The Eye of Everfell

by Bard Constantine

  Jacquelis bowed. "It will be as you say, milord." She swept away, satisfaction radiating from her every stride.

  He remained with Serona. "Since I am to be useless in this undertaking, I would prefer to be alone, Serona."

  "Is my company so unbearable?" Her eyes were liquid pools of lavender, pulling at his soul.

  "No." He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. "Never. I simply cannot bear to wait. After all this time, to have Eymunder so close to being in my grasp again..." His jaw clenched tightly. "It is almost excruciating to sit still and not act. Every fiber in my being tells me to be away, leading my men in this raid."

  "That is exactly what our enemy would want for you to do. Leilavin has always been crafty. Don't underestimate what she would do to be rid of you, her ancient foe."

  "Her adversary is Stygan." Alaric crouched into a sitting position once again. "We are but the pawns manipulated into their conflict."

  "Leilavin has not been seen or heard of since you last saw her in Everfell. What if some other hand manipulates the Shama?"

  "All will be revealed in time," Alaric said. "We must push our agents. Contact the Speakers of the Sects, find out all that they know."

  He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply before slowly exhaling. His rapidly beating heart reduced its rate, his adrenaline slowly dissipated, allowing his mind to focus on nothing. He floated in the eye of the storm, not even noticing when Serona departed. Jacquelis, Leilavin, even Eymunder slowly faded from his thoughts. Yet a pair of hazel eyes refused to be banished; a beautiful young face gazed at him, fearful yet resolute.

  Do you feel it, Nyori? My eye that blinks from the sky's expanse and my fingers drifting on the wind that touches your skin? Does your feeble sense of clairvoyance tell you how little time you have left?

  Unable to focus, he at last stood and walked to the rounded window, gazing beyond the gardened grounds, beyond the blanket of clouds that smothered the sky. She was out there, with Eymunder in her possession. He supposed the Shama was confused, afraid perhaps. Would she try to fight? Run and hide? It did not matter. There was no refuge to harbor her, no champion to protect her. Alaric would not allow it. It had been too long, the cost too high. All that mattered was capturing Nyori Sharlin.

  And very soon, he would have her.

  Chapter 6: Marcellus

  Death and glory.

  The words whispered across Marcellus' mind, unspoken prophecy born the moment he wielded a sword. Death was inevitable for the warrior, but glory was a desire, a fervent longing to continue beyond one's lifetime. A chance at immortality, to join the small company of men and women in the halls of heroes, hallowed in the minds and hearts of those left behind.

  As he beheld the scene of madness below, he knew with sudden clarity that he gazed at the time of his glory. An odd sense of calm accompanied the thought. How many warriors have had the same thought before they went to their doom? He had seen it in the eyes of many–the distant, slightly unsettling gaze he knew his eyes displayed.

  Shadowdancer stamped impatiently, but Marcellus steadied him with his knees and stroked his muscular neck with a leather-gloved hand. "Easy. You'll soon get your chance." The stallion snorted but ceased his antics. Marcellus wished he shared Shadowdancer's eagerness. The truth is I would rather be anywhere else than here.

  His viewpoint was atop a tall hill, sparsely decorated with a few lonely trees stripped naked by autumn's passing. He surveyed the chaos through a leather-wrapped spyglass. Far enough to look like toy figures, the valley below was packed with thousands of men in the heat of a brutal battle. Thick smoke roiled upwards from burning pitch, wagons, and chariots. Screams of men dying and the clash of weapons drifted upward as he took in what had become all too familiar a sight.

  Men killing and dying in rapid succession.

  There was no grace to their movements, none of the poetic swordplay as regaled in songs and stories. They attacked with the ferocity of animals, killer instinct replacing reason, the only thought occupying the mind being the need to live by slaying the next foe.

  "Not quite what I expected," Jaslin Le Feuvre said.

  Like Marcellus, Jaslin was garbed in the blue and white surcoat of the Kaerleon knight. His polished mail and armor gleamed, as did the white-plumed helmet resting on the pommel of his saddle. The wind tugged at his golden hair. Tall with broad shoulders and deep blue eyes, Jaslin appeared better suited to playing the gentleman at court than living the rugged life of a soldier. Yet Marcellus had found no better swordsman or friend.

