The Chronicles of Caylen-Tor

by Byron A. Roberts

  “Nomedes was undermanned and ill prepared,” countered Demetrius. “A strategic error which will not be committed again. The remaining Gul fortresses are now fully garrisoned. Rest assured, we are ready.”

  Aegidius laughed mordantly. “Unopposed, the imperial army passed through the gate at the Wall of Lithios and razed the spires of the trade cities to the ground. Unopposed, the imperial navy sailed five hundred triremes up the Kandakis River to besiege Gul-Nomedes. And unopposed, the emperor has now marched his legions to this very fortress. The Crown has been woefully slow to react and the aegis of the Over-King will ultimately count for naught. I pray it is not too late to save the Vyrgothian realm.”

  “Thank you, Captain Aegidius,” said Kleitos quietly. “I shall be sure to relay your critique of the war council’s stratagems directly to His Majesty when next I visit the royal court.”

  Aegidius sighed and said no more.

  “At any rate, I have also prepared certain other defensive measures,” Kleitos said, his gaze sweeping the assembly. “Measures against which steel and siegecraft will scarce avail the foe.”

  “Enough prattle!” growled Haakon. “What of our pay? We have yet to settle up for the full amount.”

  “All covenants will be honoured by the treasury,” sighed Quartermaster Demetrius wearily. “And there will be no discussion of wages at this, the eleventh hour!”

  Caylen leaned close to Viseth. “Let’s just hope we survive to spend our coin,” he whispered.

  Viseth nodded solemnly and made the sign of the protective scarab. “Gods of the Twelve Temples be merciful!”

  “My Vyrgothian regulars will serve as our main line of defence,” Kleitos enounced. “They are steadfast men. Most are veterans of the border wars and they are no strangers to siege and skirmish. These walls will not be easily breached.”

  Suddenly, Mazares stepped forth from the chamber’s shadows and spoke, his words uttered in the guttural dialect of the eastern satrapies.

  Quartermaster Demetrius scowled. “Does anyone here speak the Anatak tongues?”

  Viseth smiled as he translated the warrior’s words. “He said that he hopes your men have made peace with whatever gods they pray to, for they shall be meeting them ere long.”

  Suddenly, General Kleitos hammered his gauntleted fist down upon the rostrum before him. “Silence! I will tolerate no sedition within these walls! The scaffold awaits any man whose words adversely affect the morale of this fortress. Mark me on this, for it is my solemn oath!”

  No one in the room deigned to reply.

  “Now, I suggest you all get some rest,” glowered Kleitos. “Tomorrow will be a very long day.” With that, he strode from the chamber followed by his retinue of Vyrgothian officers.

  Haakon watched the men depart, then sighed heavily and picked up his empty flagon from the table. “Well then,” he grinned. “Who’s going to join me for a drink?”

  Chiyome fixed the northman with a withering glare. “Fool. How can you drink yourself into a stupor on the eve of battle?”

  “Ah, my delightful little harpy,” Haakon replied, smiling broadly at the woman. “The real question is, how can you not?”

  Chapter III

  A Benighted Lament

  Beneath a waning crescent moon, Caylen prowled the battlements of Gul-Azlaan. Slumber had not come easily to him, so he had slipped silently from the barracks to walk the great walls and ponder the impending battle. Never before had he faced an army such as that which now marched upon the ancient fortress. Since leaving his tribal homelands nearly ten years ago, he had lived the perilous but rousing life of an adventurer, eventually earning considerable renown as a sword-for-hire amongst the warring nations beyond the southern frontier. Serving in the warbands and private armies of ambitious barons and ructious satraps had ultimately led him to the unceasing war between the Imperium and the Vyrgothian Alliance, during which his martial skills had swiftly won him a tidy sum in gold and silver. When word came that the Over-King was recruiting mercenaries to garrison the remaining Vyrgothian fortresses, Caylen had enlisted in the defensive battalion of Gul-Azlaan like so many other sell-swords and roving war-hirds. The lustrous lure of southern silver had been beguiling, but as he gazed out at the benighted desert and considered the colossal host which now closed inexorably upon him, Caylen could not help but wonder whether a purse full of foreign coin was truly worth a bloody and ignominious death upon a desolate, sand-scored rampart.

