A New Reign

by Bryan Gifford

  “The Acedens surround Hesed from both ends of the valley,” Isroc began, “barring the only escape routes for the men trapped inside.” He pointed to the black blotches that encompassed the crudely drawn fort. “Our scouts estimate that ten thousand men besiege Hesed. They’ve made camp out of bow range of the fort, choosing to starve them out instead of risking confrontation.”

  “So what’s your plan?” Silas asked.

  “We attack tomorrow,” Isroc said. “A storm is coming. Hopefully, that will bide us enough time to make our assault, free the Inveirans, and make our escape before it slows us down.”

  “How do you know there’s a storm coming?”

  Isroc smiled and looked up into the churning dark sky. “You are a Southerner. You don’t know the language of the skies.”

  “Well, I know it’s been bloody raining for days!” Silas grunted. “Either way, three thousand men can’t exactly do much.”

  “We’re not going to face them directly. Take a look at the supplies we just stole.” He gestured toward the organized piles their men added to, ever-growing mounds of food, weapons, and armor. “A force of ten thousand men needs to be well-supplied in a siege of attrition. Supply caravans like the ones we’ve attacked over the last two weeks have been fueling the fires of our enemy. And with as much armor as we have collected…”

  Silas jumped up, eyes wide. He grabbed his friend’s head and kissed him on the skull. “That’s brilliant, mate!”

  Isroc chuckled and rolled the map. “I can’t say if it will work for sure, but it’s the only option we have if we’re going to get those men out of there.” He stood, pulled a bundle of rope from his pack, and waved it at Silas. “Let’s get to work.”

  Isroc stood on top of the valley wall, squinting through the night at Hesed. He held the long coil of rope in his hand, the other end wrapped around the base of a spruce.

  Silas stood nearby, looking as uncertain as Isroc felt. “Are you sure this is safe?”

  He needed to do it before he lost his nerves. Or gained his senses. Isroc tossed the rope over the cliff and it disappeared into the darkness. “Not at all.” He gave a few test pulls. “Do you remember the plan? Good. Go position our men; I’ll meet up with you soon.”

  Silas disappeared into the forest, leaving Isroc alone in the silence of the night.

  He looked up at the night sky black with clouds. It was dark, very dark. For the first time in a long while, Isroc felt uncertain. Was he doing any good helping these Inveirans? It was their civil war, not his. Besides, they’d been Erias’ sworn enemy for centuries. What was he doing helping them?

  No. He was better than that kind of thinking. This was the right thing to do. Crushing this rebellion and earning Inveira’s trust was crucial in joining Tarsha together, rebuilding the Old Alliance, and pushing back the darkness of Abaddon. That’s why he’d joined the Warriors. They symbolized hope, a banner that Tarsha could rally around. He was a Warrior now; he had to show the world that hope was real.

  Isroc peered down into the darkness and sighed. Hope was good and all, but it didn’t help him with his fear of heights. He at last lowered himself over the cliff, clinging onto the rope as his weight settled.

  His boots slipped with every step as he struggled to find footing in the damp rock. He worked his way gradually down the sheer cliff face, the hemp rope burning into his hands as he held on for his life.

  Sweat drops stung in his eyes and blurred the distant valley floor. He descended toward the ground with quivering breaths, inch by inch, his heart thumping against his ribs.

  A patch of wet rock, deceptively slippery, abruptly gave way beneath his boot. A moment of blind panic surged through him as the rope slipped in his hand. Desperate, he reached out and managed to grab the rope again, the muscles in his arms screaming in protest as they took his weight. The jerking motion sent him slamming against the cliff wall, and he bashed his face against the sharp rocks. He let out a low groan as he dangled there for a moment, face pressed against the stone.

  He at last gathered the resolve to look down. “Shit,” he cursed, finding himself hanging a few feet off the ground by the rope’s end.

  Isroc let go and landed heavily in the mud. Breathe! It’s alright to breathe now! He clenched his fists to keep them from shaking and turned to scan the starless night. He spotted the lights of hundreds of cookfires that filled the surrounding enemy camps. Shadows and light tossed as men danced and sang.

