War Lands of Arhosa

by James Tallett

  The best thing he could do was break down the whole process into steps, and the first was clearly to train as many people as he could in the ways of war. The only benefit to him was that, somewhere along the depths of their history, the Cynddeir had been so good at combat that it still resided in their veins, their muscles, their very bones. Although he could hardly say it, those cravens who picked up a training stick and decided to fight back were already better than the dregs of the raiders, and with practice would soon match their very best. If they survived long enough to do so.

  Or if enough of them ever overcame their cowardice and reluctance. Cursing and shouting, Yenque paired the trainees with soldiers, as per Iaprem’s suggestion, and set those few sergeants and lieutenants left to scoring the bouts and ensuring the punishments were recorded and carried out fairly.

  That done, Yenque set off in search of Dregnon. He needed knowledge, and the kind that could only be found in the dusty tomes of the cobbled-together library found in the quartermaster’s office. And he needed the quartermaster himself.

  ***

  Gathered around Yenque were the soldiers and recruits of the first of the four units he was forming. Currently, there was almost two hundred and fifty soldiers in the old palace courtyard, although for most of them, the term “soldier” was more than excessively generous. Most had trained for mere days, and many, despite the actions suggested by Iaprem, still cowered when threatened.

  But they were the clay he had, and so he shaped them as he could. In this case, with words, rather than with deeds. Although not his words, but the words of Dregnon and his long forgotten scribes.

  “Today, we are going to read to you from the history of Cynddeir. The actions you hear were accomplished by your ancestors when they transformed this country into the land it became at the height of its power. They are called the War Lands, soldiers, and you will learn why we have earned the right to name ourselves that!”

  Yenque bowed to the lightest smattering of applause, and then stepped out of the way to allow Dregnon to take the podium. It’s all rather tragic, really, thought Yenque. Dregnon is standing atop the broken base of a pillar, speaking of things that are little more than myths and legends to the men listening to them. And whatever glory we once possessed is so clearly gone we have to lie to ourselves to believe it ever existed.

  But what was there was the great oratory of Dregnon, his voice rolling out over the audience, sonorous, slow, yet melodic. He had honed his talents under a descendant of the last court bard, and while there was no true comparison between his talents and those of a trained minstrel, his were still far above those heard in the daily life of Cynlyaa.

  Today’s reading had been picked specially by the council of leaders, with Iaprem making the final judgement on which stood most appropriate. What he chose, in the end, was the origin story of Cynddeir itself, the nearly legendary past when the great king Antiklon charged across the fertile plains, bringing one tribe after another under his control, until at the end there were no more lands inside the plains of Cynddeir to conquer. So instead he turned his sights outwards, and smashed all those who surrounded him, bringing them into the fold much as he had the tribes.

  But unlike all too many of his contemporaries, he had understood the concept of continued rule after his death, and trained and built a government that could do so. The wealth that began amassing under his reign would, in centuries much later than his own, be used to build the great cities of Cynddeir, and would in the end be the downfall of a kingdom once known for its warriors.

  The story today, though, was only about that first ride, the triumphant sweep across history that saw one and all fall beneath the feet of his foot soldiers. Other races had stood in their path, but none had possessed the ferocity or endurance of the Cynddeir warriors, and they all had crumbled, washed away before the tides of history.

  Those once conquered peoples were getting their own back, having charged into Cynddeir from the surrounding territory as the empire of Arhosa collapsed, and the rich places within it were left vulnerable. The vast and varied racial makeup of that empire had hardly helped, for it had kept antagonisms long suppressed, antagonisms that flared into a new and vicious light with the collapse.

  Another eye turned towards the crowd that gathered on the old palace courtyard saw more and more civilians drifting in from outside, each of them listening to Dregnon’s voice as it echoed and rolled from the collapsed stone walls. They stood amidst the grave of a civilization, but it was a majestic, monumental mausoleum, a mausoleum that spoke of ancient wonders and supreme power.

  Perhaps, if Iaprem’s wildest dreams came true and the Cynddeir were able to return to their glorious past, cities like Cynlyaa should be left as they were, glorious ruins, reminders of the age gone by. But Yenque knew that vigilance always faded during an age of plenty, and that given enough time, even reminders such as this would be broken down and removed to make way for another palace, or perhaps a summer retreat for the wealthy nobility.

  When at last Dregnon came to the end of his speech, there was little in the way of outright applause, but rather rapt wonder as thoughts that had never before occurred to the listeners wormed their way into their heads. Equally, Yenque could see there were others unaffected by such majestic visions, their hearts too wrapped in the failings of the here and now to be elevated beyond their own sad station.

  Those who had heard the message and believed in it stayed, asking questions of Dregnon, pestering him with ideas and renewed vigour, while those from whom it had rebounded slipped away to their hovels and holes, disappearing into the structure like so many vermin. Perhaps they were no higher than those creatures.

  But, that meant there were more warriors this afternoon than there were this morning, an improvement that could never be discounted. And there were more tellings of this tale to be made, for Dregnon had only spoken to one of the four cohorts. The others would receive readings from the same time, but of different actions, different campaigns, each one overcoming an insurmountable hardship. Much as they might have grown in the passage of time, these tales were still true at their core, and all the more inspirational as a result.

