by Mark Barber
“Sir, a mage was not assigned us,” Georgis said quietly. “We were told that none of the Schools of Magic could spare any war wizards beyond those that have already been committed in other tasks and campaigns.”
“So what of attacking our enemies at range?” the Dictator-Prefect demanded, more than a hint of annoyance bursting through his otherwise calm and collected demeanor.
“At the back there,” Georgis gestured, “behind the paladins’ squires. We have a contingent of mercenaries with crossbows. Thirty of them, all experienced.”
“Oh, good, good,” Hugh’s furrowed brow lifted. “With over one hundred soldiers including heavy cavalry and crossbows, I’m confident we can deal with a horde of peasants, even if they are led by a self-proclaimed strategic genius. Still, although the mercenaries are only temporarily attached to Basilea’s military might, I’d still welcome their thoughts and input. When we gather on the march, I would have their captain with us.”
Tancred again exchanged a look with Georgis, but decided he would speak this time.
“The mercenaries have been very clear about how they see their role in this task, sir,” Tancred said carefully. “They are simple men and women with experience, bravery, and skills on the field, but none of them are planners and leaders, by their own admission. They are more than content to leave the planning to us and follow your orders.”
Tancred exhaled, relatively happy with his diplomatic twisting of the facts.
“Nonetheless, they bring a different perspective to ours, and outside eyes may well reveal glaring errors in our plans. Ensure a suitable representative from the mercenary contingent is made available for all future discussions. That is all for now. Let us proceed north and take advantage of every minute of sunlight we still have.”
Grinding his teeth uneasily, Tancred watched Hugh swing himself back up into his saddle and take his place at the head of the columns with his two aides. As Tancred vaulted back up onto his own horse, the drums struck up again as the soldiers marched north.
***
Summer in the Mountains of Tarkis was something that Dionne had never grown tired of. Whatever happened in the cosmos above, whatever the Shining Ones had decided to do with the heavens, resulted in the moonlight illuminating the lands in a golden hue for two, sometimes three, hours after sunset and then again in the hour leading up to dawn. He sat alone on a rocky perch at the edge of one of his encampments, looking out to the east across the Low Sea of Suan where the gentle ripples of the waves reflected tiny flecks of orange-white on the midnight blue surface as far as the eye could see. The islands to the southeast, the villages in the foothills to the south, all of them benefited from his protection. He looked up to the northeast where, leagues beyond the horizon but still too close for comfort, lay the enemy of his people. The scar that was wrenched across the earth – both literally and metaphorically – where evil poured forth to sweep down toward the Hegemony and plague all the nation stood for.
Dionne swore and shook his head. The evil threatened all Basilea once stood for. But not anymore. Now, corrupt politicians used the once noble Duma to further their own objectives, line their pockets with gold, and abuse the principles of the system to further their own malevolent and debase families. The Hegemon, that great dictator, sat above it all, hiding behind a web of lies and exploitation of faith. The Hegemon – perversely born into power rather voted by the people – was both emperor and high priest. His will was intractable, beyond contestation by any below him. He lived in the most corpulent luxury in the City of the Golden Horn, the very center of all corruption in the so-called civilized world. Dionne wondered what was the true threat – the Abyss to the north or the Hegemon and his politicians and fanatical followers in the heart of Mantica’s most advanced nation. At least the demons of the Abyss were honest in their intentions.
“Centurion?”
Dionne looked over his shoulder to see Phellius stood with two thin young men in the battered garb of simple farmers. Phellius himself wore a coat of mail, battered and overdue for a replacement, over which was an ill-fitting breastplate of basic quality. Like all of the others, he looked thin and tired, but his eyes still held the same spark of determination that was there when Dionne had first met him some thirteen years ago.
Behind them, the subdued twinkling of lights betrayed the carefully controlled campfires of some three-dozen of Dionne’s soldiers. How many he actually had altogether, scattered across his numerous encampments and bolt holes hidden away in the mountains, he was not sure.
“Two men from our latest supply visit to Astennes,” Phellius ushered the men forward. “They have volunteered to join us.”
Dionne regarded the two men with more care and attention. The first was a tall, broad man of thirty years with a thick, black beard and nervous eyes. His coarse hands were clamped in front of him and his eyes shifted from meeting Dionne’s appraising stare to looking down at his feet. The second man was in his early twenties, with copper hair and a thin mustache. His stance appeared more confident, almost eager.
“You know who I am?”
Both men nodded but remained silent.
“Do either of you have any military experience?” Dionne asked.
“None, sir,” the older man said gruffly, “I’ve worked mines all my life.”
“I know how to operate a crossbow,” the younger man said, excitement and optimism in his tone, “and I served a month’s worth of an apprenticeship with a blacksmith in Tmoskai. I didn’t learn much, but I can do basic repairs on armor.”
That piqued Dionne’s interest, but only momentarily. It did not take long to train a man how to use a crossbow, and he had a good smattering of people who could repair armor.
“Do you have family?” Dionne asked.
“No, sir,” the miner said. “I had a wife and a son. They’re gone now. Orcs attacked our village.”