  Isroc stepped away from the valley wall and began the long walk toward the lonely fort. In this near solid dark, he doubted that any scouts or sentries could see him, but he still moved slowly. Those fires would hopefully also ruin their night vision. If anyone did see him… well, he was surrounded by ten thousand enemy troops. Best not to think about that.

  The Acedens formed two massive groups on either side of the valley, leaving a large swathe of ground between them. Isroc moved through this empty kill zone toward the fort. As the aggressors, the Acedens should have ringed the fort, but instead they formed two separate units, and left this open area. The besieged men wouldn’t be able to use this open ground, of course—they’d be crushed if they tried to mount an offensive—and they certainly couldn’t hope to escape up the sheer valley walls. Still, leaving an open area like this left Isroc questioning. Perhaps the Acedens were just unaccustomed to sieges. All men were really, andreds and arzecs didn’t use fortifications. But that seemed unlikely for an army as prepared and organized as this one. Maybe they weren’t as unified as previously thought.

  Masked by the black of night, he slipped past their watch until a sentry atop Hesed’s wall noticed him nearly upon the entrance.

  “Halt!” the man ordered as he aimed his longbow. Isroc came to a stop at the iron and timber gate.

  “I come on behalf of King Branim!”

  “Raise your hands where I can see them!” the soldier demanded. Isroc lifted his arms and the man glared at him from over the wooden spires of the wall. A dull thud and scraping followed, and the gates opened. A group of soldiers shot out of the opening, quickly surrounding Isroc with spears brandished.

  “I come in peace, friends,” Isroc said.

  A soldier waved his spear in Isroc’s face. “Hand over your weapons. Slowly.”

  “Best do as he says,” a voice answered from the back of the group. The soldiers split and a hulking man approached the Warrior. He wore the dark silver and blue armor of the Inveiran Cavalry over his massive frame. He peered down at Isroc from a wreath of bushy red hair and an equally voluminous beard.

  The soldiers took Isroc’s weapons and patted him down before waving for their leader to approach.

  The man examined Isroc with a discerning eye. “No one intending to do us any harm would be dumb enough to walk up to our fort alone at night. Even if he’s Eriasan.” He smirked at the dozens of soldiers trained on Isroc, and they laughed in response. “Still, you can forgive me if I’m cautious. I’m General Moran Regulus, Seven Legs, the Bloody Beard, and a general in the Inveiran Cavalry.”

  Were those titles or names? Either way, it sounded ridiculous. Inveirans were a strange lot. “I am Isroc Braygon, son of Hallus and one of the Warriors of the Alliance.”

  “I have heard the tales of Hallus Braygon. A fine general.” He seemed to muse on this for a moment. “The king doesn’t expect aid to come, and neither do I. Do you have any proof?”

  Isroc had almost forgotten. He moved a hand to his cloak, immediately drawing the attention of the surrounding soldiers. Moran gestured for them to lower their weapons, and Isroc proffered a sealed letter from Branim.

  Moran broke the seal and scanned the document. “I can’t read worth a damn. But it looks official enough.”

  “So, you’ll fight with us?”

  “What are you proposing, son of Hallus?”

  “I have a force of three thousand men lying in wait on the outskirts of the enemy’s south camp. We attack at first light. I ask of you only to ready your men for th
e battle at hand and to prepare for the journey to Brunein. Your king commands this.”

  The man stood silent, contemplating. The spears of his soldiers bristled in Isroc’s face, ready to strike at a moment’s command.

  At last, he shook his hairy head. “You ask much of me. Leaving my fortified position puts the lives of my men in your hands. And I don’t like that thought. The enemy is among us now, I cannot be sure you aren’t one of them.” He flicked his hand and turned toward the fort.

  Isroc called after him. “If I spill Aceden blood tomorrow, will you join the fight?”

  Moran paused. “I will consider your proposal, but only if I see red on that field. Goodbye, son of Hallus.”

  Isroc snatched his weapons from a soldier and shoved their spears aside before stamping back to the valley wall.