  Marcellus scratched his beard, which had grown thicker on the road. Good for cushioning the sharp winds, but it itched more. "Nor I. The black-armored soldiers are the Bruallians. They've been fighting the Komurans for control of the border for as long as anyone can remember. But times have changed. The Komurans are no longer equal in military strength. They're being slaughtered."

  Jaslin squinted at the carnage below. "I hear Valdemar Basilis leads his Bruallians into battle himself."

  "He is his father's son. Darroth Basilis was a savage before he was a king, often leading the charge against his enemies. That's not our concern. There." Marcellus pointed to the far edge of the battleground, where the Komurans had rallied and still held somewhat of a stand in a semicircle perimeter around a train of wagons. From his lens, the Golden Lion of Kaerleon emblazoned on the canvas covering was barely registerable.

  "The information I gathered indicated those wagons safeguard the prince. We are not to try to aid the Komurans. We cut through the lines, secure the prince, and head back to Kaerleon."

  "Only you can say that and make it seem easy." Jaslin's smile was mirthless. "The Companions amount to only a century. Those token soldiers that guided us here cannot be trusted to do anything but scatter at the first charge. They do not know any lord, nor have any allegiances. This is a losing hand no matter how well we play it, Marcellus. You know this."

  Marcellus sighed. "I do. But I swore an oath to the king, and I will not dishonor my word."

  "For the glory of Kaerleon?" Jaslin's voice was uncharacteristically dry.

  "Always."

  Jaslin looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face. "Then you shouldn't be here. Nothing is glorious about this."

  Marcellus gave Jaslin a sidelong glance. The man had been unusually subdued the entire trip. Any attempt to find out what was behind his dark mood was firmly rebutted.

  Perhaps he leaves something precious behind as well. He thought he knew Jaslin well, but every man kept some things deep inside the well of his heart. Marcellus knew that all too well. He stared at the western horizon. Leagues beyond the Dragonspine Mountains lay Leodia, and his soul. Forgive me, Evelina. I had not the heart to truly say farewell.

  "Was it ever, Jaslin?" He turned from the chaos and guided Shadowdancer back to where the other men waited. None were decked in heraldry or as knights, but all were hard and lean, wearing boiled leather and scraps of mail. Their leader turned and spat to the side when Marcellus approached.

  "Have you located the wagon train, m'lord?"

  Gile Noman stared insolently through the one good eye he had left. The other was just pale jelly in the socket. Only stubble decorated his head; the rest of him was garbed in fur and mismatched armor. The large roan he rode on looked nearly as disheveled as he.

  He was the captain of the ragged band of warriors Jaslin had encountered while scouting the passage. When Lucretius called back the Patrol, Borderlanders sore for coin had stepped up to take their places. Token soldiers, they were called. They were not knights to be sure, as Jaslin had pointed out, but they numbered around twice as many as the Companions. The more swords the better, as far as Marcellus was concerned. It would not be the first time he relied on mercenary aid.

  "I have. It is on the far side of the battlefield, and we won't have long to reach it. Needless to say, the losses may be vast."

  Gile barked a rough laugh and fingered the shaft of the mace that jutted over his should
er. "My mates and I have seen worse. This we'll look forward to." He actually sounded sincere.

  "Get your men ready then. I must have a word with my own."

  "Have all the words you need. M'lord." Gile turned his roan and rode toward where his ragged bunch waited a few spans away.

  Marcellus turned to his own men. He met the gaze of his most loyal knights, those who had bonded to him in a brotherhood of loyalty and trust through trials and triumph, blood and fire.

  The Companions.

  Jolgeirr Arnmoor nodded at Marcellus. The burly Norlander's fiery red hair was pulled back into a fat braid that ran down the length of his broad back. His customary scowl was practically hidden behind his hefty beard. In the last clash between their nations, Jolgeirr had spared Marcellus' life after defeating him in combat high in the snow-driven Alpens of Norland.

