Daggers of Ladis

by RG Long

  No, he thought. He must be strong.

  Yada stood, shakily, but still on her own power. Taking her glass, she neglected her plate of food and walked over to a large map of Ladis that had been hung in her quarters. On it were two blue flags. Isolian banners hung over the two cities they had already claimed.

  She looked at the map for a time, then turned to face Octus.

  “You know why we war against the Theocracy, don’t you?” she asked, her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared.

  “Because you desire more land for your country’s lack of farms and pastures,” Octus said, quoting a response he had heard many times over the years. The Disputed Lands were once fertile and pleasant. Before the unending war began on it and the ground was turned to wastes. Isol was a barren place. The country survived on fish and fungus.

  Or so they were told.

  “Lies!” Yada yelled, throwing her glass to the ground, its red contents spilling over Octus’ bare feet. “Theocracy lies!”

  She pointed a bony finger at him and scowled.

  “The Theocracy abused us! They used our magical abilities to build their cities and fortify their castles, and then they exiled us for the very same reason they praised us! We built this country and their temples, and then they called us criminals and heretics!”

  Octus looked her in the eye. He didn’t know what she was trying to accomplish by lying to him, but he refused to give in. Surely this was some Isolian madness. Something she had told to her followers for so long that she now believed her own falsehoods.

  The Theocracy would never do such a thing. They had never sided with witches and heretics. Ladism had always been on the side of light and the Isolians were the darkness. They were spell casters and demon worshippers and heretics.

  That’s what it had always been. Yada was just trying to torture him more by filling his head with doubts and lies. He refused to give in. He would not give in.

  Yada shook with visible rage. Perhaps she was mad at the fact that Octus remained calm. He wished he could show her his anger. The very idea that the Theocracy, the country he had bled for and watched friends die defending, had dealt with witches and wizards to build their castles was absurd.

  “You will see our fury,” she said, coming over to the couch and sitting down on it. “And you will know that what I say is true. When all of Ladis is laid to ruin by our hands and the castles we built are put back in place, I will show you the secret tombs and catacombs that house our ancestors. Not all of them were purged during the great darkness. Some still remain. And we will find them; and then you and every other worshipper of Ladism will understand that it was we who were abused, not them.”

  She waved her hand and Octus took it as a dismissal. He turned quickly and walked out of her quarters as fast as he dared.

  “One more thing,” Yada called out after him.

  He stopped but did not turn around. Fearing that she would torture him anyway, just for the fact that he hadn’t reacted to any of her insanity, his body tensed and he prepared himself for her evil spells. The ones she says built the castles of old.

  Her voice was cool and calm. Her rage must be subsiding. For now.

  “Fetch me those books the traitor left behind.”

  14: A Change in Fronts

  Jungles. It had been years since Pul had seen jungles. But there they were, marching towards jungles that were just as he remembered them. The army of Ladis was moving north. After decades of defending the Disputed Lands, the official order had finally come from the king. The heretics had invaded the north.

  It was time to return home and defend their country.

  The reason the witches had invaded the Disputed Lands in the first place were now gone. Fertile fields and pastures were laid to waste by the Speakers’ fire. What was once a picturesque landscape with trees and grasslands was now a dusty, barren waste.

  The Lands would be hollow for years to come.

  Pul marched with everything he owned on his back, his spear in one hand and a shield in the other. Several such men walked along with him. Green and black uniforms were tattered with age and use. Still, the silver skull shown through on every single piece. He always expected to die in the Disputed Lands. He thought he would never return home.

  Home.

  For so long it had been a place he thought about, or something he remembered. He had not thought of it as a destination in years.

  And yet the jungles of the north were now coming closer with every step.

  “Lieutenant Pul!” someone called out. It took him a moment to remember his improved rank. Turning towards the sound of the voice, he saw his commanding officer and saluted.

  “Yes Captain?” Pul stopped short, thinking it strange to address someone so high ranking. Then again, he discovered that in the Disputed Lands, rising in rank was also a war of attrition. Outlast all your battle brothers, and eventually a man becomes a captain.

  “We’re coming up to the North Crossing,” his captain said. “Prepare your men. I want eyes up and everyone alert. The heretics no doubt are aware that we’re moving north. If they’re going to attack us, this is the moment.”

  Pul saluted again and the Captain walked to the front to relay the message to the next Lieutenant.

  Your men. Pul shook his head despite himself. He was not in command of men. They were all boys who were just as home sick as he was but had managed to live long enough to see a change in fronts. They were also just as surprised as he was to be heading north.

  “Spears up!” he called to the thirty men that reported to him. Worn and weary travelers, each of them made sure their spears released from their sheaths and held them at their side as they continued towards the green landscape.

  The difference between the Disputed Lands and the northern Theocracy was stark. Two great land masses were separated only by a short sea crossing. Long ago the sea had cut through what had once been a mighty land bridge. Or at least those were the tales of old. People could walk from the blistery frozen north all the way to the sandy beaches of the south without ever touching a foot into the ocean.

