“Feel what?”
“There’s no tension in the air, no shadow over us. Feel the air, Cain. When have you ever felt that?”
Cain raised his face to the cathartic breeze, its cool fingers tossing his hair. In the utter stillness and silence of the world, he finally heard what it so desperately screamed.
Peace.
“Never,” Cain breathed.
Aren smiled. “The world is so still, so quiet.”
“Maybe you’re right. Let’s say something did happen to Abaddon. Are you saying the war is over? That he’s dead, somehow?”
Aren shrugged. “Anything’s possible.”
Cain frowned. Abaddon slips into the shadows for two months, and humanity immediately turns on itself? Could there ever be such a thing as peace if men were that fickle?
Cumbersome clouds rolled over the gray sky. Trees tossed in the swelling wind. A raindrop plopped on Cain’s cheek, trickling cold down his skin.
He turned to Aren. “So if Abaddon is dead, then who are we fighting?”
Aren returned his anxious gaze. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
A fog settled thick in the trees. Cool beads of vapor clung to the wooded hills. Homes of standard Inveiran fare dotted the knolls with their timber walls and steeped, arrowhead roofs. Smoke curled lazily from their chimneys.
The faintest trace of sunlight rose in the distant evergreens and cut the fog like knives. Shadows tossed in the trees, and scores of black-armored men silently descended upon the sleeping village.
A white-haired Iscara hefted his bastard sword in a hand and stepped around a fat pine. Mithaniel looked to his men quietly slipping past him. They reached the first of the buildings, kicked in the doors, and disappeared inside. Screams followed.
They returned, dragging the occupants from their homes. Efficient and orderly, they moved down the row of homes and plucked sleeping people from their beds. They tossed women and children into the dirt road, the occasional man young and old. Some struggled but the black-armored men beat them down and bound their hands. Soon, a long line stretched down the road.
A woman pounded at a soldier’s breastplate as he pulled her daughter from her hands. Another soldier stepped toward the screaming woman and drove his sword through her chest, leaving her body a stark red mess in the grass. Together, they dragged the crying girl to the line.
The Iscara approached the huddling, weeping mass.
“This will go better for you if you do not resist,” Mithaniel said in his cool, emotionless voice. “Let this woman’s death be an example to you, do not throw away your lives.” He briefly glanced at the body. He then turned and waved his sword.
His soldiers moved the elderly to a group off to the side next to the children, young women to another, and the few fighting age men and boys to a fourth. They bunched together, sobbing or whispering comforting words to each other as the soldiers re-entered the homes.
They looted the houses and tossed possessions out into the torn gardens and yards. They made piles of furniture, food, tools, and clothing, leaving everything else inside. Once they stripped the houses of their valuables, they tossed torches through windows with a whoosh of fire and a crash.
Mithaniel walked down the line and looked at the faces of those he passed. Weeping faces, angry faces, stunned and stolid faces.
Screams lifted from a nearby home and the Iscara turned to see fires swelling within. Children screeched from somewhere inside. The Iscara stopped, fingers tightening around his sword.
“You were supposed to check every room,” he snapped at a nearby group of soldiers.
Men stepped from the burning house, smoke curling from the doorway behind them. The Iscara watched them with his cold, green eyes.
“The damned kids wouldn’t leave,” one of the soldiers shrugged. “What were we supposed to do?”
The Iscara stabbed a hand toward the civilians. The man shrugged again and joined his fellows. They gathered up the pilfered supplies and slaves, and, as quickly as they’d appeared, the soldiers led the villagers away from their dying homes and into the morning sun.
Mithaniel watched the burning house long after the screams faded.
The seemingly endless mountains and forests of western Inveira began to dwindle and fade. The trees thinned and the earth crumpled into folds and ridges. The Alliance clambered over the rocky terrain, the hills and valleys proving slow going. They climbed higher, the stony hills cutting at their boots and hands. Cliffs jutted up around them and eventually pressed together to create an impossibly narrow ravine that blotted out the afternoon sun. The Alliance squeezed through the confines barely two men across.
