by Garon Whited
I delivered the compacted tents to three Temples—Vios, Vathula, and Carrillon. Anybody coming to the war headed for those places at their best speed. I also delivered Torvil, Kammen, and Liam, but to Carrillon. I couldn’t exactly open a gate to grab Torvil and Kammen and leave Liam unguarded. Lissette was pleased to have Liam home so quickly.
As for the other end of those shift-booths, I used one of Mount Arthur’s gate rooms to brute-force a connection. Bronze, Firebrand, and I—along with a trio of extremely insistent bodyguards—stepped through into a heavily-forested area. If my targeting was correct, we were near the Edge, about halfway between the northernmost point of H’zhad’Eyn and Zirafel. The clearing matched what I scried for, anyway. We set about making it bigger. Much bigger.
Firebrand does not appreciate being used for mowing down anything that doesn’t bleed. We worked out a system. I used my Saber of Sharpness to cut down a tree. Bronze dragged it away. I stuck Firebrand point-down in the stump and went to cut down another tree. When I was done, I went back, reached into the hole where there used to be a stump, pulled out Firebrand, and repeated the process.
My bodyguards didn’t help my efforts at clearcutting. They were busy guarding my body, looking alert and scanning the area for threats. It was almost enough to make me nervous.
“Hey, you. Sir Tobin?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Is there anything around here worthy of such caution? Bears? Tuva? Saber-wolves? Tax collectors?”
“Not to my knowledge, my lord. Our charge is of supreme importance, however, and we are not within the confines of the mountain.”
I grunted something in reply and tried not to look embarrassed. I don’t know why having bodyguards embarrasses me.
After a half-hour of tree removal, I put up one of the shift-tents and considered how to arrange them. Doors in, doors out, traffic pattern like so… face one this way, the other two angled… no, maybe this way…
Eventually, we cleared a small farm, filled in some stump-holes, and put up the shift-tents. It took longer than I expected, but it was important to get it right. We can’t have people fouling each other up as they tromp around. The tents have to be expanded to be useful, so they pretty much have to be in fixed positions. There are a limited number of people who can arrive or depart in any given minute.
Since before we arrived, the small group of us was heavily shielded against detection. While our defenses would certainly hold for a while, as we added more and more people, we wouldn’t be able to keep it up. Sure, all the Knights of Shadow can throw cloaking spells, but if we expect to have enough energy left for anything else, we have to give up on stealth and refocus on fighting.
Logistics are always a pain.
Once we had the tents situated and established, I called Beltar, confirmed the others were ready, and went through each one. I tested them, walked some people through the process, and returned to our staging point.
Tons of men and materiel started tromping out. It was kind of spooky to watch. Aside from pauses to open and close the doors—rigid tent-flaps—it was a constant exodus of men, horses, wagons, and wheelbarrows. It’s like they weren’t just bigger on the inside, but huge.
Would it be worthwhile to research dimensional transcendentalism? Probably. Just not today.
I sat on Bronze’s back, regarded the chaos, and wondered where the Big Three were. Supervising the loading, possibly. I snagged some knights, gave orders, and sent them off. I also sent a messenger back through one of the shift-tents to requisition shovels. Lots of shovels.
This rapid-deployment arrangement was a miracle of speed compared to sailing vessels. In that light, it was remarkable. Compared to airlifting combat units on a C-130? Probably faster over this distance. But if it was a case of arriving or departing under fire, we had a lot to learn. Simply getting there wasn’t too bad. Organizing ourselves once we got here? That was somewhat less smooth. It didn’t help that we got our wagons of supplies in no real order, along with a couple dozen priests of various religions who didn’t seem to know how to get out of the way.
Torvil, Kammen, and Seldar joined me with the last load of troops. Things organized rapidly once Seldar arrived. Seldar spoke, Torvil and Kammen shouted, and things started shaping up.
Some are born leaders. Some learn to be. Some of us get stuck with the job. That may be as good a way as any to describe the Big Three.