  A beating wind howled through the valley of Hesed. A driving rain ripped through the trees. Columns of Acedens marched through the slurry of mud and rain, escorting a caravan of horse-drawn wagons. The two hundred men stepped from the trees and made for the safety of the camps.

  Thousands of gray and black tents shook in the gale. Few soldiers roamed the camp or stood guard; most were likely still dry and asleep. The gray dawn was strangely quiet despite the washing rain and whistling wind.

  One of the Acedens lifted his visor. “Are you ready, Silas?” he asked the man beside him.

  Silas returned his gaze through the slot in his helm. He bloody hated helmets. If he were hit on the head in battle, then he’d rather a quick death than have his brain turn to mush. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He sighed, tugging at the red sash on his arm that differentiated them from the enemy. Hopefully. “Are you sure this’ll work? We don’t even know if Moran will accept our aid. If he doesn’t, then we send three thousand men to their graves.”

  “Three thousand and two.”

  “Aye,” Silas gulped. He certainly didn’t plan on dying in this shit hole country. “Well, let’s get to it then.”

  Isroc shut his visor and turned to the nearby camp. “To the grave.”

  Silas and Isroc led the caravan down the wide road that cut through the middle of the tents. The camp was large, one of the largest he’d ever seen. It was neat and orderly, set up in grid-like rows with sections partitioned by stakes and trenches. Cookfires, blacksmith tents, latrines—it was all so normal. It was so different from the arzecs Silas had grown up fighting. It still felt surreal to be fighting other men.

  Despite the camp’s sterile layout, the road backtracked and changed directions often, causing them to march through more of the camp than they had anticipated. Fortunately, the few men they passed paid them no attention.

  They eventually came to the middle of the encampment, which was little more than a large circular pavilion. The flaps jerked in the wind, occasionally revealing the interior of plush couches and a great table littered with maps and wooden figures.

  One of the Acedens guarding the pavilion, wrapped in a heavy cloak and successfully sodden, turned and poked a head through one of the flaps.

  Isroc whispered in his steel encasement, “I’ll do the talking.”

  “Why?” Silas asked. “Do I not make a good Aceden?”

  “A terrible one. It’s your damn accent.”

  Silas nearly leapt at this affront. “What’s wrong with my damn accent?”

  The flap flew open and a man in heavy furs stepped out of the comfort of his tent. A wave of warmth trailed his heels as the flap closed. “What is this, soldiers?” he barked as he approached the two Warriors. “Where are my provisions? Where are my reinforcements? I haven’t received supplies in over a week and this is all you manage to bring? I have an army to feed and clothe, not a damned rabble!”

  Isroc kept his head bowed. “I apologize, sir,” he said, smashing his words together in a surprisingly passable Inveiran accent. It must be because his Eriasan accent was already mush mouthed, Silas figured. “Our tardiness is not acceptable, sir, but we had to fight off the enemy. We think we were the only caravan to survive.”

  “You should have reported to the quartermasters, not wasted my time with your boundless ineptitude. Where did you get your training, boy? Bah, no matter.”

  The sergeant or general or whatever he was whistled and several soldiers climbed from the nearby tents and splashed toward the covered wagons. Silas’ hand twitched to the sword at his hip. He hated swords. They were ineffective, brutish things, but he’d still kill with one if he had to. Being this close to the Acedens made his skin crawl; he itched to plunge his sword through their hearts.

  Isroc flashed a concerned glance at him from behind his visor.

  “Soldier?” Silas and Isroc turned back to the leader. “You are dismissed. Have you not escorted before? Take your men to the staging area and wait for your next assignment. We’ll take the supplies.”

  Silas suppressed a groan. They’d anticipated this, of course, but they had needed to risk it. They had to get close to the Aceden command. The loss of this one man wouldn’t change much—likely, he wasn’t even in charge of the siege—but they needed to try anyway in case they failed to rally Moran’s cavalry. It had to be done here. Now. Assassinate the leader, stab at the heart of the camp. Slaughter.

  In one swift motion, Isroc unsheathed his messer from its scabbard, shot through the puddles, and swung his sword. The leader managed to shrink back and grab for his belt knife, but Isroc’s blade hacked off the man’s arm as he raised it in defense. He howled in pain and dropped to his knees.

