by Robert Ryan
Kareste leveled her staff and lòhren-fire leaped from its tip. The shadow swayed out of the way, then sent a blast of dark magic at her that sent her sprawling. Ferla darted forward, her blade sweeping through the air in Tempest Blows the Dust, but the shadow flung black flame at her and she tumbled away, her armor smoking.
Then suddenly Aranloth was there, and resolution was on his face.
“I know you now, creature. And I name you. You are Aranloth. You are the worst of Aranloth, all the things that I suppress. You are my dark side, my shadow in truth. But I know you now.”
The shadow recoiled. “You cannot defeat me!”
Aranloth leaned on his staff. “No. I cannot defeat you, for we are one. Two aspects of the same thing, like the sun and the moon. But you are a part of me. I need not defeat you. I merely acknowledge you. You are my dark side, and I know you now. You are the voice of hatred and despair, of jealousy and greed. You are cowardice and pride. You are all these things, and you are also a shadow. You are the lesser me. Equal in power, but of no value to the world.”
“No! I am the master! You are the shadow!”
“It is not so. It was never so, through all the long years of my life. I know you. I name you Aranloth. You are me!”
The lòhren opened his arms, and a silvery nimbus glowed around him. The shadow shrunk. Its staff fell from its hands, but when Faran looked there was nothing on the snow.
Aranloth stepped toward the shadow, and the white light that came from him shone over it and enveloped it. Then he shuddered and fell to one knee, using his staff to keep him upright.
“It is done,” he whispered.
21. What Went Wrong
Aranloth sat on his favorite log seat by the lake. Faran and Ferla were with him, and Faran could not quite believe how much the old man had changed since last night.
The weakness and frailty that had beset him since Traveling was gone. He was his old self. Strong, confident and with a sense of great power swirling below a tranquil exterior.
In one respect, he had changed from his old self though. At least for this morning. He was talkative and in the mood to answer questions.
They had asked him about the shadow, and he had been free with his responses.
“It was a combination of magics that gave life to it, I believe,” he said. “Traveling is a dangerous thing. Too dangerous by far except under dire circumstances. Even then, maybe it’s best left alone. There are powers and forces at work in the void beyond human understanding.” The old man shook his head. “Perhaps I should not have ventured it, but what is done is done.”
Faran was not so sure about that. If they had not Traveled, then Lindercroft would have had them.
“Then there was my own lòhrengai, and the summoning of the king,” Aranloth went on. “Three powerful magics bound together and hurtled through the void. Anything could have happened, and perhaps we can be grateful that some evil far worse was not unleashed upon the world.”
“But was the shadow really you?” Ferla asked.
“Indeed it was, and Faran was right. The dark calls to the dark, and all those forces together in the void called to the dark side of my nature and drew it from me.”
“Do we all have such a dark side?” Faran asked.
“All of us. And this is part of your training. At least, it’s part of the training of a Kingshield Knight. The human spirit is a blend of good and bad. Temptation is always with us. Self-interest. Jealousy. Greed. They are a part of us, and the more you pretend they don’t exist, the greater the chance they can hold sway over you. A knight acknowledges the dark side to their nature, and strives to overcome it. If a person is unaware of that battle going on inside them, then how can they win the fight?”
They talked a little while longer. More and more their training had become philosophical. But they did not neglect the martial aspects. Soon, they began to spar again.
Ferla grinned as they circled each other, but she did not attack this time. Often she was the more aggressive of the two, forcing Faran to defend. But not today.
He realized she was changing her tactics so as not to become predictable. He could have waited her out if he wanted, for he was sure that if he did not attack her instincts would win out and she would attack him. But it was time that he bettered this aspect of his skills. It was easier to defend than attack, but there were situations that demanded attack and swift resolution of a fight. He had to improve at that.
He drove forward, sending the point of his blade toward her abdomen and at an upward angle. It was a strike better suited to someone who did not wear armor, for if successful it penetrated flesh and then pierced the heart. Yet even with armor it could cause great pain. And there were times also when a good sword could drive through poor quality or damaged armor.
Ferla reacted quickly to his move though. She retreated into Serpent Recoils, and even as he began to withdraw she leaped upon him with a strike of the side of her sword against his helm.
It was a heavy blow, stronger than she intended, and Faran staggered back. Ferla hesitated, watching to see if he was alright.
“Enough,” Aranloth called. He pointed his staff at Ferla. “You did well, and I understand your concern. But never hesitate. As you train so will you fight. To hesitate now is to train your instincts to momentarily pause in a battle. If that happens, the advantage you gained might be lost beyond recall.”
Faran took off his helm and shook his head. He was glad that she had not followed up despite what Aranloth had said. But he knew the old man was right.
His head still rang, and when he looked at Ferla he saw she had a small grin on her face. That was just adding insult to injury. She enjoyed beating him, but after a brief feeling of frustration he found he did not mind. She would always be the better sword fighter. He could live with that, but his skill in magic surpassed hers, and likely always would. That just made them stronger when they were together.
Kareste walked down the side of the lake to join them. The shore was disturbed from the fight last night, and she used her staff to help her walk over the wetted ground where Aranloth had called up the water to attack the shadow.