  Clivel Tonalle, on the other hand, had proven himself in a skirmish with the Jaferians. Since that time, Marcellus had learned to lean on the uncanny skills of Clivel's marksmanship. No one was more deadly with a bow.

  Next to Clivel was Owin Weeks, a horse trader that lost his livelihood one time too many by Bruallian raids along the border of Runet. His horned helmet was a token from a slain Bruallian. It was a bit too large, so only his long nose and mustaches were visible more often than not.

  Then there was Hansen Longshanks, who once ran for two days without rest to arrive at a battle where he slew twoscore men; Virgel Lloyl, exiled from his House for calling his liege lord a fool to his face, and so on. Men from Runet, from the Great Steppes, from Gaelion, and of course from Leodia. Unique men, one and all with a story behind their blades and armor. Men who had sworn to follow him to death, glory, or both.

  Marcellus placed his hands on the pommel of his saddle and faced them. "You all know me. We're looking at a raven feast, and we're probably the main course. Anyone who has words to say can say them. I will not hold it against you."

  Not a man stirred in the ranks. The only sound was the wind as it swept through the pass and stirred the banners. The first banner was the Golden Lion of Kaerleon. Another was the Three Shields, the standard of the Companions. The last was the Silver Horn, Marcellus' personal standard. He touched the horn strapped to his saddle. He sounded it at the end of every battle, the Companion's sweet notes of victory. The song that carried him and his men back to their homes.

  He did not think they would hear it on this day.

  Finally, Jolgeirr spoke. "Have you gone bleedin' daft, man?" Chuckles reverberated through the lines. "We've wrapped you in swaddling clothes all this time, and you think you can walk on your own now? Who else is going to look after your noble noggin?"

  Jaslin brought his horse closer. "You've led us to victory more times than any of us can count. So we'll ride with you again and let the Fates decide if we shall find victory, or death and glory."

  Jolgeirr swung his great ax around his head. "Aye, death and bloody glory!" The rest of the men took up the cry. "Death and glory!"

  The sound washed over Marcellus as he closed his eyes. Evelina, how I wish to see you and Alexia one last time. But he knew it was too late for wishes. The moment was at hand.

  His eyes opened as he drew his sword in salute. "So be it!"

  With their battle cries in his ears, he rode to where Gile and his men waited. The mercenary band was expressionless, but Gile grinned wolfishly.

  "Looks like you're ready."

  Marcellus pointed. "There's a path that leads down to the battlefield from here. It isn't wide, so we'll be riding in lines of two until we can open up in wedge formation once we get on the field. I'm putting my trust in you and yours to follow, Gile."

  Gile pulled his horse closer. Shadowdancer bared his teeth, but Marcellus held the stallion at bay.

  "You can count on us, Sir Knight. We may not have titles, but we're king's men the same as you."

  Marcellus nodded. "Then you have my thanks." He placed his black-crested helmet on his head. His men arranged themselves in perfect formation. The dim sunlight glinted off their polished armor, the banners rippled in the wind as he passed them.

  He turned and faced the long rocky path downhill where the soldiers below scrabbled like fighting insects. Jaslin joined him on the left as the Companions and the token soldiers formed ranks behind them. With his sword raised, Marcellus brought his focus on the moment. Death was certain. Evelina and Alexia are my glory.

  He dropped his arm with a roar. "Kaerleon!"

  The men took up the cry as Shadowdancer shot forward, needing no nudge to spur him. Marcellus leaned back in the saddle to keep from falling over the stallion's neck. A cloud of dust rose as they half galloped, half slid down the gravelly slope.

  Some of the combatants below noticed their approach, the line of dust and glinting armor racing down the hillside. But there was no way to arrange a proper formation in the midst of a scene that tumultuous. The archers had been recalled, so the Bruallians would get no assistance to stop the Companion's approach.

  The wind carried the scent of sweat, blood, and fear. Fear was good. With luck, he and his men could seize the momentary confusion and break through the front lines like a battering ram through a gate of straw. After that, nothing was certain. War never was, and this was certainly not his war.