  Perhaps Yenque would deliver an army unto Iaprem after all.

  ***

  It was a panicked and upset messenger who burst in upon the three leaders in council.

  “They’re back! Southern approach!” was all he was able to gasp out before collapsing on the floor.

  One glance between the three men and they were off, Iaprem and Yenque sprinting for the armoury, Dregnon to his place among the civilian population. All the while, they shouted the news down the corridors as they ran, sending men scurrying hither and yon, although with the speed with which the raiders came, there was little that could be done to react in time.

  The armoury, when they arrived at it, was a madhouse of men pulling on rusty chainmail shirts and grabbing the iron swords from their racks upon the walls. Shields made of wood lay stacked upon the stone near the doors, and were the last thing grasped as the soldiers sprinted towards the exits.

  Yet above all, what Iaprem noticed as he came into the room was the sour taste of fear. Clearly, the soldiers could sense it too, for they were nervous, shaky, and the new recruits were all but wetting themselves in frightened anticipation. One even attempted to flee, his sword clattering to the ground with a noise that grasped everyone’s attention.

  Too far away for Iaprem to grab, his shouts of “Stop! Coward!” did little more than make the nervousness more widespread. Only when he turned his powerful gaze on the men around him did the murmurs and the whispers quiet.

  He sighed. Others were surely slipping away when they should be going to the walls, although likely none quite so blatantly. Whatever hope Dregnon had placed in the experiment of turning citizens into soldiers was being sorely put to the test on this day.

  At last, Iaprem was able to have an armourer help him with his gear, which was, unlike the aged chainmail given to t
he soldiers who served under him, full plate mail, a suit handed down from father to son in his family for an age. It was heavy and constricting, being built for his ancestor and not him, but even with the ill fit the protection it offered was nothing short of exemplary, so sturdy was the craftsmanship that had gone into its creation. And with it came the claymore of his ancestors, one of the very few magical weapons still remaining within the walls of Cynlyaa.

  Grasped with two hands at the hilt, the blade lit into sparkling blue flame, a glowing torch that served as his personal banner in battle.

  Beside him, Yenque finished climbing into one of the few other suits of plate mail that remained, his, like Iaprem’s, a gift from the nobility that had once made up his lineage. Being closer in size to the man for whom the armour was originally intended, Yenque was able to move a touch more freely on the battlefield, necessary given his odd choice of weapon.

  Most of the soldiers who served in the cohorts of Cynlyaa were either equipped with the remaining swords they had been able to keep in service, or failing that, spears and flails made from whatever lay to hand. There were also some few bows and javelins, although mostly the need for ranged weaponry was met by slings and sling staves filled with crumbled stone. But Yenque, whose choices were often a tad unusual, wielded not one but two morningstars, each imbued with some minor form of magic, although neither to the level of Iaprem’s claymore.

  Together, the two leaders of Cynlyaa’s army charged out to meet the threat of battle.

  ***

  “How are we doing?” Iaprem and Yenque had just arrived on the walls overlooking the southern approaches to the old palace, to see before them a heated scuffle, mostly obscured by collapsed buildings and hasty barricades.

  The sergeant on the walls was the man to respond. “Not well, I think. They picked the homes of those living outside the walls, and were able to grab much of what little lay within.”

  “So why are they fighting now?”

  “They aren’t, really. They’re skirmishing in retreat, taking the measure of our new soldiers without really risking themselves much.”

  “Damn! So any surprise we might have had is long gone, along with whatever belonged to those who lived outside the walls. How many people do you think were affected?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Raiders had a hundred, maybe two hundred. So, a third of those outside the walls?”

  “Any casualty reports as of yet?”

  “None, and I wouldn’t expect any for the next bit, either. They’re still skirmishing, after all, and some of our folks ain’t too happy about what’s happened either.”

  Cursing and muttering to himself, Iaprem silenced the flame that wound along his blade before sitting on the edge of the ramparts, legs dangling over the drop.

  Beside him, Yenque leant onto one of the few crenellations still in proper repair.

  “Well, this was a kick in the teeth. All those new men under arms, and the raiders still come and go with impunity.”

  “Do you think they kidnapped people this time?”

  “I’m sure of it.” Iaprem sighed. In times past, the raiders had taken women and children to be their servants, and had no doubt done so again with those they had been able to get their hands on. Of course, given the raiders had a variety of monstrous and semi-monstrous creatures amongst them, some of the captives had likely only made it as far as the stewpot.

  “We knew this was going to keep happening, Iaprem. They weren’t going to stop coming because we put spears in the hands of peasants.”

  “Allow a man his false hopes, would you? Even after they’ve been torn down. Because without hope, why the hell are we still fighting?”

  “For love of family, and life?”

  All that received in answer was a glance from Iaprem, a glance that said everything. Iaprem’s wife and child had been lost to the raids some years ago, and while there had never been any word about them since, both men knew they were almost certainly dead.

  “Okay, perhaps not. But there must be some reason to keep carrying on, even if it is but a faint one.”