  With his other hand, Isroc pulled back the man’s head and slit his throat. A fount of blood sprayed across the mud. Isroc cast the body away and raised his sword.

  The column of mock Acedens threw the covers off their wagons, and hundreds of Inveiran soldiers burst forth. Many of them wore the armor of their fallen enemy.

  Isroc grabbed the lip of his helmet and ripped it off before throwing it aside. “You know what to do, boys.”

  They quickly trampled the terrified guards before storming off into the surrounding tents.

  Silas retrieved Sitare from one of the wagons and fell in place at Isroc’s side. He grinned, thinking he probably looked like a boy leaving the Blood Pits, ready to take on the world. He certainly felt like it.

  The Alliance dove into the closest tents and cut the throats of their unsuspecting victims. They blew through the camp like a murderous wind, severing heads, opening necks, bashing skulls. It was murder, nothing short of butchery. Beautiful.

  The far end of the camp began to stir, awakened by the faint screams muffled in the rain. They panicked and stumbled out into the downpour with nothing more than weapon in hand.

  A force fell on them from behind. The rest of the three thousand swooped down on the camp from the valley’s mouth, moving like a massive wall to crush the few men standing in their way.

  Despite the Alliance’s fierce and sudden attack, the enemy slowly managed to arm themselves and gather into small groups. Slowed by trenches and ramparts and the maze of roads, the Alliance lost their momentum as more and more Acedens appeared. They came from everywhere. There were hundreds of them, thousands. They formed into shield walls, and the two forces met with grinding flesh and steel.

  Shield and sword rang. Screams sailed on the roaring wind. Bodies and blood mixed in the mud.

  However, many of the Alliance wore the armor of their enemy, and in their confusion, the Acedens fell victim to Isroc’s quiet stratagem. Those that managed to don their armor in the prior confusion now began to attack each other.

  Dozens of men fell to the fratricide and soon chaos bred unbridled. Men battled their friend and foe, unable to discern between the two. Many turned and tried to run from the horror, but they were trapped on both sides and quickly slaughtered.

  Silas pushed through the confusion and swung Sitare, screaming as he severed the heads of two men. “This is for my brother! Bleed! Bleed! Bleed!” He laid about with powerful, broad strokes. Sitare made satisfying tugs as
its blades sheared through flesh. Terrible, beautiful screams.

  Silas looked over the heads of the struggling combatants for Isroc. He soon found his friend, hacking through a swarm of men. “Where is the cavalry?” Silas cried over the din of battle.

  Isroc fought toward him and burst from the crunching shields and spears. He looked around for a moment to the Acedens. The Alliance had a large group surrounded, but Acedens had begun moving in from the rest of the camp during the chaos of the fight, slowly hemming them in from every side. “They’ll come. I know it!”

  “Behind you!” Silas cried.

  Isroc leapt aside as an axe roared by. He grabbed his attacker as he stumbled by and cut open his throat. He then held the dying man before him and blocked a spear thrust with the soldier’s chest. Isroc dropped the body and pounced on the stunned soldier. Silas joined him, and together, they readied themselves for the charging tide of Acedens.

  A horn blew in the distance, its notes dampened by the rain. Both sides faltered in their struggle, neither side recognizing the strange sound. The long notes blew again, and, somewhere in the rain, the thunder of hooves rose.

  The cavalry of Hesed charged through the churned earth and mud. Two thousand men galloped toward the fray, Moran Regulus at the head of the formation.

  They crashed into the battle and blasted a hole through the enclosing Acedens. The enemy broke in an instant. The cavalry charged through the panicked men, shattering their ranks and sending them scattering through the rain.

  The Alliance soldiers let out a deafening cry and thrust their bloodied steel in the air. Silas let out a laugh, listening to the sounds of victory. He paused, however, as the cavalry turned and charged straight toward them. They leveled their spears and whipped their reins, ready to stamp out the last of the enemy.

  That was an unfortunate oversight. Well, no plan was perfect. Silas groaned as he watched the spears roar toward him.