Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  Killen straightened his back a little, trying to regain some decorum. They were just about to ride into battle. He hardly thought it time for humour. Especially as he was experiencing high levels of anxiety.

  This would be his first cavalry charge. Ever.

  He gazed out of their position just within a stand of trees, looking across the open ground. That at least was good. Fighting on camelback in woods was not advisable. He had no faith in the dexterity of his mount at the best of times.

  ‘Major, I see something,’ said Sadad.

  A mass of stars flew into the sky and described a lazy arc before falling out of sight.

  ‘That’s the Highlanders,’ Killen said.

  More volleys followed.

  ‘It reminds me of the solstice celebrations,’ said Sadad, wistfully.

  Someone murmured their agreement.

  It was hypnotic, restful. And for the briefest of moments Killen and his troops could forget their deadly purpose. Then he saw dark shapes swoop low over the sky. The shower of stars ended.

  ‘That’s it. Draw scimitars!’ He reached down and pulled his own blade free. He raised it high. ‘Advance!’ He kicked his camel’s flanks and it slowly plodded forward, out of the safety of the trees and into the open. His soldiers followed and formed up a ragged line to either side. They trotted calmly forward, accompanied by snorts and grunts. Killen felt his breath start to quicken. From the settlement a mass of horses appeared.

  And the eagles returned, spearing into the riders, and for a second Killen feared the worst. Then they rose. He watched open mouthed as a writhing horse fell from the sky. The shapes turned and engaged the horses once more. That was their cue. At a range of two hundred yards he lifted his blade.

  ‘Charge!’

  He kicked the flanks harder, urging his blasted beast to move. ‘Come on, you shit. Move!’

  At first it didn’t not respond. But as those around him started to gather speed, it decided to join in. Very fast over short distances; the camels closed quickly. His scouts hollered and whelped in high-pitched ululations. Some shot bows into the melee. Killen just hung on for grim death. His camel pitched forwards, picking up an unexpected turn of speed and overtaking its fellows.

  Bloody typical.

  Keeping heads low, the mass of riders started to respond to their charge. A few arrows sped towards the Erebeshi troops, and some wood elves spurred their horses forwards to engage. Within moments Killen was among them. He swung his blade in a wide arc, slicing at a savage looking rider who ducked underneath it. Killen tried to turn to meet a counterattack, but the elf had already disappeared and his camel appeared hell bent on a forward trajectory. A spear was thrust towards him, and he quickly parried it away. A howling, bare-chested devil with snarling face and pointed teeth ran towards him. He raised his sword, but the elf was swept away as another camel careened past, taking him out. Killen continued on, trying to find something to hit. Then he met camels coming the other way. Rashad’s group. He pulled hard on the reins. He needed to get a sense of what was happening. The camel slowed, and he urged it into as tight a turn as it could muster. Looking back, he saw a cluster of camels milling around, a sprinkling of riderless horses among them. A few elves were retreating towards the settlement, which appeared to be burning in several places.

  ‘Captain Rashad?’ he shouted.

  ‘Major?’ Rashad emerged from the press.

  ‘Pursuit. Don’t let up!’

  Rashad nodded.

  He swung his sabre over his head and called out something in Erebeshi. The riders responded, quickly regrouped, and set after the elves.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he commanded of his camel.

  ‘Killen?’

  He looked towards the voice and spied Larsen and the others approaching. ‘Larsen. We have them on the run.’

  ‘Good, we’ll catch up. Be careful. These bastards don’t die easy.’

  Killen nodded and kicked his camel after his troops. Leaving the Highlanders in his wake, he trotted into the settlement. It was well illuminated; several buildings were blazing fiercely. Erebeshi and wood elves skirmished, both mounted and afoot amidst the flames. Many folk appeared to be ignoring the fighting altogether and sought to extinguish the fires. Perhaps they still did not realise the fight was done. He drew his camel up, and decided to dismount. At that moment a wood elf, a female, rushed him. In her hand a wicked looking short blade with a serrated edge. She held it high, holding it two handed. Killen reacted without thinking, stepping forward into a fencer’s posture and lunging. The scimitar, not designed to thrust as well as his old issue sabre, was straight enough and sharp enough at the point to drive the weapon home. She pretty much impaled herself with her own momentum. The wood elf dropped her weapon, then pulled herself free. She staggered back, looking confused and bewildered and staggered away into the night. Killen watched her go, trying to register what had just happened.