  “You’re going to have to invent one for me, Yenque, because otherwise I am going to die a man old before his time, swinging his sword against some foul troglodyte while a goblin stabs me in the back.”

  “For glory, then.”

  “What glory is there in being overrun by bandits? There will be no bards to tell my tale, no scribes to write it, no artists to paint it. No, if I’m lucky I’ll be in an unmarked grave by the side of some ruined building in Cynlyaa. If I’m unlucky, my corpse will become a turd shat out by the beast that ate me.”

  Yenque laughed. “You do have quite a way with words, Iaprem. And there you have what we’re fighting for – not becoming goblin turds.”

  Even Iaprem had to smile at that. “Oh, what inspirational words you speak. I can feel my heart rising to meet them.”

  “Yes, well, your backside should be rising too, since it looks like one of the lieutenants is coming to speak with us.”

  With that, the two men levered themselves up from the positions in which they reposed, and trundled down the stairs, taking them carefully in their plate armour.

  The report was, more or less, as expected. A few men dead, a few wounded, some women and children taken, and a modicum of goods stolen. The only thing of worth was that there were so few goods left to those residing outside the walls that the thefts were mostly inconsequential. Except, there would be those families that had lost their last heirlooms, and they would be inconsolable, and angry. Without being able to turn their anger on the raiders, they would turn it on Yenque, and Dregnon, and he, for being unable to do their sole duty, and protect those of Cynlyaa. It was a charge he had failed far too often.

  ***

  “What do we do to stop this from happening again?” Iaprem was furious, storming from one side to another of the small room he called an office.

  “Stop the raiders? Nothing. We haven’t been able to stop them for years. Why should we suddenly be able to do so now? We’re always spread too thin. Sure, if we concentrate our forces and they’re foolish enough to go straight at them, then we’re more than a match. But we can’t force them to that point.”

  Iaprem muttered, his face deep in thought.

  “What if we could force them to that point? How many soldiers would you be able to bring to bear?”

  “Right now, perhaps three hundred. The rest of those we’ve forcibly enrolled into the army are still the craven peasants they were before their training began. Sure, some of the men and women show signs of being useful, but it’s only signs. It will take an age of training before they don’t flee when battle joins.”

  “And what are our best estimates on the raiders?”

  “The maximum we’ve ever guessed as a total is five hundred, but that doesn’t take into account things like camp followers or the strengths of the various species that are thieving from us. Honestly, we barely have a clue, since we’ve never pushed out and attacked their base. We’ve always been too scared.”

  “Don’t I know it. I’ve been watching Cynlyaa decline and crumble all around me since I took my first steps on her cobbled streets. Unless we make these lands secure, we’re never going to survive. With what we have now, I’ll be surprised if the crop harvest doesn’t fail in a year, and we watch our friends starving to death.”

  “So you propose a last ditch gamble, throwing everything into a single strike and praying for the right outcome. Death or glory, is that it?”

  “We’ve walked our current path for a long, long time, you and I. We know what lies at its end. So we step off the path, leap as far away from it as we can. What better way to do that than charge into the teeth of those who have harassed us all these years?”

  Yenque smiled. “I agree, but we’re going to need numbers on our side, and that means time. How long do I have?”

  “It’s spring now, which means the peasants are busy planting what crops they can manage. Call
it late summer. That’s when we strike.”

  A deeply shared smile, a giddy smile, flashed back and forth between the two friends. Perhaps it was a foolish plan, but at last they had a plan that could result in the salvation of their people, and a time frame within which to act. Digging through the broken cupboard at the back of the office, Iaprem pulled forth a dirty glass bottle, liquid sloshing in it when held up to the light.

  Toasts were exchanged, a great many of them, to bravery and honour, Fasnachu and Hannhangnefedd, Lady Luck and War. It was a revelry that drew strange looks from the men who passed by the door to the room, and when at last Dregnon was summoned to see what had happened to his comrades, he found them dead drunk, slumped against walls and floors, at last with smiles on their faces.

  Whatever it was that had caused those smiles to come to be was surely something they would inform him of when next they regained consciousness, and so he directed a few of the men nearby to carry Iaprem and Yenque to their cots, and leave them there until such time as the ringing in their heads ceased.

  ***

  What came next was not of Iaprem’s making, or of Yenque’s. Rather than being left to sleep in the peace which their plans had earned, they found themselves roughly shaken awake, dragged from their cots with heads ringing, making the voices that shouted at them all the more unintelligible and painful.

  Holding up a hand, Iaprem bellowed at those around him. “Quiet! Now, you…” He pointed, then spun about. “Or maybe you… Bah! One of you three senior people tell me what the hell is going on? And stop swaying!”

  The one in the middle stepped forward. Of course, so did those on either side of him. Forsaking dignity, Iaprem slumped back down onto his cot and waved a hand, gesturing for the lieutenant to begin.

  “We’ve been invested.”

  “By what? Termites? We already knew that.”

  “The raiders. Although at this point, calling them that seems a bit wrong. They’ve surrounded the old palace.”

  Iaprem shot bolt upright, nearly collapsing as his head struggled to deal with the sudden reorientation. “Surrounded us? Here? Where are the citizens who were outside the walls?”