Valerik beckoned the others around a sharp bend in the ravine. Loose granite and slabs of shale buckled and slipped beneath their boots. Water trickled from cracks in the ravine wall as the soldiers slipped about in the shadows.
They eventually reached the belly of the ravine. An even narrower crevice greeted them from behind a cluster of boulders. Valerik guided the Warriors over the boulders and stopped before the fissure.
“Where does this lead?” Cain asked.
Valerik stepped into the dark of its maw. “The old stables. It’s the only entrance into Brunein by land; only a select few garrisoned here know of its existence. Fortunately, I was a ranked officer in the capital so I was privy to this contingency plan if Val Idris ever fell.” He paused with a glance back over their shoulders. “Oh, and you may want to keep your army outside for now, it’ll be a bit cramped in here.” With that, he disappeared into its abyss.
Cain dismounted and stepped forward, but Silas grabbed him by the arm. “Are you sure you want to go in there? He just asked us to leave our army out here, and you want to follow him into a dark tunnel that leads to who knows where?”
Cain studied the narrow crevice. “We have to show a little faith first. They’re in the middle of a rebellion, they have just as much reason not to trust us.”
“How do we know it’s safe? What if there are rebels in there?”
Cain thought on this and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “You’re right, we still need to play this safe.” He shouted a few orders, and their army dispersed back out of the caverns to set camp and form a perimeter.
The Warriors dismounted and followed Cain inside where an impenetrable blackness met them with a cold grip. Its narrow walls, barely shoulder’s breadth, forced them to traverse its twisting path single file. The air here was damp, cool, like the overturned side of a mossy rock.
Water trickled from the limestone overhead and dripped down in puddles about their feet, making the path even more treacherous. Fumbling around in complete darkness, Cain listened for Valerik’s distant shuffling steps and followed their lead.
Eventually, they reached a rift in the abyss and came to a strand of light. The light formed straight lines like a square. A door. Valerik marched up to it and banged his fist on the wood. One knock followed by two swifter knocks. One knock, then three quick ones. Three drawn knocks and two short ones.
The door shook and swung opened. Cain shielded his face as his eyes adjusted to the sudden daylight. He stumbled out of the doorway and came out into an expansive building.
The room’s fan-vaulted ceiling loomed high above them, held up by great archways of wood and columns of stone. Splintery stalls formed dividers between shelves and racks stacked high with crates and barrels. The faint smell of oats and cured meats floated in the stifling air, needles of daylight stabbing down through motes of dust. The few soldiers here eyed the Warriors as they filed out of the doorway.
Valerik led them past the soldiers and up a large spiral staircase. He came to the door at the top and swung it open with a flourish.
“Welcome to Brunein,” he said, waving his arms at the bleak gray stone walls and buildings crammed around them. “This way, I’ll take you to the king. He’ll be happy to see you, I’m sure.” He led the Warriors across the courtyard and up a smooth-curving road. The group s
oon came to an open gateway that separated the second floor from the first. The doors were solid slabs of iron-plated oak stretching forty feet above their heads.
They crossed under the gate and climbed the steps to the second floor. Ahead of them and as far as they could see were hundreds of barracks, the streets pulsing with life. Soldiers darted about, marched in formation, and trained in yards. Many stopped to watch the newcomers.
Valerik led them through the tightly-packed buildings and up a winding road. As they climbed higher, Cain could see out over the fortress. Hundreds of black and gray buildings carefully stacked atop each other. Smithies, armories, stables, and barracks upon barracks. Simple stone buildings and efficient, grid-like roads. Built for war, and exceptionally boring.
But what lay beyond was breathtaking. The sea. Vivid blue, sparkling, and vast.
The Sea of Caius perched on the western horizon, its edge lapping against a wide, rocky shore. Cain had only seen the ocean one other time while scouting the tail of Lenaroch in Kaanos. The sea was greener there, but here it was depthless and daunting. He felt that if he took a step out into that bay that he’d sink down forever.