  “So, you cannot sleep, either?” came a sudden voice from the darkness.

  Caylen spun to see Viseth lithely ascending the narrow stone steps from the lower levels. He held an ornate pipe carved from a mastodon tusk from which a tendril of pale smoke rose lazily into the night air.

  “That’s a big army out there, Viseth,” replied Caylen sullenly.

  “That I grant you,” Viseth said, drawing at his pipe and exhaling a plume of exotically scented smoke. “But the size of the army does not always decide the outcome of a battle.”

  “Then you think the fortress can hold?”

  Viseth smiled. “I’m no prophet or seer. What the Fates have decreed for this place, I do not pretend to know. But nothing is ever certain, my young friend.”

  “Nothing save for death,” Caylen muttered. “If these walls are breached, we die.”

  “There is truth in that,” assented Viseth. “By and large, the Imperium takes no prisoners. The non-commissioned officers and the regular troops will be massacred or conscripted. The higher ranks may be ransomed or slain, depending on the emperor’s mood. As for any captured mercenaries, well… I dare not speculate.”

  Caylen gazed up at the lambent moon, his hand closing around the hammer-shaped amulet which he wore about his neck. “This will be the biggest battle I’ve seen. It will be a fine test of my fortitude. May the gods ensure that my steel never misses its mark in the fray.”

  “Get yourself a good curved sword, my friend,” Viseth said, tapping the hilt of his scimitar. “They are far superior to your northern blades.”

  Caylen slowly drew his broadsword from its leather scabbard, the moonlight glinting upon its chalybeous, rune-etched steel. The weapon’s hilt was bound in leather and its lobed, wedge-shaped pommel was inlaid with bright copper. Engraved knotwork bands adorned the sword’s stout crossguard and its blade tapered to a fearsome, needle-sharp point.

  “I favour the straight sword,” Caylen said. “It’s much better for thrusting and parrying. And it’s far more effective against chainmail armour than your fancy eastern meat-cleavers.”

  Viseth grinned. “Ah, but the curved blade can be drawn faster, and it has more of a cutting area than your northlander steel. And of course, a scimitar’s angle of attack is far superior.”

  Caylen scowled and rammed his blade back into its scabbard. “I’ll not debate bladecraft with you, Viseth. And if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stick with Wolf’s Tooth.”

  Viseth nodded. “As you wish. And that is a good name for a sword, I grant you.”

  “And what do you call yours?” asked Caylen.

  “Yasmina. After a woman I knew when I was younger. She was beautiful and elegant, but she could cut a man to the quick. It seemed appropriate.”

  “I’ve known a fair few wenches like that.”

  “What man has not?” muttered Viseth.

  Caylen sighed heavily. “I fear these walls cannot be long defended. When I ponder the outcome of this siege, I foresee only ruin.”

  “The solution is deceptively simple,” Viseth replied, a gleam in his eye. “Don’t be here at the end.”

  “Retreat?” whispered Caylen. “That smacks of nithingswerk.”

  “A well-timed withdrawal can often represent the wisest of strategies.”

  “You have extensive experience of this?” asked Caylen.

  Viseth grinned. “How do you think I’ve survived this long, boy?”

  “I simply assumed you were blessed by the gods.”

  Laughter s
uddenly welled in Viseth’s throat, but there was scant little humour in the sound. “My friend, back home in Numadai I have one insufferable wife and twelve children. I was never a wealthy man, so I was forced to ponder what I could do to support such a splendid brood. I considered becoming a spice merchant like my brother, but I decided that the boredom would probably kill me within a year. As it happens, I have always had something of a gift for fighting, so after careful deliberation I chose the life of a sell-sword. Not surprisingly, I found that I was rather good at bladecraft and butchery. At any rate, over the years I have amassed enough gold and jewels to provide a very comfortable life for my family. And yet I have not returned home. Not once. In truth, the longer I spend away from them, the more I realize how much I prefer being out here at the frontier between life and death, roving and slaying, living every day as if it were my last and savouring the heady thrill of the battlefield. Such is my burden, not my blessing. Such is my secret shame.”

  For a long moment, neither man spoke. Then, Caylen turned to Viseth. “Twelve children?”

