Shattered Legacy

England

Spring 1040 AD

The battle had been harder than most. The field, littered with the dead and dying of both sides, was enough to bring turmoil to even the strongest stomach. The warriors who walked through it now had stronger constitutions than most and still, the bile rose heavily within them. So many broken bodies. Warriors and knights, earls and lords, the scourge of death marked them all. For what cause, Devlin wondered. For greed, for power, to usurp and plunder, rape and pillage a land already suffering from the tyranny of one who should protect rather than destroy.

Here was the proof of man’s cruelty and disregard, one to another. This was the sum total of a king’s vow to protect and cherish life. To lead, guide, and rule his throne in justice and compassion. It was a vow the king had made to the warriors and this was the proof of his deception.

Devlin stared around at the broken, wounded, dead and dying, and felt his soul ache. Many were young, too young and too ill prepared for the death that stalked the land, the evil that washed over it in these dark times. Like a dark malevolent cloud of suffering and violence it stalked and struck with the viciousness of a rabid dog.

There were no longer days of peace. There was no longer a sense of security or growth. War, disease and hunger were like maggots growing with steady strength on the dark forces sweeping over the countryside. Devlin knew the cause of the evil and the war. He knew the forces pushing the destruction sweeping through town and parish alike but he had been unable to stop the steady force of violence. There were days he wondered if the evil would ever be halted. Or if he would forever be faced with the sight of this, a once beautiful field wrapped in mist, filled with carnage, the moans and broken whimpers of its victims drifting forever through his head. This was his curse, though he had been told it was his blessing.

The Shadow, he was called. His unique abilities enabled him to hide himself with the barest protection of even a small amount of darkness. With the power of his mind alone he could fade into a corner, into a shadow, become one with the night and all that it contained. Yet, he could not hide from this, the merciless games of an unnatural demon intent on possessing the world.

The Guardians, those gods who watched and waited from the stars, had bestowed this power on him decades ago. They had sought to create a warrior who could battle in this land, who could kill the evil they could not. An evil of their own kind, a Seeker of power, a demonic being whose sole aim was the enslavement of a world. So far, the Seeker, Jonar, was winning.

“We were betrayed.” Devlin spoke to those following in the mist behind him, his voice seeming to echo about the field. “Why else would we have been called away? This battle was decided long before it was ever fought.”

Devlin and his men had heard of the forces moving steadily toward the contingent of warriors he led himself, barely a day after leaving camp. It seemed all had known of the battle to come except those who lay dying about the field this night. Deceit, even within his own ranks, he thought. For the enemy would not have known the time to strike without a spy within awaiting the order from the king.

“Sir Devlin. Sir Devlin, help me.” A young voice called out weakly as Devlin approached, his hazy expression beseeching, a dirty, blood streaked arm stretched out through the mist.

He was just a child, Devlin knew. One of the skinny, gangly young boys the knights brought along as squires. This one had always been the most cheerful, despite his uncertain lot. The one who had seemed perpetually filled with laughter.

“David.” The boy’s name was a sigh of regret.

Devlin moved toward the small figure with quick steps, aware of the men who followed him. They spread out around him, attempting to see through the steadily building fog that crept over the countryside. They searched, as always, for the assassins that lurked, ready to sever the head of the dark force’s greatest enemy.

He reached the boy in seconds, moving to kneel beside him. Devlin knelt at the boy’s side, easing his light weight into his arms. He was so small, he thought. Too small and too young to be lying on a killing field.

“Sir Devlin, we were defeated,” the young voice held a measure of bemusement. The boy fought to breathe, his lungs wheezing wearily, his breath a gurgling within his throat as Devlin pulled him close.

There was no aiding him. The wound to his stomach was a long, painful death sentence. One such a young boy should never have to endure. Devlin clenched his teeth tightly, fighting the rage and bitterness that filled him.

“Aye, David, in this battle we were defeated,” Devlin said roughly, propping the boy up in his arms, and wishing there was more he could do other than provide comfort and warmth.

David had come to this battle as a squire to an arrogant, overbearing knight. The knight was dead, his head severed from his body. A quick and merciful death for one who knew only his own selfish ways. And here this boy lay, pale and trembling, the pain a fiery throb in his body, enduring a death no full grown man should have to suffer, let alone a boy.

“I have wanted to speak to you,” David’s voice rasped in his throat. “I was sent here for you, Sir Devlin.”

“Rest, David,” Devlin urged him, hearing the sound of lungs filling with blood, the rattle of death in the boy’s young chest.

“No, Sir Devlin, hear me.” David stared up at him, his eyes glassy from the pain, yet showing his determination to give Devlin his message. “I tried to tell you, and yet I could find no place where other ears would not hear. There are those who would aid you. Those who know the truth of the evil that has come upon us. You must go to them. Seek their aid.”

Devlin frowned as he watched the boy’s desperate expression. David’s eyes were glazing with his fading strength, his body trembling as the cold and shock settled over him.

