, that they were still safe.

The fact was, that the king had the problem, of his twin brother, to deal with, and other pressing matters. He had visited the twins when he could. Under a strict armed guard, he had always left, from Guinlance Castle, through the portal at Ingress Hill, out the other side, at the Ring of Stones, and to the safe house. The armed guard was always led, by his most trusted knight, Jonti Quixal.

Unfortunately, King Stefan had not seen his children recently. The talk of war and an invasion force led by his exiled twin brother, had been at the forefront of his mind, for the last few months.

From the moment, the king had watched his brother ride away, from the courtyard of Guinlance Castle, shackled and under an armed guard, he had known there would be war. His younger twin had told him. In fact, he had screamed in the face of his brother, his king and sovereign, that he would be back.

All that Robert Scotten could now think about, as the other advisors, spoke amongst themselves, was the young prince, who had been exiled from the castle, where he had grown up. He had grown into a man, who had been turned, and now had an armada of ships, an invasion force, waiting for the fog in the Stoirim Sea Channel to lift.

Invasion and war was now very close.

***

Startled, by a sudden noise, Henri lifted his head sharply, upon waking from a deep sleep. He was sat on the corner of King Stefan’s bed. He cursed under his breath. Despite, not having any sleep, for the last two days, very little food or water to drink, the royal physician, had stayed by his king and sovereign’s bedside.

Henri quickly realised, that the king was gasping for air. He was evidently, struggling to breath. He had the death rattle, in his throat. His body, now swiftly contorted, as he raised his arms in the air, his twisted fingers, grasping at the air, before his hands turned into a fist.

The blue eyes of the king opened for a brief moment. His head remained on the pillow, as his back, arched violently away from the bed. His face was covered in perspiration, and his mouth was open wide, showing a blackened tongue. Suddenly, he let out a terrifying scream of pain before, his body collapsed onto the bed.

Henri carefully leaned over the stricken body, of the sovereign, and saw that his pupils were fixed and dilated. The king’s arms were limp by his side. His mouth open wide.

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.

‘Ouch!’ he screamed. The pained troll immediately regretted his impulsive response.

Shaking his throbbing hand vigorously, Normauss fell to the floor, and burst into tears. He was frustrated and angry.

Time was busy running out for him. The cold weather: primarily the frost, had slowed him down. He wished, he’d worn his boots, as he had on the previous journey. Now he cursed his own stupidity, before desperate thoughts engulfed him, once more.

‘Altoa! I am so sorry,’ he suddenly cried out, before collapsing, in a heap.

It did take him, a few moments to compose himself. When he was ready, Normauss started to walk quickly, that suddenly turned into a fast run.

The portal was several miles away and, his master waited.

‘Come on Normauss! You can do this,’ he called out. ‘I can do this!’ he told a curious fox, who watched him cautiously, as he ran past.

So, Normauss the troll, his feet now thawed out, made his way, towards the Ring of Stones. There, he would enter the portal, before exiting at Hells Point, in Wulfdaeden.

The troll wasn’t sure, how his master would use his intelligence once he had received it. It would be all part of the bigger plan.

A bigger plan, that would see the total annihilation of Fantaellen. Of this, Normauss was sure.

***

The dirty windows of Meadowlands Cottage were covered in a severe, white frost. The air was still and freezing. A silent, icy mist had descended upon the hard ground. Nothing stirred, as the weak, wintry sun began to rise, on a new dawn.

Through the threadbare curtains of the windows, the meagre rays of the sun steadily trickled through, to faintly illuminate, each and every dark corner, of the cottage.

The early light, of the new day, woke the large woman, from her sleep. Stretching and grunting, she cursed, the delicate light, as it gradually crossed the room.

Aunt Grimshaw was not happy. She never was. She hated the daylight. It repulsed her, so much.

Cursing the orange hue, on the rotten ceiling, above her head, she lay there staring. She did not want to get up. Her whole body ached.

From the side of her bed, she reached down and took hold of a broom, with an extremely long handle. Slowly, lifting it up, she shoved it, towards the ceiling. As it impacted, on to the rotting beams above, she was instantly covered in a light dusting of mould, decayed wood and spider webs.

‘Get up!’ she screamed, as the thud of the broom head, hitting the ceiling, echoed, throughout the room. She then threw the broom down hard, next to the side of her bed.

