by RG Long
Wars of Irradan
Legends of Gilia, Volume 6
RG Long
Published by Retrovert Books, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
WARS OF IRRADAN
First edition. May 17, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 RG Long.
Written by RG Long.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Maps and More!
1: The Emperor's Might
2: Raw Materials
3: Apples
4: The Scattering of Ashes
5: Quests Given
6: Regrets
7: New Plans
8: Death’s Gate
9: The Judge’s Chamber
10: Another Round
11: Separated Again
12: The Mines of Death
13: Plans
14: Irreconcilable Differences
15: Tradable Goods
16: The Pit of Blood Spire
17: Wings and Flames
18: Cutting Through
19: The Evils of Enoth
20: To Barter Passage
21: The Empire of the Sea
22: The Master and the Map
23: The Island
24: The Secret
25: A Guardian’s Request
26: The Everring Tree
27: Pirates
28: Misplaced Wrath
29: Rumors on the Walls
30: The Fleet of the Mask
31: Oar Slaves
32: With Haste
33: Grievances
34: Fate and Flight
35: All Aboard
36: The Elves Marching On
37: Victory At Last
38: Return
39: The Mustering of Forces
40: Defended
41: Collision Course
42: Amidst the Assault
43: The Fires of Battle
44: His Excellency
45: Hope Remembered
46: Poems and Funerals
47: A Fresh Start
The Story Continues
Maps and More!
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1: The Emperor's Might
The foam of the sea sprayed Rophilborn, Emperor of Enoth and the rightful ruler of the continent of Irradan. Rage was building in his chest as the city came into view over the horizon. The rising suns glimmered on the horizon as his armada approached the doomed capital city. Overlooking the Great Sea from its pathetic cliff, the city of men would soon come to fear him and his empire as they ought to have from the beginning. They had thought their nation safe, being so far from his own capital.
They were wrong.
Any city that so openly opposed him, the ruler of Enoth, would feel the full force of his might.
“Lone Peak! Straight ahead!” came the cry from the observatory platform in the rigging. The cry was echoed down many times over the roar of the sea. A winter storm was approaching along with the morning. The icy chill of the wind and the water did not dampen the fire in Rophilborn’s heart.
“The city will be ours before nightfall!” the emperor proclaimed. He knew it was within his reach. If his orders had been carried out to the letter, and he was assured that his own would not betray him in this dark hour, the city would be besieged from land and from the sea. The traitorous men would know what it was like to throw off his grace.
“Enemy ships en route!” came another call from the platform.
Rophilborn furrowed his brow and looked out to sea. At the base of the cliffs, he could indeed see many ships with their full sails coming out to meet his own fleet.
What fools, he thought. To oppose the strongest fleet on Irradan.
“Prepare the fleet for battle!” Rophilborn shouted at his captains. In answer, each saluted and turned to obey his command. Ships all around his own buzzed with the shouting of captains and the obedience of their sailors. Cannons were being positioned; hooks and ropes were readied.
The attack on the pitiful ships of Lone Peak would be a footnote in the battle. Rophilborn was confident his elves would not fail him now.
He was Rophilborn, the Light of the Empire.
He would not be denied his stars. He would not be put under any ruler save himself. This was his land to rule. His empire to build. His immortality to gain. And no man, dwarf, elf, or silly girl would stop him from getting the thing which he desired most.
Not while breath still filled his lungs.
The ships of the humans were getting closer. They would soon be engaging in a battle under the cloudy morning skies and the heavy pounding of a winter rain. He could see their pathetic attempts to thwart them. Their own dingy and tired ships would fall to his cannons within moments. And then, Rophilborn mused with a twisted smile on his face, his cannons would be turned on the city itself.
Oh, how they would wail at the might of his empire!
“Onward, elves of Enoth!” he cried.
A cheer echoed his own, followed by the screams of battle.
2: Raw Materials
“Get your back into it you lazy animals!” yelled an elven taskmaster. It was echoed by the crack of a whip and a yell of pain as an unfortunate elf received the strike.
“At least we are working,” grunted Dairn, a younger, brown-haired elf whose stained shirt and thin jacket bore the marks of several whip lashings of his own. He timed his rebellious remarks with the thud of the ax he was using to cut down one of the largest trees he had ever seen. That included his forced march through the sacred forest of the Wood Walkers.
The resounding thud of hundreds of axes filled the woods in the crisp winter air. So, too, did the sound of their taskmasters’ harsh orders and hurried commands. The forest must be tamed for the glory of Enoth.
“Your emperor desires the trees to be felled!” came the call of the fore master, a bald elf with gnarled hands that could send a whip flying at any dissenter. “Bring them down!”
It was no small task.