“What do you know of such evil, David?” he asked him gently. “’Tis the evil of men with nothing better to do than war. You should know this by now.”

David shook his head weakly, his gaze steady and knowing on Devlin’s.

“’Tis an evil not of our land. An evil that only few can destroy,” David whispered regretfully. “Find the Wizard, Galen, and his daughter, Chantel. Find them, Lord Devlin. They hold a key, a secret that can save us all.”

The young voice was imploring, hoarse with need. His dirty face was twisted into lines of pain and need, his gaze boring into Devlin’s with the strength of a man, rather than a child.

“The Wizard, Galen, is dead, David,” Devlin reminded him. “Even our king admits to this. If he lived, he would surely have come to aid the family he swore his fealty to long ago.”

David’s gaze became frightened, his grip on Devlin’s arm desperate. He seemed terrified that the warrior he revered would not heed his words.

“No, Lord Devlin. Galen lives. Our king has been influenced by this evil, and Galen refuses to lend hand in his battles. I swear this is true, for I was the one sent to bear you this message. You must listen to me. You must heed my words.”

Tears fell slowly through the dust and grime that coated the boy’s face. His dark eyes were wide, beseeching. His fingers bit into Devlin’s arm fiercely.

“I, too, have heard such rumors.” From the tendrils of mist, Devlin’s warrior, Joshua, neared them. “Perhaps the boy speaks the truth, Devlin.”

Joshua’s voice was low, controlled and dark. He was like an angel of death himself, his amber eyes bright and probing, his harsh expression savage in its intensity.

“Where is this Wizard then, David?” Devlin asked him gently as he pushed the boy’s sweat dampened hair back from his forehead. “Tell me what I must know then, and I shall seek him for no other reason than it is your wish.” At this moment he knew he would have given this child whatever he asked. So young. Too young to die within blood and pain.

David coughed roughly, blood mixing with the spittle that dotted his chin. The boy was in pain, weak and so near death. Yet still he sought to finish the mission he had taken for himself.

“He resides now within the Norman lands, deep in an enchanted forest, close to the seas. You will know when the way is right; you will feel desolate when the way is wrong. He bid me come to you, to send you on this journey. He awaits you, Lord Devlin. Go now. Tell no one who you seek, or where you go, for the way is dangerous, and Galen’s enemies grow daily.”

The boy’s breath was growing shallower, as though in the giving of this message he realized he no longer must fight. Devlin grimaced, holding the child tighter, hoping to ease the passing. He pulled the boy deep within his arms and held him as his eyelids fluttered, his grip slowly slacked, and the life left his body in a long, gentle sigh.

Devlin felt his own heart break as the child sighed his last breath and his body shuddered. The boy had tried often to bring him this message, Devlin now knew. Yet it seemed that other matters had continually drawn Devlin’s attention from the imploring look the child often sent him.

“He was just a boy.” Devlin laid the body to the ground, staring down at the young face regretfully. “I should have forced Garrison to relieve him of his duties and send him home, as I often considered.”

The knight, Lord Dewitt Garrison had been a vain, ego serving man. He had been cruel to the boy, leaving him alone outside his tent in the cold and damp air. Devlin had often sent him blankets and food and wood for his fires when he saw the boy’s needs. But he had never gone to him, and now Devlin regretted that bitterly.

“Would it have done any good?” Joshua questioned him softly. “The boy knew his fate, I fear. He came anyway, in service to this Wizard.”

Devlin was silent as he stared down at the lifeless boy. He was barely fourteen years, and his laughter had spread through the camp with his arrival. He teased knights who had not known such revelry in years. He aided the camp whores; helping to carry their water, tend their aches, when his duties allowed such. And through it all, he watched Devlin, always eager it seemed for his company. Now Devlin knew the reason for that eagerness.

“What have we heard of this Wizard, other than his disassociation with King Hardicanute?” Devlin demanded softly as he laid the boy’s arms across his chest and prepared to pick him up.

“Do we have time for what you are preparing to do, Devlin?” Joshua asked him softly, his tone indicating they did not.

Devlin paused, but only for less than a second. It would not matter if all of Jonar’s forces were riding upon them now, he would take the time to finish this task.

“We have time, Joshua, for whatever I deem necessary.” Devlin flashed him a hard look, the other warrior’s manner grating on his nerves.

Joshua stood back as Devlin came to his feet, the small body of the boy lying in his arms, the brown head lying limply on the broad chest of the large warrior. Against that broad chest, the boy seemed much younger than he was, his fragile body resting now where before it had not.

“Derek,” Devlin called one of the warriors to his side. “Find a shovel to prepare this child’s grave. I want him away from this battlefield and the scavengers that will soon descend upon it.”

The other warrior made no comment, and didn’t have far to search for a short handled shovel that would do the job. Devlin knew his manner was cold, hard. His voice brooked no argument, and yet he could not relent. This child had deserved so much more.