High cliff walls surrounded the fortress and extended out into fingers that tightened around the bay. A narrow, three-pronged road chiseled through these cliffs and snaked through the bedrock for hundreds of yards until each valley reached a separate gate in the fortress—each huge gateway hewn from black granite and braced with steel.
The fortress itself was carved from these titanic cliffs to form a kind of basin at their heart. Brunein’s colossal walls followed the curves of the cliffs, and from where Cain stood, he could see only a single black wall that stretched from either end of the basin. Wall walks lined the walls and carved into the sides of cliffs, towers and catapults breaking up the harsh, angular lines.
A lone peak and lighthouse stood apart from the surrounding cliffs to form a treacherous ravine about its base, a drawbridge spanning between its great gap and Brunein’s second floor.
Valerik beckoned them to follow and led the Warriors up a wide road that wound along the foot of a cliff. Soldiers watched them as they passed, and many stopped in mid-stride to gaze at the weapon at Cain’s back. They whispered to each other, every eye now locked on him. Odd blends of anger, relief, joy, and hate flashed across their faces at the sight of Ceerocai.
Cain knew those looks. He felt the same way. The sword of Abaddon in the hands of a man? What did that mean? He wished he knew.
The road soon led to a platform that guarded over the second floor. As they passed the platform, they noticed three tremendous trebuchets atop it, each easily three times the size of those at Morven. Their great necks reached for the skies, their nets loaded with munitions nearly the size of a small house.
The Warriors ascended another stairway carved into the cliff face and came out onto an outcropping that stretched like a hand over the fortress below. They crossed the outcropping to a series of elegant buildings, each made of gray and black marble. Its iron door burst open and a great tower of a man lumbered toward them, nearly prancing with elation.
His hard and grizzled face seemed to have lost some of its edge, softened and fattened with age. Yet there was still power in that face, in his sharp jaw and cheekbones. Pillars of white hair drooped to his chest and the middle of his back, kept in check by a wrought silver crown embellished with pearls. A rich, ermine cloak flapped about his ankles and he carried an ornate battle axe at his hip. His suit of plate glistened white as fresh snow in the afternoon sun.
He beat his breastplate with a deep laugh. “I can’t believe you’re here! Darius did send aid! Which of you is the leader so I can properly thank you?” He stepped up and nodded to Cain. “Cain Taran, of course.” His smile quickly faded. “Surely Darius sends more than five?”
Cain bowed. “We began with five thousand. We lost many on the journey, however. Fortunately, Valerik Elric was able to guide us safely here without incident.”
The king nodded to Valerik. “Good work, soldier. I commend you for your patriotism in these difficult times. I will ensure that you are properly rewarded for bringing the Warriors to me. You have done Inveira a grand service.”
Valerik bowed. “Thank you, my king. But the only reward I need is knowing my men are safe. Will you permit me to attend to my soldiers?”
The king waved a dismissal and Valerik nodded to the Warriors before departing for the stairs. “We have three thousand men camped outside,” Cain began. “They have had a very long and difficult road as well and would be very grateful for a warm bed and a hot meal.”
“Of course, of course, I will find room for them in the barracks; we are sadly too few. They will be provided for, you have my word. King Darius was true to his word as well; therefore, the Alliance shall receive my full support. We will join hands with the rest of Tarsha, and together, we will prove the victor! I should have accepted his offers long before…” He fell quiet for a moment, almost pensive. It was gone almost instantly. “Ah, where are my manners! I am Branim Hallmar, the Fell Stone, White Song, Breaker of the Black Blades, king of this forsaken kingdom. You must be the Warriors. Well met.”
The group bowed to him in turn, giving their names. Cain proffered Darius’ letter. “This is from King Darius of Erias. It outlines his terms for your support of the Alliance as well as details how many men and bushels of grain he will be able to provide in exchange.”