Grunting and groaning, Aunt Grimshaw, now struggled to lift her large frame, from her bed. She tried several times, before she succeeded, in finally heaving herself up.

She stood stretching, and as her body creaked and cracked, her mouth opened wide, with the first yawn, of the day. This was followed by several larger yawns, numerous groans, and countless curses.

Eventually, after deciding that she could not hear, any movement from upstairs, she lit a candle, and began to negotiate her way across, the mess on the floor, of her downstairs bedroom.

The moment, that the bedroom door creaked open, and Aunt Grimshaw appeared in the doorway, a black cat, instantly shot up into the air, as it growled and hissed at her, before it arched its back, and showed its teeth. With a look of pure terror, on its face, the cat was frozen to the spot. The feline could do no more, than quiver with fear, as he stared at the wart covered face, the colour of death.

‘It’s me, you stupid cat!’ she hissed. ‘Look!’

The cat did not know what to do. So, it chose flight. Off it ran, as fast, as its little legs, would carry it. Screaming at the top of its voice, as it shot past, the large woman, in the doorway, and up the stairs.

‘You’ll come back when you want feeding!’

***

Josh stirred from his sleep, as a result of the commotion and the raised voice, from downstairs. Half asleep, the young boy, looked around the room. He could see his breath, as he breathed. He shivered. It was so cold.

From the corner of his eye, he unexpectedly watched, as the bedroom door, creaked open slightly. He, then heard a scurrying, across the wooden floor.

As, he looked at the foot of his bed, Josh saw Samson, his aunt’s black cat, as it suddenly jumped up and landed in an undignified heap, onto his thin, threadbare duvet.

‘Ouch!’ cried Josh.

Samson had dug his claws, into the young boy’s, bony legs. The thin duvet offered very little protection, as the black cat, stared at him, with a startled expression, etched on its face.

‘Get down Samson. You’re hurting me.’

With the brush of his arm, Josh managed to persuade Samson, to leave his bed. The cat jumped and then fled, under a chest of drawers, in the corner.

Josh pulled back his duvet, shivered, and climbed out of his bed. As the pale, gaunt looking boy, shuffled towards a pile of clothes, on the floor, he coughed.

Quickly, so as not to feel the cold, he took off the rags, that his aunt called nightwear. His thin, bony body shivered, as he hurried to dress. He then washed his dirty face, with freezing water, from a bowl on the dresser, before running his wet fingers, through his unkept hair, to tame it.

With the first signs of a new day, coming through the ice-covered windows, Josh knew that his aunt, would be screaming out, his and his sister’s name, any moment now. She had obviously, startled Samson again. Just like she had done, for the countless mornings, ever since she had changed.

Josh needed to wake his sister.

‘Maddie. Wake up,’ he called softly.

‘I’m already awake,’ whispered a croaky voice.

‘Right, you two!’ Bellowed a voice from downstairs, ‘Time to get up! Did you not hear, your alarm call?’

A door suddenly slammed downstairs. Presently, there was a pounding on the floor, right below Josh’s feet. This was followed, with the abrupt opening of the same door downstairs.

‘That’s your alarm! Again! You have two minutes!’ The last three words were now screamed, before Josh and Maddie felt the door slam, once again, through their floorboards. ‘Now move it!’

Brother and sister quickly embraced. A small discreet tear ran down the little girl’s face. She tried to hide it, but her brother knew.

‘Don’t cry Maddie,’ he whispered softly.

‘I’m not,’ she cried out defiantly. ‘I’ve got something, in my eye.’

There was no holding back the tears, for the little girl. She felt so desperate, so lonely, despite her twin brother, being there. With the tears, streaming down her pale, dirty face, Maddie, tried desperately to compose herself. She hated to show weakness, even at her young age.

‘I miss father, so much,’ she suddenly said.

‘So, do I,’ replied Josh.

‘Especially today. It is our birthdays’ today? Right Josh?’

‘It is Maddie.’ Josh smiled at his sister, as he stroked her long, unkept, blonde hair. ‘Happy tenth birthday, Maddie.’

‘Happy tenth birthday, Josh.’

Josh knew that it was their birthdays’ today. Despite the removal of a calendar and clocks, from the cottage, he had put notches onto a piece of paper, as the sun had risen, and then gone down, on each and every day.