“I’m married, sir,” the young man with the red hair said. “My wife is with child. But she supports me in coming out here. She knows how important it is… what you are doing here.”
Dionne heard the creaking from his fists as they clenched, his eyes narrowing as he stared the young man down. He had never married, had never fathered children, but he had spoken to enough fathers and mothers to know the earth shattering importance that parenthood brought with it.
“Go home to your wife, boy,” Dionne said with a tired sigh. “Go and see to your family.”
“But I…”
“Go and do your damn duty as a father!” Dionne erupted with enough force to make the young man take a step back in alarm. “You’ve already got a job, so go and do it!”
His face a picture of confusion and bitter disappointment, the young man looked to Phellius for support, but on finding none, turned silently to leave. Dionne watched him go before switching his gaze back to the taller man.
“What’s your name?”
“Castus, sir.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Castus. Truly, I am. Do you still hold onto your anger with the orcs for what they took from you?”
Castus held Dionne’s stare for a few moments. The nervous glances were replaced with deep sorrow, and then hatred. He nodded.
“Aye.”
Dionne held out his arm to offer his hand to the miner.
“You’re welcome to join us, friend. I can make a soldier out of you.”
Castus shook his hand, his eyes warily flitting between Dionne and Phellius as if he was making a pact with a demon from the Abyss.
“Go get him settled in,” Dionne said to Phellius before turning to look down at the sea to the east again.
Phellius walked the new addition to their small army over to another soldier before returning to stand by Dionne again. Phellius said nothing, but the uncomfortable atmosphere was enough to nudge Dionne’s mind toward the problem he had come to discuss.
“What is it? Come on, man, you’ve known me long enough. Spit it out.”
“It’s Teynne, sir,�
� Phellius said quietly, but with conviction. “The men don’t trust him. I don’t trust him.”
Dionne shook his head and turned to face the younger man. Phellius’ eyes betrayed his nerves, but he met Dionne’s stare unflinchingly nonetheless.
“We’ve been here before,” Dionne explained, aware that his irritation was creeping through what he had planned to be a patient tone. “He’s been with us for over a year. He’s proved himself time and time again. What more do you want from the man?”
“He turns up out of nowhere, very conveniently, when we most need soldiers. He knows magic and he knows how to use a sword. Men like that are beyond rare. And he just happens to cross our path when we’re surrounded by a horde of undead legionnaires, outnumbered and all but doomed?”
“Fate favored us, it seems,” Dionne answered, remembering the incident well, when he had led his men into a complex of caves only to encounter ranks of legion soldiers, dead for centuries, still looking for their lost eagle standard.
“I think a man largely makes his own fate, and Teynne has done just that. Whatever his motivation.”
“And what do you think his motivation is?” Dionne snapped. “What has he done that is so sinister to incur the wrath of you and the men?”
“He’s spying on us, Dionne!” Phellius exclaimed. “Can’t you see? We’re rebels! We left the legion, we followed you because we believed in you! We still do! We left everything for you and your cause! A legion captain disobeying orders and taking his men with him? We know that is so incredible that it would have been reported to the Hegemon himself! And here we are, a decade later, still in hiding, still outlaws, and still wanted for trial by the Duma!”
“And still holding back demons, orcs and a thousand evil bastards from pillaging our country and our people, because that same Duma won’t send enough men to do the job properly!” Dionne shook his head in frustration. “You can’t doubt our cause, surely?”
“Never!” Phellius hissed. “None of us do! But this man who you have accepted and given a position of authority and power, we don’t trust him! We won’t follow him! He’s a spy, sent here from the Duma to report on us! You mark my words, it won’t be long until there are legion men scouring these mountains to hunt us down!”
Dionne took a deep breath and nodded. He knew that elements of what his old comrade was saying were undoubtedly true. He had made too much noise, had attacked too many invaders, to remain undetected. The Duma knew he was still out here, and it would not be long before troops were sent to apprehend him. He was surprised that it had taken so long for a reaction from the capital, but it made some sense. After the incident with the unfortunate deaths of the two paladins, he had fled Basilea for the better part of nine years, completely disappearing from the eyes of the Duma.
“I’ll keep a closer eye on Teynne,” Dionne said softly. “I trust you and I trust the men. I value your instinct and your loyalty. I do not for a second think he is a spy sent here by the Duma, but I will watch him closely.”
“Thank you, sir,” Phellius replied, “that is all we ask.”
***
Constance attempted to push her way to the front of the small crowd that had gathered in a loose circle at the center of the encampment. The detachment was still three days from the Mountains of Tarkis, but now they were in the northern provinces, and she was still wary as the area had a proud history of rebellion against the rule of the City of the Golden Horn. Half a dozen large camp fires lit up the night, around which were scattered tents of varying sizes, from the cramped shared tents of the paladins’ squires to the large tent used by the Dictator-Prefect, no doubt crammed with luxury within.
A handful of Constance’s mercenaries had dashed over to see what had prompted twenty of the men-at-arms to form the circle at the far end of camp. She cursed her curiosity as she levered her way in between two of her soldiers – she realized that an element of aloof detachment had its time and place for a leader, but days of marching had left her thoroughly bored despite the good company of the men and women in her band.