Branim took the letter and tucked it into his cloak, his attention on Cain’s sword. “I see the rumors are true. It’s a shame it cannot be destroyed, but I suppose it’s in safe hands, at least. Come with me.” He beckoned them to follow him into one of the marble buildings.
The place was spacious and ornate, with towering vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows. It may have once been a palace or government building, but now it was commandeered by crates and barrels. Mountains of supplies covered the white marble floor and hid the black arches and richly colored tapestries. The king wove between the crates toward a fine table in the middle of the room. Several Inveiran captains huddled around this, whispering among themselves in their thick, barely intelligible accents. Branim clapped his hands and the men quickly bowed and disappeared down a side hallway.
Once they left, he turned to the Warriors. “So, tell me, how did you lose your men?”
“We marched to Val Idris as instructed,” Cain informed, “but we were ambushed along the way by rebels. We lost many men, including one of our own. We pressed on to the capital but fortunately we crossed paths with Valerik and his men who informed us the city had fallen.”
Branim turned and peered out one of the windows, sunlight bathing his face. “The Acedens.”
“Who are they?” Adriel asked. “What do they want?”
“They are my own people—whom I have ruled and fought beside for decades. I cannot fathom what they hope to accomplish in rebelling.
“They call themselves the Acedens, and they follow a despot named Iscarius. They rose about two months ago with sword and flame. Cities and villages fall right and left under their fierce and violent attacks; they kill their own kind without a shred of remorse. I don’t need to know their reasons for betraying their brethren. All I know is that they must be stopped.”
Cain contemplated this. Iscarius. Who was he and what could he possibly gain by starting a civil war?
Aren stepped forward. “If I may ask, why did you send Darius a plea for aid against the andreds if there are none?”
Branim turned to him and tapped his fingers on the pommel of his axe. “The largest andred horde we’d ever seen invaded my country three months ago. I sent the letter not long after, requesting the Alliance’s assistance. They are gone now, and are the least of our worries, Aren Hayden.”
The Warriors watched him as he began to pace. “My kingdom is on the brink of destruction. Thousands of my treasonous men now roam free, killing and enslaving my people and laying waste to my cities. I must do something about t
his.”
He approached the cart in the middle of the room and gathered the Warriors around it. Candlesticks pinned a map of Inveira to the cart bottom. The parchment was splotchy and slashed with quick ink lines as if drawn in haste. Arrows and dots covered the map.
“These spots mark where the Aceden upheavals began.” Those dots nearly covered the map. He traced his finger along the lines moving away from the marks. “These lines are their movements and supply routes.
“The Acedens march west across my kingdom, pillaging and destroying as they move. Countless more of the rebels surface every day. I don’t know their true numbers, but I fear that we’re too weak and dispersed. We were not prepared for something like this. I fear we’re poised to fall.”
Cain looked up from the map. “And I assume you need us to do something for you.”
“Yes. This is where you and your friends come in. I intend to support the Alliance; Darius has shown his willingness to set aside our past and I will do the same. However, before I can send troops and provisions to Erias, I must put an end to this rebellion.
“My generals and I have discussed our … situation … and we’ve agreed that the first course of action must be to gather our forces. I’ve sent squads to several positions that we still hold, they’re to pull my troops from the front and bring them here, to Brunein.”
Cain crossed his arms and frowned at the king. “Wait, you’re proposing your forces to gather here? Why? You’d lose the few tentative holds you have left on your country.”
Branim stared down at the map with fists clenched. “I don’t have a choice. I can’t risk my forces being so scattered like this; they’re outnumbered and surrounded, and I refuse to lose more men to the enemy.
“Perhaps even worse, the Acedens have spies among us. They know I’m here and they want to use me or kill me. If I can pull my troops away from the front lines, then I can use them to defend our position here while we gather our strength and supplies. The Acedens has proven themselves to be calculating, they kill and destroy only when they deem necessary. They’re more than disgruntled soldiers or opportunistic vagabonds. They have a goal, even if I don’t know what that goal is.”
A New Reign Page 8