  He continued on through the settlement, nothing more than a village. Everything felt a little … unreal? This place had been alive with life but a few short minutes ago and now … it was destroyed, its people dead. His scouts had judged the population at around two hundred. The wood elves had a reputation that all those of able body would fight. It had been important to winnow the numbers before entering and this had appeared to bear fruit. All around him, as he walked the flame-lit paths, only wood elf bodies littered the ground. The surprise had been complete. A small group of Highlanders jogged past. He could hear shouting nearby, but no sounds of conflict. The battle was over and won. So fast? He stopped a moment just to take it in. He was hale, and a cursory inspection suggested no personal injury. All was well. He looked at his sword. There was blood on it. He bent low and wiped it in the grass on the verge of the path.

  ‘Major?’

  He looked up to see Owen striding towards him. ‘Ah, Owen.’

  ‘How goes it?’

  ‘Captain Rashad has it in hand. Unless they have a massive force in reserve, I believe they have been routed.’

  Owen nodded. ‘Do you think any got away?’

  ‘It’s possible. Probable. Wood elves are formidable trackers,’ Killen acknowledged. It would be hard to track down any survivors in the dark. And they were in no position to go chasing.

  Owen nodded. His face turned to profile. He was studying a burning hut.

  ‘It was an expected risk. But it would have been nice to stay hidden for a little while longer …’

  Killen waited for Owen to return from wherever his reverie had taken him. Owen shrugged and looked at Killen. ‘I think we are done here, Major. Round your troops up. I’ll get Larsen to head out now. Burn what’s left standing and then ride back to join us at the camp.’

  Killen nodded. He watched Owen turn and stride away. There was a lot going on in that young man’s mind. But was that really a surprise? Killen sheathed his sword and set off to start gathering his troops. Then he had better find his camel. With luck it had wandered into a burning barn and had roasted to death.

  Owen stood by the small fire in the centre of their camp. He had stirred it back to life and waited as the water boiled and he received the tally of casualties. Jussi had been right, Ayolf had been hit, an arrow going straight through his right wing. It would be sore. But he could still fly as long as he was not over-worked. Ernan had also been lucky. His right leg had received the tip of an arrow that had struck his stirrup, the leather absorbing most of the penetration. His other Highlanders had all escaped unscathed, if you disregarded a twisted ankle. The Erebeshi had taken the lion’s share of the actual fighting, and had lost a man and a woman. The first true losses in this new chapter of the war. Two humans lost weighed against two hundred wood elves. Was that a fair trade off? Likely not. And his small army would probably never face such favourable conditions again. But he’d take it. Every time. He would take it.

  Now, surrounding him, were his commanders.

  ‘Any sign of pursuit?’ he asked.

 
; ‘No,’ replied Killen. ‘I doubt we’ll see any for a time. Even if there are survivors, it will take them a while to figure out just who the Emperor it was that attacked them.’

  ‘I’m sorry you lost folk tonight,’ said Owen, looking to Killen, then to Rashad.

  The Erebeshi shrugged. ‘We are soldiers, like you say. It is what we chose.’

  ‘What’s our next move?’ asked Larsen, as he withdrew a small leather canteen from his knapsack.

  Owen dug at the fire with a stick. ‘I think perhaps we can continue with our guerrilla war for a little longer. We’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest, and I believe the wood elves will strike out. They’ll send their hunting parties looking for who did this. So we bleed them. For as long as we can, until they get wise.’

  ‘Not a trait you hear about wood elves,’ suggested Larsen. He took a sip and hissed.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Killen, nodding at the canteen.

  ‘Here.’ Larsen passed it over and Killen took a swig.