“What’s going on?” she asked Jaque, raising her voice over the excited buzz of conversation as she nudged in to stand next to him.
“Fight!” The lanky man flashed his gap toothed grin. “One of the legion fellows was shooting his mouth off about how he’s unbeatable in a fight, some nonsense about having never taken a hit in five years of fighting. All his boys backed him up; said he is that good.”
Constance looked into the center of the circle and saw a tall, powerfully built man in his mid twenties with a strong, chiseled jaw and dark eyes. He wore only blue leggings and leather boots, leaving his torso exposed to show off a muscular physique. Standing opposite him, towering over the legion soldier was a colossal warrior of perhaps forty years of age with a thick, blond beard and a head shaven to the scalp. The huge man watched, unimpressed as the legion warrior showed off his skills as he flourished and twirled a wooden practice sword around his body in a series of impressive displays.
“Who’s he?” Constance nodded at the huge, bald man.
“That’s the thrilling part!” Jaque’s eyes flashed in excitement. “It’s one of the paladins! He said he’d fight him!”
“Are paladins allowed to do that?” Constance asked.
“That’s the least of his worries!” A legion soldier stood to Constance’s left grinned broadly. “Eustace has never lost a fight!”
Constance watched as the legion soldier identified as Eustace by his friend advanced boldly to face the hulking paladin. Eustace span the wooden blade around his body and shouted out a challenge – while the show was ostentatious enough to cause Constance to roll her eyes, she could not help but be impressed with his obvious skill and agility. The legion was famous the world over for its ability to fight and win as a team, in rank and file, but it was a fool who presumed that there were not world class fighters within its ranks.
The warrior leapt forward to attack, stringing together three precise strikes aimed at the paladin’s head and torso. The paladin did not step back an inch, but he countered each strike with a solid defense that seemed far too swift and fluid for a man of his size. Undeterred, Eustace brought his wooden blade crashing down at the paladin’s head, forcing his guard high before changing the course of his attack to sweep up at the gut. Again the strike clattered off an unmovable defense.
Without pausing for a moment, Eustace again brought his ersatz blade around to strike at the paladin’s flank, maintaining momentum and keeping the initiative of attack well and firmly on his side. Constance watched, jaw agape in surprise as the paladin batted the legion soldier’s attack to one side and opened up his guard before slamming a fist into his jaw and sending him crumpling to the ground, out cold.
The assembled soldiers fell completely silent as their champion lay senseless in the long grass. The paladin’s stern eyes scanned across the circle of soldiers around him before he spoke.
“He’s good,” he admitted in a gruff voice, “but I’ve faced far better.”
Constance watched as the huge man walked off toward the paladin’s tents while two of the legion soldiers set about reviving their unconscious friend. Jaque turned to Constance.
“Well, that wasn’t the most satisfying end to the entertainment.”
“Come on,” Constance shrugged, “see if any of our lot want a story or two around the fire before we call it a night.”
Jaque grinned and nodded before dashing off to the south end of the encampment, where the mercenaries had set up their tents. Constance turned her back on the encampment and looked out over the olive fields, still visible in the bright moonlight and the reflected campfires. The land to the north gently undulated up to where the Mountains of Tarkis now dominated the horizon, their saw-toothed profile looking like the lower half of the jaws of some monstrous creature waiting to devour them.
At least it was summer. The Mountains of Tarkis were brutal, utterly lethal in winter, and that served as a major line o
f defense for the Hegemony against many of the threats that poured out of the Abyssal scar, leagues to the northeast. Many, but not all. Some things that came out of that huge hole in the ground did not feel the cold. Constance suppressed a shiver at the thought, thinking back to the last time she faced Abyssal demons on the field of battle. She turned back and walked over to where her mercenaries had pitched their tents, thinking through a dozen different tales her father had told her when she was growing up. It made her smile to think that her men and women, a motley assortment of tough, scarred warriors from several different kingdoms, still liked to hear her stories around the campfire. But that was culture; that was tradition; without the age old custom of telling the stories, the messages they conveyed might be lost forever, especially given how few of her mercenaries could read and write.
Constance found eleven of her men waiting by one of the fires, all of the usual audience members when it came to storytelling: Hayden, Jaque, Wulf, Mallius. A few newcomers also sat ready for the tale telling. A bottle of wine, the base of its green glass wrapped in a simple lattice of straw, was passed to her as she sat down and crossed her legs.
“As we’ve got some newcomers to our gathering, I’m going to start with perhaps the most important story of all,” Constance began. “We all know it, but it defines the age we live in, and any time spent reciting it is always time spent well.”
A few murmurs of approval were exchanged before Constance began.
“The Celestians were eternal, and eternity was the Celestians. The Celestians were omnipotence and ruled over all. Before our own concept of time even came into being, the Celestians created many worlds, and our world of Mantica was the very first, created out of clay and water but infused with the very power of the Star of Heaven itself. Mantica was peopled with three great races – the elves to bring intellect, the dwarves with their industrious nature, and men to bring wisdom and sound judgment overall. Just as Mantica was favored by the Celestians ruling from above, so was the race of Man.”
