Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #19 October 2015 | Page 63

Alaric was the newly appointed head of the Althaus clan after his father, Ricohard, was assassinated
by Gerulf the head of the rival Amsel clan. He stood
next to his horse at the edge of the dark, wet forest as
rain splashed from the needles in the trees above. Just
behind him were half of his late father’s men who now
followed him in this quest for retribution upon the
house of Amsel. Alaric stared at the faintly lit castle
just across the open field before snorting and spiting on the ground that was owned by the honourless
Gerulf. Killing a rival by assassination was detested
in this land by many clans; mutual combat between
the warring factions with the clan leaders facing each
other was the chosen way to settle feuds. Ricohard
died the night before, and tonight Alaric would not
return to Castle Althaus without the heads of Gerulf
Amsel and his sons. Alaric turned, got onto his horse,
and shook the rain water from his soaked beard.
“Look at them Vulferam. They still celebrate,”
Alaric said over to his friend and Lieutenant.
“No doubt they’re drunk on spirits since last
night.” Vulferam grunted as he slid on his chainmail
hood.
“They enjoy pleasures of this life after sending
my Father into a colder one.” Alaric gritted his teeth.
“After this night, we shall commemorate it for a whole
week. Not for my victory here, but for my Father’s
soul.”
“A most moral act, Alaric. Ricohard would be
pleased,” Vulferam said as he scratched his neck.
“Do you notice Vulferam?” Alaric asked peering through the darkness towards the lights.
Vulferam squinted his eyes as he peered
through the night. “I see nothing.”
“Nor I. No guards at the gates. The bridge is
down as well, and no one on the walls.” Alaric pointed
at each location with his sword.
Vulferam grinned. “They’re all celebrating,
must be quite festive to lower their guard to this ex-

tent.” Vulferam’s grin vanished. “Could it possibly be
a trap?”
“I doubt it. These fiends act with no honor, I
don’t see why they would leave the outside unprotected.” Alaric smiled and shook his head trying to contain
his laughter. “Unless the famous Amsel arrogance has
reached beyond cautious thinking.”
“Now that you mention it, the Amsel’s were
never that gifted,” Vulferam said as his grin returned
to his face, and he joined Alaric in containing his
laughter.
“My helmet!” Alaric ordered to the soldier
standing next to him. The soldier lifted up the Althaus
battle helmet that was passed down from father to son.
The helmet was square with devilish slits throughout
the face and ornamented with the skull of a buck elk
with a full rack that was attached to the top of the helmet. Once the hellish helmet was fastened to his head,
Alaric raised his sword over his head signalling all
his men who then rattled their shields. With the sword
now pointed forward, Alaric set the pace as he rode his
horse at a medium speed, his men following behind.
As they approached the main gate that would
lead inside of the Amsel’s castle, Alaric looked to his
Lieutenant and then to his men before he quickened
the pace. On the bridge, Alaric stopped his horse and
dismounted along with Vulferam who then pulled out
his axe and held it with two hands. As the two men
stood in place, some soldiers came from behind and
began to push the large wooden door leading to the
main hall open. What sound they heard next made all
the men, even the new fearless leader of the Althaus
clan, have a strong sense of frightened curiosity: the
sound of nothing. No talking, laughter, singing, music
or anything could be heard. The only sound penetrating the air was the great doors opening and echoing
in the great empty halls. If there truly was a celebration, the sounds of it should be heard by now. Alaric
stepped into the lit hall and peered at the passageway
that would take them to where the festivities would be
held.
Gripping his weapon, Alaric unhurriedly

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