  Then the lizards came.

  The horrible beasts made the jungles of Ladis a nightmare and effectively stopped both the Theocracy and Isol from trying to claim more than they could of the thick foliage.

  And so the war was for the southern plains instead.

  What was left of the giant rocks that had once connected the two landmasses together now lay in ruins among the waves. It made for treacherous crossing for larger ships, but it was passable for the small skiffs they were about to employ.

  Pul had come across in one of them. The man who rowed the ship had told him it was the last time he would ever see the jungle.

  “Boys go across all the time,” he had said. “Don’t see nearly any of them come back.”

  That had been his welcome to the war.

  He was amazed to see the small, shallow boats once again. Even more amazed that he would be using them to cross back where he had come from.

  He had crossed over with a few hundred other boys commissioned into service by the Theocracy. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the thousands who were returning with him. They ranged in age from older men who had survived a decade or more fighting, to the boys around sixteen who were brand new to the front and maybe even felt relieved to be heading home.

  Pul had been here for five years now. It was hard to tell which felt more like home, his village or the barren Disputed Lands.

  The troops were marching up to the shallow boats in columns. Each one was led by a lieutenant like himself. He certainly felt out of place, having only recently been promoted. One of these first recruits was standing right next to him. Pul looked at him with an appraising eye. He didn’t look to be a scared kid like most of them. His eyes were full of wonder and adventure, like he had never left home before. Pul realized this was a high probability.

  “What’s your name, kid?” he asked.

  He addressed hi
m like he was younger partly because Pul felt like he was one of the older ones out on the barren field of the desolate land and partly because the boy did look so young. Like the horrors of war hadn’t yet touched his soul. Pul could remember being younger and still feeling like he was not so blackened by the fires of Isol.

  “Marcus, sir,” the boy responded, nodding his head in salute.

  His voice sounded unusually high for the muscular build that he had.

  Pul wondered if a boy like this might be willing to lie about his age in order to see the adventure of war. Or perhaps nerves would cause him to speak so high. Either way, he seemed out of place among the hardened warriors of the barren wastes.

  “How long of you been down south?”“ Pul asked.

  He wasn’t usually one to make small talk. That he usually left for the other men of his new regimen. Still, there was something about this moment and this boy that loosened his tongue.

  “Three months, sir,” the boy said.

  Pul noticed his chest swelling with pride. As if to say he had survived for a long time, or seen a lot of war.

  “Think it strange to be heading north again?”

  “No, sir,” replied the boy. “I’m ready to fight witches and heretics wherever the king needs us. Wherever the Theocracy needs us to go, I’ll go. The Speakers raided our little village three, maybe four years ago. Burned the place to the ground. I lost my sister. My older brother and I joined as soon as we could. Want to pay it back, sir.”

  He added the last word as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to. Pul couldn’t blame the kid. He was deciding that it was both nerves and young age that caused him to speak so freely. Here was one of the few who was eager to go to war. That certainly hadn’t been him five years ago. They had nearly drug him kicking and screaming from his village. They had given him no choice.

  “Next regiment! Fall in!”

  “That’s us, boys,” Pul said, raising a spear. “Jump on the boat and make space. I don’t know how many of us can fit.”

  It was strange to have his orders obeyed. It was stranger still to have men underneath him willing to obey at all. The life expectancy of a lieutenant in the Disputed Lands was not long. But a rank-and-file soldier? Their mortality rate was even less. Pul’s men got into the boat as quickly as they could manage. A dirty, brown looking water turned around the grainy beach. Dust and dirt gave way to sludge, which in turn gave way to rough foamy waters.

  Nothing about this landscape looked enticing. Pul was going to be glad to get to the other side, where at the very least green trees grew thick with leaves.

  After each one of his men had climbed into the boat, Pul got in and sat down among them. From behind, someone shoved them off. The boat was being steered and directed by four men with long poles. They struck out from the beach and continued to shove against the shore until they were floating along with the rest of the boats.

  Several of these shallow bottom boats were in the water before theirs joined the masses. Most of them were full of soldiers and their guides. Some of the men look scared. Pul couldn’t blame them. These boats certainly offered no sense of safety. The best they had was the ability to float.

  Other men, those perhaps who had been at war longer, had hopeful looks on their faces. Marcus was one of these hopeful faces. The young man still appeared to be full of adventure and pride. Pul tried his best to contain his own feelings of elation.

  He was going home.

  “Witches!”

  The call rang out over the commotion of boarding boats and marching soldiers. A wall of fire sprung up over the crowded shore and pandemonium began. What was a peaceful and orderly march towards the boats became chaos. Some soldiers ran for the water and, against the shouts and orders of their superiors, jumped into the turbulent waters with their full gear around them.

  Pul watched several of them struggle, flail, and then sink below the surface of the water. Some of the soldiers turned to fight. With spears and shields ready, they walked into the inferno that was facing them. Devoid of a battle plan, they did what they had been commanded to do for decades: charge the Speakers until the witches grew tired and their magic subsided.