  Owen watched his face. He adopted a thoughtful pose as he swilled it around his mouth. Then his eyes widened with alarm.

  ‘Oh, sweet Emperor.’

  Owen grinned at Larsen.

  ‘Murtagh’s home brew?’

  ‘The very same,’ said Larsen.

  ‘Here,’ said Rashad, taking the canteen from Killen. He repeated the action, and took a moment to savour it before swallowing. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Of course you bloody do,’ gasped Killen.

  Owen reached out and collected the canteen. He saluted into the air. ‘Murtagh. Tonight was for you.’ He sipped and swallowed quickly.

  ‘Yes, he would have been proud,’ agreed Larsen.

  Owen passed the canteen back.

  ‘As I was saying. We bleed them a little more. Until they get organised. Major? Can you lead them on a little chase?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Good. I’ll have the brothers stay with you to provide intelligence. Larsen, take our people home to the borders. Look for ambush sites, but on our ground. I don’t want you caught by wood elf cavalry. The Major will give them a more obvious target. Let them overextend, become fragmented.’

  ‘And if they don’t come?’ asked Larsen.

  ‘Then we go back and do it again,’ said Owen. ‘Major, I leave it to you to decide when to disengage. Don’t sacrifice yourself, don’t let them outthink you.’

  ‘That’s why I have Captain Rashad,’ smiled Killen.

  ‘He learns!’ agreed the Erebeshi.

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Killen.

  Owen threw the stick in the fire.

  ‘I’ll escort Jussi home, make sure he gets back safely.’

  They all nodded. No one mentioned the obvious, that it was strange for the general to leave his men in the field. But, in this instance, he believed they understood why.

  ‘Owen?’ Miriam joined them and hunkered down next to Larsen. ‘Jussi says he’s ready to go, and the brothers have prepped Arno and fed him too.’

  ‘Kind of them,’ said Owen.

  ‘Ernan was swearing like a bastard all the way through it. Whining like a baby,’ she added.

  Owen stood and brushed his trousers.

  ‘Time to go. Well done, all of you. The wood elves are first. And when they are done, we move on.’

  Owen left the group and went to find Arno.

  CHAPTER THIRTY – FILLION

  Fillion knew he was taking a dreadful risk, but there was nothing else for it. He slid out of bed and padded over to the window, looking out into the night sky. He had already been up once to visit Brynne. She had been a little fractious, and had been refusing to sleep. Nadena, taking the brunt of the caring, was exhausted and beyond waking by the sound of his quiet business. He dressed quickly, putting on a set of darker clothing, leaving his Servant garb in his wardrobe. He walked to his chest, opened it, and withdrew his dagger and belt. As he buckled it around his waist he paused to look down at Brynne. He could barely hear her breathing, but as he went to pull away she let out a little whine. He stopped and made a hushing sound, leaning over to trace a finger over her forehead. Her little hand reached up to clutch his. He held it for a few moments before teasing it free. Then he left his bedroom and made his way through the quiet halls of the house.

  Everything was still, everything silent. Even the house staff would be asleep, the cook usually not rising until a false dawn tinged the horizon. He left through a side door leading into the courtyard and out on to the streets. He made for the wide plaza that contained the Parliament and the Temple. He did not try to skulk, that would have been too obvious, but he strode quickly through the quiet, climbing streets. Most houses were in darkness, though on several street corners lights blazed within small conical containers. These were mage lights, burning with some kind of enduring sorcery, the likes of which Fillion could not hope to understand. He passed by, walking confidently and with purpose. He did not think he was being tailed, but he had grown a little paranoid since his return from the north. And when he arrived on to the long avenue that would eventually take him to the vast, living palace of the King, he did not cut across to the Parliament, but instead he made his way up the steps and into the Temple. Within the atrium he paused to look up at the statues of the gods; even now he felt himself a little awed. These beings were possessed of a power and nobility that caused him to question his own faith. Did the old gods of his Celtebarian heritage really step down before the Emperor? Or had they been conquered, made to kneel? That was a question he doubted he would ever have an answer to in this life. He considered passing on through to the many smaller chapels, pay a visit to his old friend, the god Mardock. But he had somewhere to be. He returned to the entrance and slipped out into the shadows cast by the large columns. He waited a minute more, just surveying the boulevard and the many buildings lining it. Taking in a sense of what surrounded him.