They had been only babies, when they had been put under the guardianship, of their aunt. Their father used to visit regularly. When he came, he had told them wonderous tales, of his adventures, and he always had a gift for them. He also told them, of their mother, when they asked. Neither child, had known their mother. She had died suddenly when they were born. Their father, always chose to change the subject, when asked when and how. Their father’s visits became less frequent, as time passed. Not since the day, after their ninth birthday, had he last visited them. And it wasn’t long after, that last visit, that their aunt changed.

For many years, she had been a loving and attentive lady. She had cared for the twins, as if they had been her own children. Her appearance, and that of the twins, was always immaculate. She lived by the virtues, of godliness and cleanliness.

Since their father’s last visit, her niece and nephew, had seen a dramatic change in their aunt’s personality, and general appearance. For someone, who had been a loving, caring person, it had been a quick and severe change. And, it was the twins, who bore the brunt, of that change.

‘Come on Maddie. You must get dressed. Before, the dragon screams at us again.’

Quickly, his sister dressed, as Josh tried coaxing Samson out, from below the chest of drawers. The frightened cat was having none of it.

The twins heard the kitchen door swing open, and the heavy footsteps, of their aunt, across the hallway. Josh and Maddie, stared at each other, and waited for the bellowing voice, to scream at them.

‘Get yourselves down here!’ roared their aunt. ‘Sharpish! Otherwise, there will be no supper tonight, for either of you!’

The kitchen door, instantly slammed.

‘What! No watery soup and mouldy bread, for supper,’ cried Josh sarcastically.

This bought a smile, to his sister’s face.

‘Come on,’ Josh started. ‘Before, she takes away the lumpy gruel, for breakfast, as well.’

Both children chuckled to themselves, as they closed the door, to their bedroom behind them. Whilst they made their way, quickly across the dank and dark landing, towards the stairs, they noticed, that the air had become thicker. Neither child, now smiled.

In the kitchen, their aunt waited. At her feet, were two metal buckets, filled with hot water, and a scrubbing brush, for each child. On the fire, a thin, but lumpy, liquid boiled. The sickly smell filled the kitchen.

Only, after countless chores, could breakfast be eaten. A breakfast, that neither child, relished.

Chapter Three

The Wulfdaeden Portal Point

Portaellen

Normauss had sprung out of the portal at Hells Point, (an inhospitable place, located in the wild north, of Wulfdaeden), wearing only the dirty cloak, he had been wearing, upon entry. He looked dishevelled and angry. This, as you will come to realise, is the troll’s normal look. If, at any point, he is being nice, he is only adapting to his situation, until he can return, to his more natural state.

Normauss glanced back briefly to watch, as the window of the portal, slowly closed until it was completely gone, from view, in the dark sky.

It had just begun to drizzle. Normauss shivered, as he pulled the hood of the cloak, over his head.

Making his way cautiously down the dark, rugged corridors of the ravine, the troll, remained vigilant. He felt a constant need to look around, at every nook and cranny that he could see, through the fine rain and darkness, as he continued, along the path. Normauss tried not to think about, what could be lurking, in the cold inky blackness, that his eyes could not penetrate. It felt, as if the rock formations and the night, would swallow him up, at any moment.

Normauss suddenly halted, in his tracks. He could see four red eyes, transfixed on him. The troll took the impulsive decision, to remain, where he stood. He was shaking. The combination, of the fine rain soaking him to the skin, and fear, caused his body to tremble. A cold shiver shot down his spine. He knew, who those red eyes belonged to.

The four red eyes were set into the two skulls of a creature, as black as night, who patrols Hells Point. It, is a two headed, black hound, built of pure muscle and power. The creature is thought to be, the only type of its breed. A deformed mutation.

He was found wandering through Hells Point as a puppy, lost, lonely and near death. It was thought that the creature, was abandoned by its mother. So, it was taken in by the local regiment, of Blackheart knights. They trained him, to hunt, track and kill. They watched, as the creature developed and evolved, through his early years.

Eventually, upon reaching adulthood, the hound was put to good use, guarding the ravine. Here, he developed new skills to survive the conditions, that he lived and hunted in. The name given to him; was Beorn. He would become known as, The Hound of Hells Point.

‘Good evening Beorn,’ Normauss called out. His voice wavered ever so slightly when he first spoke. ‘It’s me,’ he continued, ‘Normauss.’

Slowly, the troll walked towards the four red eyes, his hand gingerly held out, in a gesture of friendship. He had hoped, to feel the touch of the creature’s wet fur. And, not to lose his hand.