On the plus side, I did have a reason for demanding all the shovels they could dig up. The Romans had a camping trick. They would march somewhere and set up a campsite, but they did it by having everybody dig. They marked off a square and dug a ditch, pitching the dirt along the inside edge of the ditch to form earthworks. Once they had a suitable barrier around the campsite, they set up their portable forge, parked their wagons, corralled their horses, and pitched tents—all in rows, all laid out exactly the same way every time. It was like packing up a canvas city and unpacking it every night. It wasn’t a portable castle, but it was definitely a defensible position.
Since we were in hostile territory, or right next to it, we practiced. Seldar was not impressed with our proficiency. I wasn’t impressed with our shovels.
There’s a surprising amount of technology and design to a good shovel. A flat plate on the end of a stick will work, yes, but it’s not what I’d call an efficient tool. I explained how to bend the plate, roll the upper edge of it as a foot brace, and drew on one of them the outline I wanted. The smith was only present as a maintenance man, not a fabrications expert, so I sent him back to Kar—to Vios—to explain what I wanted to Kavel, the Mastersmith.
On the other hand, the Knights of Shadow pleased me. They didn’t complain about how digging in the dirt was beneath them. They didn’t moan about how they came to fight, not dig ditches. Every last one of them made sure they understood what we were after and promptly made it happen. They moved dirt faster than I would ever have guessed. I don’t think a man with a bulldozer could have done it as quickly. A couple thousand John Henrys beat the steam drill every time.
And, to top it all off, they sang. They have some unreasonable number of hymns, like… like sea shantys, or whatever they’re called. Or those songs the military guys sing as they’re jogging along. Cadences, I think?
While they dug—Torvil and Kammen along with them—Seldar and his assistants walked through the inside area, marking out how to lay out a camp. I don’t know where he learned to lay out a camp, but I suppose he’s learned a lot in the past several years. I did my best to help him, mostly by being one of the guys on the other end of the magical string to make straight lines. I also laid down glowing lines where he wanted them. We gridded the thing and numbered the compartments for easy reference. He imprinted the layout in a crystal so he could reproduce it later. Once the ditch-and-earthworks were done, setting up tents went pretty quickly.
“My lord?”
“Yes, Kammen?” I waved to Seldar as we finished laying out the pattern for the camp. He waved back.
“We staying here?”
“We’re not doing this just for the practice.”
“Want me to send out scouts?”
“Yes.”
He grunted an acknowledgement and went off to order someone to volunteer. Torvil replaced him, accompanied by Malena. She wore brown brigandine armor, carried a small, round shield, and had a helmet tucked in the crook of one arm.
“My lord?”
“Yes, Torvil?”
“Her Majesty the Queen has sent Malena to you.”
“I see that. Hello, Malena.”
“Sire,” she acknowledged, nodding.
“Sire?” Torvil echoed, startled. Malena glanced at him and gave just the tiniest shake of her head. I pretended not to notice.
“Are you a messenger?”
“No, Sire. Not in the sense you mean.”
“All right, why are you here?”
“Her Majesty desires you return to her from this conflict. She has tasked me with your
personal safety insofar as you will permit.”
I took a second to parse that.
“You’re my bodyguard whenever I’ll let you do your job?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“You do know I have a couple of thousand men here who will stomp the bejeezus out of anything that so much as speaks a harsh word in my direction, right?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“My lord, if I may?” Torvil interrupted.
“Yes?”
“Uh, if it please Your Majesty, may I suggest you not argue with the wishes of… of the Queen?”
I looked from one to the other and wished it was night. The wooden expressions were impossible to read.
“Is there something I should know? Malena? Torvil?”
“No, Sire.”
“No, my lord.”