Faran was intrigued. Kareste never interrupted their training, but there was no urgency in the way she walked toward them so nothing important had happened that she had to tell them.
“How goes the training?” she asked when she reached them.
“It progresses,” Aranloth answered. “I’ll make warriors of them yet.”
Kareste looked them over. “Maybe. They have the courage of warriors – that they have shown a number of times, not least last night.” She flicked the end of her staff with her foot and raised it before her as a weapon. “But let’s see how they spar.”
She approached Faran, but he backed away. “I have a sword, Kareste. A staff is no match for that.”
She merely laughed. “Do you think so? Then let me educate you.”
She thrust the staff at him, using it like a spear rather than the staffs he had seen used in Dromdruin.
He backed away and lifted high his sword. If she wanted to spar, then spar they would. He made to step forward and attack, but she beat him to the move, knocking the sword sideways and striking against his helm with a flick of the staff point. Then she danced away, out of reach.
Looking into her eyes, he saw that she was not like Ferla at all. There was no grin there, but only an implacable will backed by supreme confidence in her skill. That, and how easily she had just hit him convinced him to take this seriously. He had been wrong not to do so. Very wrong. There was something to learn here.
He darted forward in Running Hare Changes Course. It was a technique he was good at, but it availed him nothing here. Kareste glided back as he came forward, deflected his blade and struck him across the helm again.
But he did not give up the attack. He moved immediately into The Swallow Dips Low, trying to edge forward and catch her with a surprise strike at the legs.
It did
not work. This time her staff crashed down straight on top of his helm knocking him to the ground, and when he rolled to the side, swaying up in Fish Swims Upright, her staff found a gap in his defenses and struck him with the tip in his belly and winded him.
“Enough, I think,” Aranloth called. “He has learned that the staff can beat the sword.”
“That I have,” Faran said. He gave Kareste a bow. “This has given me much to think about.”
“The chief lesson is this,” Aranloth said. “A staff has greater reach, at least when used like a spear as Kareste just did. It has no cutting edge, nor the weight of metal, so in many ways is less dangerous. Yet the greater reach is an advantage, and the tip of the staff is dangerous. Very dangerous, for it can knock a warrior out. Then even the smallest of daggers can kill him.”
Kareste glanced at Ferla. “Your turn, now. Let’s see if you can do better than Faran did.”
Faran was glad to see that she did not. Then he felt bad that he was glad. Yet Ferla did get better as the sparring continued, and once toward the end she got past the dangerous point of the staff and in close where her sword could be used to effect. Only Kareste was able to dart backward quickly enough to avoid it, and they were back where they had begun.
Aranloth called a halt to the unusual sparring session soon after.
“I’ll cut a staff for you later so that this can become part of your training. And I’ll teach you how to use it as a weapon in its own right, and how to counter it when you carry a sword. But that will just be the beginning. Your training will also encompass daggers, and throwing knives, maces, halberds and spears. For your enemies may use all of these things.”
“What about bows and arrows?” Ferla asked with a cheeky grin.
“That you already have great skill in,” Aranloth answered. “But I’ll teach you about bows that you’re not familiar with, such as the cavalry bow and how it’s used in battle.”
Though they trained hard, they had chores to do also. The garden was not in use now, due to the cold, but they had a harvest of vegetables that needed checking in the shed. The root harvest needed sorting onto wooden racks so it had air circulating and rot was less likely. And those that were damaged, and likely to rot, removed from the others and taken to the cabin for sooner use.
There was a harvest of apples that needed treating in similar fashion. These had come from a tree they had discovered well behind the cabin. Grass and weeds had grown around it, and several bushes half covered it, but it had responded well when they cleared the choking mess away and hauled water to it through the hot days of summer.
Some of their chores done for the day, they went on one of their runs. The ground was treacherously wet, for much of the snow had melted, but it still lay thick in sheltered hollows and the valley remained beautiful. It seemed no great labor to run to one of the ridges now, even in armor, and this time they went to the dead oak on the northern crest of the valley.
There they sat a while and rested, their backs to the great trunk, and looked down on their home.
“I love it here,” Ferla said.
Faran glanced at her. There was a hint of a grin on her face like when they sparred. He knew she meant the words, and there was a light in her eyes as she looked across the valley from one end to the other.
“I love it too,” he said. “I could be happy here. I mean, I am happy here. But I would also be happy to spend the rest of my life here.”
She leaned against him then, shoulder to shoulder, but they said no more.
They both knew that sooner or later their stay here would come to an end. The burning of Dromdruin still required justice. But they did not speak of that. It would destroy the mood, and they had both learned the value of enjoying what was good while it lasted.
22. The Strategies of War
Winter hardened its grip on the land. In the valley, the snow lay deep in the low places and the edges of the lake were frozen. Wolves howled at night, hunting for scarce food, and small birds died of cold where they perched on branches hung with icicles.
The days were bad, and the nights were worse. In the silent marches of darkness, while the occupants of the cabin slept, occasionally a mighty crack sounded and shattered the stillness as tree trunks were split by swelling sap.