“Joshua, round the horses up. I refuse to leave them for the enemy to gather into their stables. The knights’ mounts are most important. Such well trained animals are worth their weight in gold to Jonar.”

The name spread a vile taste in Devlin’s mouth as he spoke it. Jonar, the dark lord. The evil cloud of malevolent hatred spreading across the land was a direct result of his malicious designs. Jonar sought power and recognition, to be treated as a god and recognized for nothing save his ultimate decisions of who would live and who would die. He was a master of pain, a dark lord of agony. He was Devlin’s greatest enemy.

Others would say the battles, the wars, the great dread and poverty sweeping over the land was the result of mere men seeking more power than they had earned. The power struggles and treachery, the blood running like a river over the valleys and dales were the result of mad kings, desperate lords, and greedy peasants alike. But Devlin knew well the workings of Jonar, and saw in the desperation sweeping the land, the hand of that unnatural being.

“Will we seek out the Wizard?” A large blond Viking, Shanar, moved to his side, his rough face holding a gentle expression as he stared down at Devlin’s burden. “Could he truly be the one we seek to aid us in this fight?”

Despite Devlin’s own height, several inches above the mark of six feet, this man stood a near four inches taller. Devlin glanced up at him as they walked farther into the forest, feeling the wash of a gentle breeze, the fresh scent of the night rather than the blood and filth of the battlefield they left behind.

The Guardians, those who they served, the masters to the great powers the warriors wielded, had told them of one who knew the powers of the earth. That when those powers joined with their own, would cause devastation and destruction to Jonar. Devlin glanced up toward the sky, but saw nothing but the mists that covered the land.

“Aye, we will leave this night.” Devlin nodded. “When we have seen to the matter of this child’s burial, we will then begin our journey.”

“There are no messengers to send to the king, informing him of what we are about,” Shanar reminded him.

“If what this boy has said is true, then our King Hardicanute has been infected with the evil Jonar spreads as well, just as I suspected. It would perhaps be better for now if he believes our deaths occurred upon this field until I learn the truth of this matter myself.”

“He has not seemed a sane king. Even when he ruled the southern section,” the larger man remarked. “But it was Harold’s wish that we serve him.”

“Whichever is the case, until I learn who is the betrayed and who the betrayer, I will resume my own battles. I grow tired of searching for Jonar’s forces and finding them deep within the king’s instead. This fighting among the royalty of this land wears on my nerves. It is the perfect breeding ground for Jonar’s forces and his dark evil.”

It was well known that Hardicanute’s rule was one of tyranny and blood. And Devlin knew that soon William of Normandy would take up the cause and invade this land. It seemed no matter which way they turned, Jonar’s hand was in the wars and tragedies overtaking England. The search for power, riches, and stable footing in a world gone mad was destroying royalty and peasants alike. Devlin was uncertain how much longer he could hold the line between those of Jonar’s forces and the unknowing, unsuspecting lands bowing down to him and his cohorts. Perhaps it was time to go to the Norman lands anyway and search out William. He was sounding by far the better choice for England.

Devlin stopped in a small clearing, far enough away from the field of battle that the moans of the dying, and the stench of the dead could no longer be heard or smelled. There he lay the form of the squire to the ground, accepted the small shovel from Derek and began to dig.

The task was not an easy one, for Devlin had fought for weeks on end with little sleep. The barons rising against the king were becoming more numerous, the battles more brutal with each growing year. Weariness was riding him hard. The need to rest was becoming paramount. But each day the situation grew more dire and Jonar’s forces stronger, while Devlin and his men seemed to grow weaker in the face of the dark powers the unnatural invader wielded.

“The boy deserved better than his death here,” Devlin said with a sigh, though his thoughts were on other matters. “I should have heeded the plea I often caught in his eyes. But I did not want to tempt the knight’s anger towards him, so I let it go.”

“Death is all around us, Devlin, more children than just this one is succumbing,” Shanar said wearily. “He knew his fate, and faced it bravely to complete his task. We could ask no more of him than that.”

“We could ask that such a fate should not have been his,” Devlin bit out. “What was in the Wizard’s mind to send such a child to this task? Why could he not have made this journey himself?”

Wizard. Devlin’s contempt of such a title often rang with his dark voice filled with derision. There were no wizards, no witches, nor warlocks. There were only the dark powers of good or evil, and those who willingly followed them. More often than not, he had learned that evil shadowed even those professing God’s blessings, and those burned at the stake had more faith in their God than those burning them could ever hope to attain.

Devlin did not believe in magic, for he knew the basis of such deception. He just wondered from where the mighty Galen drew his power. Was it God’s blessing through the power of the earth itself, or was it the darker unnatural power bequeathed to those who fought for the stars? Power such as Devlin and his men possessed. Power such as Jonar misused, enforcing his dark desires, playing his cruel and merciless games.

He would learn soon, Devlin thought as he lowered the broken child into the cold and damp grave. And when he did, he best never learn that whether graced by God or cursed by Jonar, Galen had known this quest would result in the bloody death of this child.