“Hmm. I think something is going on here and nobody wants to tell me.” I shrugged. “Okay. I accept your service, Malena. Is it ‘Sir Malena,’ or is there some other title?” The Rethven dialect uses domin for the English sir. Technically, it’s a genderless descriptor of station, but it hasn’t been an issue until now. I may use it in the future since “Domin Malena” doesn’t sound as weird as “Sir Malena.”
“I am not a knight,” she pointed out.
“Oh, like hell you aren’t!”
“It is true, Sire. I did not remain in the service of the Temple long enough to achieve that station. I became a personal guard to His Majesty, but never a knight.”
Ah. His Majesty. Not me.
“He never saw fit to knight you?”
“He had other interests, Sire.”
“Torvil?”
“My lord?”
“She’s been a bodyguard to the Queen all this time, but nobody’s thought to knight her?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Why not?” I demanded. “She’s worthy, isn’t she?”
“She is. But I cannot make a knight, my lord. Beltar is the only one who may confirm a Knight of Shadow, and I have not been given the authority by the Queen to make a Knight of the Crown.” I nodded as he spoke, seeing the problem.
“Torvil, are you still the King’s—that is, the Royal Champion?”
“It is not a formal position,” he clarified. “The Royal Champion is seldom called upon, and is appointed based on the issue at hand. I have had the honor more often than most.”
“Then you now have another honor: You are the Guard of Swords. Before a postulant may become a Knight of the Crown, you must evaluate him for fitness. Moreover, if a Knight of the Crown fails to live up to the standards of the order, take his sword away from him. Let no one unworthy wear the sash. If you find someone worthy of the title, accept the oath if they offer it on behalf of the Crown. I invest you with this authority and responsibility if you will accept it.”
Torvil gulped like a schoolboy about to ask a girl to dance, but he didn’t hesitate.
“I accept whatever duties my King requires.”
“Good man. But remember, you don’t have to do it all personally, nor by yourself.”
“As you command, my lord.”
“Now, observe.” I turned to Malena. “Give me that sword,” I ordered her, pointing. Torvil did a double-take and Malena’s mouth fell open. Nevertheless, she handed her helmet to Torvil, unbuckled her belt, and passed the sword to me. Without prompting, she went to one knee.
“Do you know your oath?” I asked.
“To my King I swear loyalty and bravery. To the Crown I swear to be just and fair as far as my mortal wisdom will allow. At my King’s command, I swear to grant mercy, or to withhold mercy; to take life, or to grant it; to harm those from whom my King shall lift his grace; to heal and help those upon whom my King’s grace shall descend.”
“While you serve me,” I answered, “I will honor you, respect you, and ask no service of you that will bring dishonor to my house or to yours. I will heed your councils, that we may find wisdom together. I will stand with you to defend those who cannot defend themselves. I will be faithful in love and loyal in friendship. I will uphold justice by being fair to all. I will forgive when asked, that my own mistakes will be forgiven.
“This is the oath of kings, and I give my oath now to you,” I recited, handing her the sword again. She took it in both hands and stared at it. It used to be a piece of sharpened steel. A familiar piece, to be sure, but ultimately a bar of metal with a handle at one end, a point at the other, and an edge in between. But now? Now, the magic of kings changed it. Into what? It would be no sharper, cut no deeper, parry no faster. It wasn’t that kind of magic—at least, I don’t think so. But now her sword was more than a sword. It was also a symbol of something. A very personal symbol. Her symbol. I’m not sure of what, exactly, but isn’t that the nature of personal symbols? They mean to us what they mean to us, not to everyone.
“Rise a knight, domin Malena.”
She did so and buckled on her sword.
“That’s one injustice fixed,” I observed. “And about time, too. I’m way behind on my quota. Let’s help Seldar finish the camp layout.”
She fell into step beside me, to my left, and a pace behind. I had a feeling she would stay there.
Rethven, Sunday, March 25th, Year 9
I spent most of the night with the Big Three plus One—Beltar was included in the planning. Since he’s the deveas of the whole Church, I expected he would stay home and mind the temples, but what do I know? Malena also joined us. She wasn’t glued to my side, but there was no getting away from her.