  Viseth smiled wryly, refilling his pipe with the russet flakes of a redolent herb. “As far as I can recall.”

  “No wonder you left.”

  “Indeed,” Viseth sighed. “Now lad, what else vexes you this night?”

  Caylen’s brow furrowed and he turned once more to gaze out at the night-clad dunes. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday. About unity and strength. My clans are constantly at war with one another, perpetuating undying conflicts which date back many generations; battling over ancestral names, tribal borders and blood-oaths sworn so long ago that no man recalls why the damned vow was even made in the first place. What if one day an army such as the Imperium marches against my homeland? How could we hope to defeat such a foe if we are too busy fighting amongst ourselves? Perhaps it is time my people were united. Perhaps it is time one king ruled the clans.”

  Viseth nodded. “There speaks wisdom, young Caylen. Mayhap your destiny calls you.”

  “If I survive this siege, I will go north,” Caylen declared solemnly.

  A sudden movement in the tenebrous half-light caught the attention of both men and they spun, hands on their sword-hilts.

  Poised atop a parapet to their left was a tall man clad in voluminous sable robes. A deep cowl concealed his features and he grasped a gnarled wooden staff encarved with glyphs and arcane symbols.

  “Where did you spring from?” barked Viseth.

  The hooded man stared intently into the night, his gaze sweeping the aphotic expanse of the desert. “The Circlet of Night… its resting place has been discovered,” he hissed.

  Viseth frowned. “What did you say?”

  The man slowly turned to regard them. His gaunt face held a deathly pallor and his sapphirean eyes seemed to glow faintly in the darkness. “The Obsidian Crown has been found.”

  “What does that mean?” Caylen asked.

  The black-clad man turned back to study the desert. “To you, nothing. To the kings and emperors who play this grim game of war… it will represent the difference between supremacy and damnation.”

  Viseth sighed wearily. “A wizard. They always speak in riddles. Veiled meanings and cryptic nonsense. Pay him no heed, Caylen.”

  The robed man spun to address Viseth. “The truth in my words is clear to those with the wit to descry it, outlander.”

  “Well, unless you’re a battle-mage, I care naught for you,” snapped Viseth. “Of what use will you be during the siege, wizard? Will you summon a djinn to rain fire down upon the foe?”

  The man laughed coldly. “Such a vulgar display of arcane power is beneath me, sirrah. You know nothing of the subtleties of my art. At any rate, I favour the more… earthly rites.”

  Viseth scowled. “Aye. I thought as much.”

  Suddenly the cowled man began to descend the stone stairway to the courtyard, his black cloak billowing behind him. “We all must pay tribute to the gods of war,” he rasped as he disappeared into the gloom. “But for some of us, the sacrifice demanded will be greater. Now take heed, for the foe is upon you.”

  Caylen and Viseth turned to stare out at the dunes just as a score of plangent Vyrgothian war-horns sounded the alarm across the lofty ramparts. In the distance, the glow of thousands of torches could be seen illuminating the darkness. Slowly, the horizon began to blaze with an undulating radiance which rivalled the rising of a midsummer sun. The legions of the Imperium had arrived at Gul-Azlaan.

  Chapter IV

  The Secret of the Shifting Sands

  Caylen stood upon the battlements with Viseth and Haakon, gazing down at the assembled might of the imperial host. As the dawn had broken, the legions had erected many thousands of tents and picketed their hundreds of horses and camels. The enemy’s camp was astir with activity as the regiments busied themselves with the myriad preparations for the impending clash. The army’s colossal siege engines, vast three-tiered scaffolds perched on iron axles and great wheels of solid cedar, had been moved laboriously into position and now stood adjacent to an array of large mangonels, onagers and battering rams.

  “There certainly are a lot of them,” growled Haakon, adjusting his knotwork-etched iron helmet.

  Caylen sighed. “Indeed, there are.”

  “Caylen, did I ever tell you that my no-good, wayward half-brother Wulfgar fights as a sell-sword for the Imperium, bringing dishonour to the Egilsson family name?”

  “You did not, my friend. What will you do if you meet him in the fray?”

  A wide grin spread across the northman’s bearded face. “Gut the little bastard, of course!”