Each tree required several elves to hack away at its trunk for an hour or more before it began to sway. Then the area which it was supposed to fall had to be mostly cleared of slaves and supplies, with the latter being deemed more important.
The first tree that had fallen claimed three lives and one cart full of food. The elves responsible had been severely punished for the waste of resources and their work group was told that they would receive no meals for two days. The tears they cried for their fallen family were largely ignored.
Dairn’s ax rose and fell several times, with each blow chopping off bits of the ancient tree and moving the large gash he and his team had created in the tree closer to its center. The old wood groaned with the renewed effort it cost to stay upright. Soon it would fall and be transferred by weary Speakers to the next group of slaves. There the trees were being cut down into more manageable sections and then into timbers that were being carted all over the empire. Lines of weary beasts were forming all along the horizon. Noble elves and the imperial palace had already placed orders beyond counting.
Wood had always been sparse in Enoth. Now they would have an abundance beyond their reckoning. If only the elves could be quick enough to chop it all down.
“Careful! She’s leaning!” came the call from the
other side of the massive tree. Dairn’s friend, Jassa, was waving his arms in the air and looking up at the top of the tree. Or least, he was looking up as high as he could. Dairn’s vision got lost somewhere in the canopy. But by that indicator, it seemed like the whole forest was shaking in preparation to fall.
“It won’t land right!” came another yell as the tree began to sway. “Look out!”
Elves scattered as the tree began to crack and creak and bend. The massive trunk was not going to fall in the zone they had prepared. Dairn was cursing and waving his ax. The ropes they had tied to the tree in order to help guide it down were being pulled to one side. Dairn raced to join the group trying to correct the fall. Jassa joined him and grunted as he heaved on the rope. Sweat poured off his friend’s bald head as he pulled.
They may as well have tried to pull down a mountain. The tree lurched and fell, pulling ropes and elves along with it. Branches snapped and limbs tore off as the trunk sped to the ground and landed atop several supply carts, horses, and elves.
The ground shook with the weight of the tree. After the loud crashing and falling noises ceased, groans and coughing filled the air just as leaves and dust did. Several cried out in pain, while others ran to avoid the whips of the taskmasters. These spared no time in laying blame.
“On your feet, sluggards!” one barked as he grabbed Dairn by the collar and shoved him against the trunk of the fallen giant. Other elven slaves were being roughly thrown alongside him by other taskmasters.
The sound of a whip cracking echoed throughout the forest. Everyone knew the sound of that particular weapon.
The fore master was coming towards them. Leader of all of the slaves and in charge of the distribution of the lumber that was to be harvested from the forest, he was hated and feared by all who served under him. Not because he was loud and outspoken. His was a different breed of malice.
He was broad for an elf, and his dark black hair was pulled back into a tight bun above his head. He bore no grimace or look of rage. And that was when they knew danger was coming. Their fore master was at his worst when he was the calmest.
He paced up and down the line of fifteen or so elves lined up against the tree before stopping at Jassa. Curling and uncurling his whip in his hand, he looked Dairn’s friend in the eye.
“Do you know how much it will cost to replace the food and supplies those carts had on them? Not to mention the carts and the horses as well?”
Jassa shook his head no.
The whip cracked and left a gash in Jassa’s left cheek. He yelled in pain and clasped his hand to his face to stop the blood. Murmurs around the crowd were stifled quickly by the looks and whips of the other taskmasters. Birds called out from the far trees, oblivious to why the hacking and chopping had stopped and their peaceful morning returned to them.
“I asked you,” he said as he curled his whip again. “How much?”
Jassa was on his knees, gasping but upright.
Again, the whip cracked and, again, an ugly gash appeared, this time over his right eye. Jassa yelped and fell to the ground, one hand over his forehead, the other in the cold earth supporting his weight.
“More than your life is worth,” the fore master answered for him, taking a few steps away from him. “Which, of course, begs the question.”
With a crack, Jassa’s arm was pulled out from under him, sending him to the ground in a heap. The crowd of elves knew better than to react, but Dairn found his chest heaving with anger. Would he stand there like a coward and allow his friend to be whipped to death?
The fore master walked casually back to Jassa, stooped down at his side and flipped him over onto his back. Jassa’s face was half covered by his hand, while the other half was smeared with grass and dirt and blood.
“Why are you still alive?”
Jassa coughed blood, but made no answer. The fore master stood and addressed the crowd gathered around the tree.
“This tree is to be cut into sections, made into lumber, and moved onto new carts within the week,” he said. “There will be no Speakers to help you in this task.”
Elves in the crowd shuffled about and looked at one another anxiously, but no one spoke. To cut a tree into sections alone would be a task that may take a week, even with a Speaker’s help.
“I know you will not ask what the consequences will be for failure to meet this new schedule.”