Seldar and I went over what we saw when the Salacian human wave attack came rolling in. I replayed my scrying views on a large mirror. Torvil and Kammen vividly described what it was like on the ground. Both viewpoints agreed: It was gruesome.
“I’m not sure,” Torvil added, “if we could have held them off even if the levies hadn’t broken.”
“Go on.”
“A deathblow is a deathblow,” he began, “but unless you have a great deal of training, magical weapons, and enormous strength, you don’t deal those very often.” He nodded to Malena. “Her skill is sufficient to kill a man with a single movement, but not all such blows will kill immediately. It may take seconds, even minutes before he realizes he’s dead. That’s why, when she wants to kill a man quickly, she will strike many times and rapidly—always trying for something vital, sometimes succeeding.” He nodded at Kammen. “When Kammen cuts someone in two, whatever remains attached to the head may, conceivably, continue to attempt to fight for a moment, but the target is effectively killed instantly. In most cases, though, you hit a man hard, deathblow or not, and he’s at least stunned.”
“And?”
“And these irregulars of Salacia… they weren’t. They shrugged off blows that would have stunned a horse. They were either dead or they were trying to kill you. I saw one man missing an arm and the opposite leg from the knee down. He was crawling forward, blood pumping out both stumps, until his body failed. They don’t feel pain—or they don’t care. Stopping them involves killing them, and if you do not kill them in that first blow, they will continue to come at you, forcing you to hit them again and possibly again, all the while their companions are piling on along with them. Green recruits can’t face that, and most soldiers can’t, either.”
“What of the shield-wall?” Seldar asked. “If they can be taught to lock shields to stop the rush, then slowly back away in unison, could they not avoid the pressure of a body-mountain and the breaking wave of flesh over the top?”
“Maybe, but they would need extensive training and a perfect battlefield. One man tripping over something is all it will take to open a hole like a broken keel in a ship.”
I winced. I’ve done that. It doesn’t end well for the ship.
“Gentlemen,” I interrupted. “I don’t want to put us in that situation. I’ve decided to land here and sweep through H’zhad’Eyn.”
“May I ask why?” Torvil inquired.
“First, it isn’t t
otally dominated by the Church. It’s a new acquisition and I hope to find allies along the way—at least, once we make it clear we’re only after Light-worshippers and have no interest in conquering the kingdom. Whoever the King of H’zhad’Eyn is, he’s welcome to keep his lands.”
“King Ectelerean,” Seldar supplied.
“Why am I not surprised you know that?”
“Because you know me.”
“Good point. So, King Ectelerean is welcome to reclaim his authority. We’re happy to help, in fact. Second, while we’re here, we’re going to get some practice on the battlefield. Hopefully, the only good trick the Church has is the human wave attack. If the waves are small enough, we’ll meet them head-on and see just how good we are. If they’re large, engulfing things, we’ll use our mobility to defend ourselves in a fighting retreat, stretching out their forces as they race after us, and we’ll kill them as they come.”
“Can we frighten ’em?” Kammen asked. “I know they didn’t have a problem dyin’ on spears, but you’re damn scary when you want to be.”
“I doubt their morale can be broken,” I admitted. “They’re not… hmm. The Church does something to them, a spell. The spell goes off and makes changes in them, but then the spell is done. The changes last for a while, though, making them stronger, faster, and incredibly fanatical.”
“So, we can’t dispel it, neither?”
“That’s right. The spell did its work and is gone by the time they get turned loose.”
“I’m taking a dislike to these priests.”
“Join the club. My guess is there’s nothing I can do to scare them. They’ll charge into the yawning mouth of a dragon to chase an enemy being swallowed, leap off cliffs to crush themselves to death on us, or cut off a hand so they can throw it with the other one. During combat, just assume they’re completely, insanely fanatical and bloodthirsty.”