  Caylen and Viseth smiled as Haakon hefted his axe and began to descend the wooden ladder to the lower levels.

  “Where are you going?” Caylen called after him.

  “For a drink,” Haakon shouted back. “They won’t attack for a while.”

  “He’s right,” muttered Viseth. “They will make us wait. First, we must endure the formalities.”

  As if on cue, a trio of riders began cantering from the imperial camp. At length, they reined in their mounts before the wall and waited silently. Moments later, the great western gate yawned clangorously open to allow two Vyrgothian horsemen through.

  “And so, the terms are duly offered,” Viseth said, watching as the riders exchanged words far below.

  “What do you think they’re saying?” Caylen asked.

  “Oh, the usual wearisome speeches between heralds,” Viseth muttered. “His supreme majesty the divine Emperor Koord demands that you open these gates and surrender this fortress. The lives of your men shall be spared, and all that nonsense. And of course, the standard response is being given.”

  “To hell with your cursed emperor?” grinned Caylen.

  “Words to that effect, no doubt.”

  Below, the imperial riders wheeled their mounts and began to gallop back to their army’s camp. In turn, the Vyrgothian horsemen withdrew into the fortress as the vast gate thundered balefully shut. The defenders waited silently as the sun slowly rose to its zenith in the cloudless sky. Many warriors lining the battlements hefted sturdy iron-pronged poles with which to repel siege ladders, while others filled pottery jugs with noisome concoctions of pitch, oil and resin to hurl down upon the foe.

  “Ah, here comes the grand proclamation,” Viseth said, gesturing to the battlements.

  Caylen watched as General Kleitos stalked to the highest parapet of the western wall. The man’s armour glinted in the sunlight and his cerulean cloak billowed about him as he removed his barbute helm and addressed the assembled Vyrgothian troops.

  “No fancy speeches from me,” the general boomed. “I’m a fighting man, not a poet. Hold this fortress! The Over-King commands it! Defend these walls with your lives!”

  With that, Kleitos replaced his helmet and began his descent to the courtyard.

  “Very rousing,” muttered Viseth mordantly. “That’s certainly filled the troops with renewed confide
nce.”

  Still tracking the general’s movements, Caylen noticed him glance suddenly upward at the walls and nod almost imperceptibly. Swiftly following Kleitos’ gaze, Caylen immediately spied a familiar cowled figure atop the ramparts, clutching a gnarled staff. The hooded man subtly acknowledged the general’s signal and turned slowly to regard the imperial host.

  “Something’s afoot,” Caylen whispered.

  Viseth glanced at him. “Eh? Did you say something?”

  The resonant clarion of a Vyrgothian war-horn abruptly split the relative silence and a defender perched atop the western watchtower bellowed the alarm. “Prepare for bombardment!”

  Caylen squinted into the distance, piercing the heat-haze to witness the colossal arms of the imperial mangonels being drawn inexorably back by scores of hard-muscled troops. “So, it begins!” he hissed.

  Scant seconds later, a murderous storm of jagged boulders filled the sky. The great slabs of granite spiralled languidly through the air, accompanied by a sound akin to the howling of a mournful wind. For a single, time-lost moment the world suddenly seemed to fall deathly silent and still, then the ruinous rain of stones struck the walls of Gul-Azlaan with a thunderous, ear-splitting cacophony, shaking the ancient battlements and sending up vast clouds of viscid dust and debris. Men were dashed to red pulp by the impact and a great section of the upper wall shuddered and cracked as huge chunks of the ramparts crumbled away to fall slowly to the sand far below.

  And yet the hoary walls held firm.

  Brushing fragments of stone from his hair, Caylen clambered to his feet and gazed out at the imperial army. Already the mangonel crews were preparing their vast engines of destruction for another pitiless, cataclysmic volley.

  “We won’t stand much more of this,” spat Viseth, ashen-faced.

  Suddenly, a sound became apparent to the defenders of the fortress. It was a fell sound vaguely akin to words, but voiced in a baleful tongue which no man present could scarce fathom. Beginning as a sibilant whisper and rising swiftly to a sonorous, magniloquent pitch, the ireful incantation crested the clamorous wave of the battlefield and rang out across the blighted vista like a storm-borne thunderclap.