  Across the way, the Parliament building was lit by mage lights slipped into brackets on each of its entrance archways. Each one was guarded by an elf of the King’s guard. The mage light illuminated the building and the steps leading up, but did not blaze like regular fire. He saw no staff or functionaries amidst the archways or steps. Nor did he get any sense of being watched, no warning sign that he was indeed being followed. So be it.

  He stepped from the Temple and made his way across the boulevard angling back towards the hill. He cut around the back of the Parliament and followed a leafy lane that brought him to the rear of the dwarf embassy. He stood in the shadows of the building opposite, some kind of trading concern. Its windows were black. A small door, set into the sheer stone blocks of the embassy, opened, and a cloaked figure emerged. It stood, head cocked, then raised a beckoning hand. Fillion hurried over and through the doorway. The figure followed and closed the door behind them. There was a scraping noise, and a flame was kindled which in turn illuminated a candle. The room, a small chamber, was revealed.

  ‘What’s with all the cloak and dagger shit?’ asked Marmus, lifting the candle from a small table by the doorway.

  ‘Huh?’ asked Fillion, expecting a warmer welcome.

  ‘If you had wanted to talk to me, you could have come round during the day.’

  ‘But I thought that would be a little obvious,’ suggested Fillion.

  ‘You’re a bloody Servant,’ said Marmus, pushing past him and opening another door. ‘This is politics, not war.’

  Little do you know. Fillion followed him through into a pantry and beyond that some kitchens. Another candle burned on a sideboard, illuminating a plate holding a half-eaten piece of cheese and a mug.

  ‘You want something?’ asked Marmus, picking up the mug.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Marmus took a bite of the cheese.

  ‘I am not supposed to be talking to you directly. Patiir felt that he needed me to distance himself from you,’ said Fillion. His eye was drawn to the mug.

  ‘Yes, that’s ale. Yo
u want one?’ asked Marmus.

  Fillion nodded.

  Marmus grunted and walked over to a keg resting on its side. He took a mug and placed it under the tap.

  ‘What Patiir says, what he does, and what he believes can all be very different things,’ said the dwarf. ‘Look at me. I’ve shut up shop and hunkered down. It’s what’s expected. But you should see the traffic toing and froing from this place.’

  He handed over the mug to Fillion. The ale frothed over the side and fell on to his fingers.

  ‘Business never stops, Sabin. Wealth, power and growth. Nobody wants to see these things stop.’ Marmus picked up his ale. ‘I’m just playing the game.’

  It dawned on Fillion that these politicians, even Marmus, did not fully realise the impact of their actions. They talk about war and wealth like it was all an exercise in points-scoring. They had no concept of the pain – the terror – that their ‘game-playing’ caused. There was no true consequence for them, because they had never had to wield the blade, never had to look into the eyes of an innocent as they bled out. If they did, Fillion knew, they might modify their viewpoint. He had seen how war, the physical act, affected people. It could make you hard or it could make you a pacifist. But it always left a mark, and sometimes it stayed raw and never faded away.

  ‘Marmus. It would seem I continue to surprise you with my naiveté. I believe I understand. But if this is the way of things, I find myself content with my choices. I will not play games. Not with my friends and not when I see wrongs that must be answered.’ Fillion raised his voice, injecting it with urgency and passion.

  ‘By the forefathers, Sabin. What is it that has you so riled?’

  ‘Don’t you see? You are being manipulated on two fronts. Patiir wants what he says. He wants the humans dealt with and he wants the dwarves punished. He has the King’s ear on this. And then there is Tekla. She doesn’t give a damn – what she wants is to screw you over, she wants to make money at the expense of the dwarves, off the tragedy of your loss.’

  ‘And they’ll get neither,’ growled Marmus.