  The black-garbed Bruallians desperately tried to form ranks to meet the charge. Marcellus pointed his sword toward them and roared his battle cry; the only one he could manage, the one word that meant more than anything to him.

  "Evelina!"

  The wind swept the words away, carried them to the enemy as the Companions closed the distance. Shadowdancer glided the rest of the way; time slowed. Marcellus saw the individual faces of the men before him; mouths open in wild roars, eyes wild with fear and madness.

  The battle swallowed him.

  The first thing he felt was the heat. War simmered, no matter what the season. In an instant, he was as lathered as Shadowdancer. His eyes caught only blurs of movement as the first ranks either sprang out of the way or were trampled. He held his sword low, turning aside wild stabs and thrusts. His arm throbbed from the impact of his blade glancing off of armor and weapons.

  Shadowdancer's strides slowed as they entered the press; he churned his way forward in a sea of blades and rippling steel. Bellowing voices smothered the air as spearheads surrounded Marcellus, steel teeth that thirsted for his blood.

  Shadowdancer reared, flailing iron-shod hooves. Spear shafts and human bones shattered as armored men sailed in the air. Marcellus gripped with his knees and laid about, stroke after stroke. The one-handed Dorician blade sung its savage song as it rang against blade, shield, armor, and flesh.

  Droplets of blood misted in the air like evening dew.

  As one man fell clutching his innards, another roared and took his place. Marcellus' swing split the man's monstrous helm. Crimson gore painted Marcellus' forearm, but he took no note as he twisted to strike the next. No warrior could afford to witness the horror of battle. Those flashbacks would come later, in hellish dreams.

  A spontoon glanced off of Marcellus' breastplate. Madness simmered in his attacker's eyes as he hefted the heavy-tipped spear, readying another thrust. Marcellus seized the spear's shaft and leaned from the saddle to stab the man in the neck. Blood jetted as the warrior fell into the roaring sea, leaving his spontoon in Marcellus' hand. He hurled it through the chest of another soldier, who cried out a woman's name before falling.

  Marcellus could not tell if minutes or hours passed.

  The roar of boulders colliding caused him to wheel Shadowdancer around. A wave of black-armored men rode toward Marcellus, a horde of gleaming beetles swarming forward. The Komurans were broken; the sheer force of the larger Bruallian army ran down their red-cloaked warriors. The forces Marcellus and his men fought were puddles of water about to be battered by a tidal wave.

  Jaslin galloped up with his helmet missing and hair wildly askew. Blood fanned across his face from a scalp wound, but
he gestured with a blade painted the same color. "There, Marcellus!"

  The blue canvases of the Kaerleon wagons were a mere hundred yards away, though the distance was thick with fighting men. Komurans struggled to flee, while the Bruallians strove to hold them until the death stroke arrived. Marcellus clenched his teeth.

  "Forward!"

  Shadowdancer sprang, eagerly running down men in his path as mounted Bruallian knights sought to intercept them. The stallion reared and struck the first soldier off his steed. Marcellus clashed with the next; their swords rang like iron bells.

  The knight was good but too eager. The thrust that should have killed Marcellus glanced off his mail instead. He ignored the pain and hacked into the man's shoulder where the pauldrons joined, then struck the knight across the helm with his buckler, unhorsing him. He felt Shadowdancer trample the man as he wheeled the horse to his left, blocking another knight's blow with his buckler. The impact from the heavy battle-ax rocked him backward, leaving him exposed to the next swing.

  But in a spatter of blood, the knight was suddenly armless. Jolgeirr caught the man's spinning ax from the air with his free hand while he finished off the screaming soldier with another fierce blow. Marcellus regained his balance as Jolgeirr expertly hefted the soldier's ax. The Norlander's face was spattered in gore, his eyes nearly mad with battle rage.

  "As I did think. This be Norland steel!" With a fierce grin, he roared and charged into the nearest knights, wielding two axes. Marcellus looked toward the wagons. They were halfway there. He heard the roars of the approaching army from behind, a pack of dragons bellowing in a cave.

  Forward.

  Shadowdancer soared. Marcellus no longer strove to battle individuals, but turned aside blades, pushing foes back long enough to gallop past them.