  Pul and his men watched helplessly as the boat they were in went further and further out into the water. Should he order his boat to be turned around? Should he go back and fight the Speakers? He looked left and right to see the boats on either side of them continuing on the journey, if not trying to speed up their escape.

  He stood in order to get a better view. A splash of water came up over the side of the boat and he squinted his eyes against the spray. Large regiments of Theocracy troops were gathered upon the opposite shore. He could see them from here. Did they know the other side was being attacked? What would they do if they did?

  “Lieutenant Pul!” a voice was shouting over the yells of the men on the shore and the ones in the boats as well. It was Marcus.

  Pul met his terrified stare with his own hard eyes.

  “We should go back! We should fight the witches!”

  A few other men in the boat murmured their agreement. Pul could see that they did so not out of passion or desire. Those emotions had left most of the men years ago. These soldiers were used to being sent to their deaths. It was just that none of them had actually succeeded in giving their lives for the Theocracy.

  Yet.

  “We need to get to the other shore,” Pul shouted back, not taking his gaze off the young man. “We’ll get reconnected with the rest of the army and march north. It’s time to get out of the Disputed Lands.”

  There were nods to this. Even a few hopeful glances.

  Marcus, however, looked defeated. The young man sat down, looking over his shoulder at the destruction they were leaving behind. Pul knew it must be hard. To want to fight and to be told not to. But the difference between a smart soldier and a dead one was knowing which battles to fight.

  And which to leave for another day.

  Pul sat back down and nodded at the men who were rowing them out. They continued to push and shove until the fires and the screams of the opposite end of the shore faded into the distance.

  If he was going to be a commander of men, he was going to be one who saw that those under his care survived to see the next day.

  15: Divided and Conquered

  Ealrin was doing his very best to wiggle through the small crack in the wall. He felt pinched on either side and was sucking in his chest as much as he could. He wasn’t the largest of their group to pass through the hole they had found in the outer wall of Prommus, but he was the last.

  “Come on!” Silverwolf was urging from the other side of the structure. The rest of their party was out and looking towards the cliffs Prommus sat on. “They were right on top of us!”

  Ealrin didn’t need reminding. The guards of the Temple had been just behind them when they had accidentally turned down an alley and found that it was a dead-end street.

  Fortunately, that dead end was also the outer walls of the city. Without exhausting herself too much, Blume caused a small crack to form in the wall. She was already tired from the various spells she had to perform in order to allow their escape thus far. Ealrin felt bad asking her to do anymore magic for his sake.

  But this hole in the wall was just not big enough for him. He reached his hand out and could feel the other end of the wall. The rough exterior taunted him with its closeness. Then someone grabbed his hand, and pulled.

  Hard.

  Feeling like this might have done irreversible damage to his chest cavity, Ealrin emerged through the hole in the wall, thanks to Silverwolf’s strength and determined willpower.

  “Quit getting stuck,” she said as she dropped his hand.

  He felt like that was a reference to being caught in the doorway of the religious fanatic they had found wielding a giant mace, but that was also not his fault. Gorplin had charged the Prophet at the same time Ealrin had drawn his sword in order to protect the group. They had also man
aged to get very tangled up themselves, leaving Silverwolf to dispatch him as they made their way to the streets. He just shook his head and let it go. Now that they were outside the city walls, they had to determine where they were heading.

  It was hard to determine what time of day it was. Fog lay heavy on the cliffs around them, blocking out most of the night sky.

  Holve was the first to speak.

  “We’ve got business to take care of up north,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Ealrin looked at him, unaware that he had a destination mapped out.

  “What business?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Important hero stuff,” Silverwolf said, putting her hand on this back. “Don’t miss me too much.”

  “Bah,” Gorplin grunted under his breath. “How can you miss a snake?”

  “I heard that stumpy,” Silverwolf said.

  Holve shook his head.

  “Swords, we’re splitting up,” Holve said, putting his hands on his hips and giving them all a look. “Silverwolf is going to take care of some unfinished business for us with Yada.”

  At these words, Barton perked up.

  “The assassin is heading south?” he asked, looking back-and-forth from Silverwolf to Holve. “If she is going to where Her Holiness is, I’m going with her.”

  Holve shrugged, but looked wary to Ealrin.

  “You aren’t bound to us,” he said. “It’s a wonder you stayed around this long. I’m sure your abilities will be useful to her anyways.”

  Silverwolf scoffed, and Ealrin didn’t have to guess of the reason. She probably thought her abilities needed no help whatsoever.

  “I don’t think the two of them should go alone,” Serinde said. She stepped forward and nodded at Holve. “I’ll go with them both.”

  He seemed to consider this for a moment and then looked around, eyeing the rest of the group.

  “Go on,” he said. Ealrin got the impression that Holve wasn’t thrilled to give up the elf’s help for whatever trip north he had planned.