Sometimes the air was hard to breathe, for it burned the lungs like fire. And to wear armor outdoors for long was to court death.
Yet the training of Faran and Ferla continued in this harsher winter than they expected. It was mostly done now in the cabin, and the fire burned day and night in the hearth. It was cozy inside, if cramped. They practiced sword forms even here, one at a time, but they did not spar.
More and more their training changed. They delved deeper into magic, and they also learned the strategies of war.
Long into the night, Aranloth would tell them of battles, ancient and recent, and of the leaders of armies and the choices they made. And why. He told them of victories and defeats. He told them of victories that had been grasped from the jaws of defeat, and losses that were unthinkable.
He told them why these things had happened. And later, he told the stories and asked for opinions as to what had been a good strategy and what a bad before he told them the final outcome.
In this way they learned a great deal of the history of Alithoras. Yet also they learned military strategy and how commanders thought and acted.
One night they sat before the fire. Outside, a storm raged and wind howled. Against the northern side of the cabin, the snow piled deep and even the fire seemed to barely provide protection against the relentless cold.
“If the enemy outnumbers you, what do you do?” Aranloth asked.
As always, he held his staff close, but his hands were white from cold as he spoke. Faran and Ferla had long since wrapped themselves in blankets and sat on their hands to keep them warm.
“Never directly engage with a superior opponent,” Faran answered. “Not unless there is a means to negate their advantage and gain superiority yourself.”
Aranloth nodded. “And what means must be looked for to reverse a disadvantage of numbers?”
“Superior terrain on which to fight. Or an advantage of equipment, fighting skill or leadership.”
Aranloth sat back. “Is there anything you would add to that, Ferla?”
“The morale of the opponent is also a factor. How well will they fight? Are they fighting for a cause they believe in? Does their leadership inspire them?”
“All good points,” Aranloth said. “In war, numbers are not everything. Winning is everything. Fight only when you are more likely to do that than your enemy. Be sure of this before you commit.”
In the hearth, a small log popped with a flare of smoke and shifted. Kareste added another one to the fire. It remained cold in the cabin.
“What is the purpose of scouts?” Aranloth asked.
“Knowledge is power,” Ferla answered straight away. “To know the terrain, enemy movements, food sources, allies or other enemies likely to be encountered is critical to good decision-making.”
“Do you have anything to add, Faran.”
“No, Osahka.” It felt a little strange for him to use that title, but he was getting more used to it. “Knowledge is a tool as much as swords or bows. Even more so, because it enables these other tools of warfare to be used to best advantage. And to avoid surprises. This is the true enemy of a general.”
Outside, the wind howled even louder, but at last some warmth from the fire seemed to be building up inside the cottage.
Aranloth rubbed his hands together and blew on them, as though suddenly surprised that it had been cold.
“And how is truth used in military strategy?” he asked.
Ferla grinned. “Only as a means of deceiving the enemy.”
The old man turned to Faran. “Give me an example.”
Faran thought about all the battles Aranloth had told them of, and he found one that provided a good example.
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��During the Shadowed Wars, King Gaeblung used truth effectively as a means of deceit. His army was low on supplies and had many wounded from previous battles. He was in no position to engage a superior force, yet was faced with one that he could not outmaneuver. His army was infantry, while the enemy was cavalry. So he allowed enemy scouts to observe his weaknesses. Then he fled. The enemy, knowing his weakness and believing the flight real, attacked. But it was a ruse and Gaeblung turned to attack in his turn, but only after he had lured the cavalry into charging uphill against his ranks of battle-hardened pikemen. He won the field, and his archers came in from the wings to destroy the enemy.”
Aranloth looked pleased. “So you listen to my stories after all. Not only that, you learn from them. I’m impressed.”
Faran felt good. Praise from the lòhren was not exactly rare, but it did have to be earned.
“Answer me this,” Aranloth continued. “When should the commander of an army fight the enemy in person?”
Ferla gave answer quicker than Faran. It was often a competition between them.
“A commander must balance many things,” she replied. “The army loves to see the commander fight. It strengthens morale. But it comes with great peril. To fight is to risk death, and should the commander be killed the army may be routed. So the commander should fight only when absolutely necessary. For instance, to bolster a line the enemy is near to breaking, and that if they do, will win them the field.”
Aranloth turned to Faran. “What do you say?”
Faran did not answer at once. He thought deeply, for though Aranloth had described many battles to them, no two battles were identical. There was never a single perfect answer.
“I say what Ferla does. But determining when it’s necessary or not is not so simple. Once a line breaks, it may be too late to fix it. So a commander may have to err on the side of caution. They may need to fight and strengthen morale before it is clear the line will break. To wait until certainty is to wait too long.” He paused and thought some more. “There is also this. A commander must spare thought for the future. He, or she, must build their reputation for courage, luck and good decisions under extreme pressure. They must prove themselves to the soldiers who follow, and in this way they can lead by example. Soldiers learn to fight for their commander then, and to believe in them. In this way the morale of the army can be heightened. And one way to achieve this is to risk combat even when unnecessary. A risk now may plant the seed of future success.”