With a final lash of his whip, the back of Jassa’s jacket was ripped open and a shallow gash screamed there. Taskmasters began using their own whips to disperse the crowd and begin the work that had been given to them. Dairn stooped by Jassa and tried to help sit him up. His friend groaned with the effort.
“Thanks for the support,” Jassa said bitterly.
“Well,” Dairn replied. “Who’s gonna help do all that work for you?”
Jassa got up slowly, grunting with pain and sweating in the cold weather. The crack of a whip encouraged him to move faster, along with the pull of Dairn.
“Odds we’ll survive this?” Jassa asked through a fit of coughing.
“Not high,” Dairn answered as he picked up his ax and headed in the direction of a group of elves, already furiously hacking away at the limbs and branches of the great tree. Their task and their demise.
3: Apples
Three horses galloped quickly along the dusty road that linked the capital city to its outlying settlements. Normally, these roads would be filled with traders moving goods north and south, greeting one another merrily. On this day, however, the clouds above were gray and overcast. The road, flanked with dry and withered grasses, looked foreboding and unwelcoming to travelers.
That may have been the reason there were so few to be found on it. Not that Captain Kilgore had once complained of their not meeting anyone. He said it would speed them to their journey’s end. Bernard was certain that if they continued to travel in this weather, their journey would end long before they reached their destination.
The bitter wind that blew over the plains of Darrion bit into Bernard’s back and made him shiver. It was only the idea of being chivalrous that kept him from wishing he had someone blocking the cold breeze for him like he was for Pumpkin. But the thought of riding the same pony as Lincoln, his very large and very slow friend from the same company as he, was out of the question. First because it would mean that no one would be shielding Pumpkin, the thin, physically (and quite possibly mentally) delicate elf they rescued from the Caleah barracks prison. Secondly, it would most certainly break the back of the poor beast who was already struggling under the immense weight of Lincoln.
So, Bernard gritted his teeth, thanked the suns for the extra blanket he had found during their quick getaway, and tried not to think about how cold he was.
But it was hard to forget when his teeth rattled in his mouth.
“What’s your favorite kind of apple?” asked Pumpkin.
“My favorite... what?” Bernard said, not actually being sure he had heard her correctly.
“Apple,” she repeated. “Your favorite apple.”
Bernard looked over at Lincoln, who shrugged at him and pulled a small piece of paper out of his breast pocket and muttered to himself for a bit.
“What rhymes with apple...?”
“Grapple,” Pumpkin supplied while she stretched her arms, making Bernard back up awkwardly in the saddle. She was riding extremely close to him.
Lincoln nodded appreciatively.
“Thanks,” he said, making a few quick notes with his charcoal pen. Bernard was impressed with his friend’s ability to write and ride at the same time. He shook himself.
“It’s so cold,” he said. “When are we going to stop for the night and light a fire so we don’t freeze to death?”
“When it’s actually night,” Kilgore replied.
Bernard shuddered. The morning sun had only risen a few hours before. This was going to be a long day, he could feel it.
A lone howl broke over the plains and the three all looked a
round their surroundings cautiously. Kilgore held out his hand and stood up in his saddle.
“Wrents?” Bernard asked tentatively. “I’ve taken them on before.”
“Oooh!” Pumpkin said loudly. “Tell me about it!”
“Shush,” Kilgore said with a look of frustration at them.
He scanned the path all around them. Bernard tried to do the same. All he could make out was the bland scenery and the lack of any warm shelter or city within riding distance. Lone Peak was still a long way off.
“Maybe it’s just a wolf?” Lincoln said with a slightly higher pitch than he normally used.
Kilgore drew his sword. The metal sang softly as he pulled it from the scabbard.
“Not this time,” he muttered. “Draw your weapons.”
Then, without warning, he spurred his horse forward and began flying down the path.
“Hyah!”
Lincoln, Bernard, and Pumpkin let their horses back away in surprise for a few breaths as they watched the captain speed down the trail.
“Oh goody,” Pumpkin said, clapping her small hands together. “A chase!”
“We’re not chasing anyone,” Bernard began to say, before looking over his shoulder and shaking the reins of his own horse violently.
“Forward! Go! Start running, horse!” he said to no avail. The obstinate beast just stood there, unaware of the danger that was coming right for them.
Lincoln’s horse had begun to run at his rider’s bidding. Bernard imagined the poor beast had hoped the heavy man would fall away with this burst of speed. It was sorely mistaken.
Pumpkin stood up in the stirrups that Bernard’s feet had only just recently occupied and grabbed the horse by the mane with one hand.
“Riding high, shiny butterfly!” she called as she waved her free hand wildly.
And much to Bernard’s surprise, the horse began to gallop with all haste down the road. He looked back and saw that the small group of Wrents that had materialized on the road just moments ago was gaining on them.
