“I don’t know but I have faith. If the Black beats me there, I will take the Staff to its place of creation and destroy it.” The words came so easily, he knew they weren’t his thoughts. Voices of long dead ancestors whispered to him, quietly urging him in the right direction necessary to save the world.
“Men haven’t set foot in Sadith Oom for many years. No one even knows if the forge of wizards is still intact,” Dlorn countered.
Mordrun Hath. Aron shook his head. He didn’t know where the name came from, for it was one he’d never heard.
“I have never run from a fight,” Dlorn vented, some of his anger dissipating. “I will not do so now. If the darklings are already on this side of the river, I need to adjust the defenses. Find me Captain Calri. I think we will be going back out tonight.”
His aide, who’d been standing patiently a few steps away, saluted and hurried away.
“I will do everything I can to help you in your quest, though there are additional matters transpiring I fear you don’t know. All I ask is that you keep Galdarath safe,” Dlorn said.
“Agreed. What matters?” Aron answered without pause.
“The Rovers are mobilized and moving in force. Scouts report them in Trimlon now, but they have turned south toward the Unchar Pass.”
“We have a garrison in Unchar. Almost three hundred men,” Aron said.
Dlorn mused. “And if the Black has already thought of this? He is a warrior first. Your three hundred won’t be much more than a delay against an army of Rovers with darkling aid. We need to stop the enemy here, even if only for a week or two. By doing so, we buy the rest of the world a little precious time to prepare. It’s a three hour ride to Felbar’s castle. He had close to five thousand men defending his immediate holdings and estates. He may be able to help you. I was going there tonight, if you would like to accompany me.”
Aron and Amean exchanged approving looks. “That works, if you’ll be back in time to lead your foray.”
“Don’t worry about me. If you will excuse me, I have much to accomplish and a short time in which to do so.”
Field Marshal Dlorn walked off, strapping his well-used broadsword to his waist. Aron admired the warrior, despite their tempered conversation. A man like Dlorn knew and understood who and what he fought for. Dlorn was one of the most respected veterans in the Free Lands. An invaluable asset necessary in the dark days to come. Any differences they had now needed to be quashed before they could proceed.
The soft chirps and howls of a pair of snow owls sang across the lightly forested river basin, an eerie tune accompanying the small, dark shapes writhing across the land. The black mass moved like a great serpent. The darklings, intent on their mission, paused as the sound of distant thunder rumbled over their ranks. Odd, for not a cloud adorned the sky. Suddenly, the sound became clear. Darklings cringed, hissing that turned to menacing chatter.
Several hundred cavalrymen thundered out of the night, barreling into the front darkling ranks. Lances were lowered. Dozens of darklings were skewered, impaled in the first moments of the battle. Screams soon followed, some from the darklings, others from wounded horses. Riders were torn from their saddles and stabbed to death before they had the chance to defend.
Captain Calri rode through the center of the charge, while trying to maintain at least a measure of control. He’d caught the enemy by surprise but they reacted much quicker than even Dlorn anticipated. The deeper his cavalry wedge penetrated, the more chance the darkling flanks could respond and counter. If his unit slowed even a fraction, they might become trapped and slaughtered.
Calri barked orders and miraculously, one in three riders managed to disengage and surge off in a new attack direction. The darklings broke under this added strain. Those who could, retreated in disarray. Those who couldn’t, were run down ruthlessly. Calri knew that pausing the assault would erode momentum and give the enemy much needed time to recover. The wedge of armor and horse wheeled and drove toward the closest bridge. Darklings were trampled along the way. He knew, as did most of his command, that every darkling killed now was one less they had to deal with in the latter stages of the war.
He dropped back in the column, settling in with his rearguard of fifty elven archers. Their sole purpose was to set the bridge on fire, while his cavalry provided cover. Elves were precious and few. He’d been given instructions not to let a single hair on their heads get singed. Unwilling to face the consequences of failure, Calri intended to do just that. Elven bows were a deep strike asset the Galdeans lacked.
Squad sergeants and young officers issued orders as they rode. Darklings dropped back in knots of three or four but failed to make any significant impact. The horsemen barreled ahead and were upon the bridge much sooner than expected. A trail of cooling bodies marked their passing. From his observation point along the river bank, Calri just made out the last of the darklings cross the far side of the bridge. He tried, unsuccessfully, to search the far bank but night was too complete. Inherent dangers of fighting at night plagued the speed and veracity with which he liked to fight, but caution was paramount to success. Those darklings he did make out were massed together, paralytic with evident confusion.
“Archers,” Calri ordered. His voice was soft to avoid drawing unwanted attention. Should the darklings gain composure before the bridge was alight, he wasn’t positive his force could extract in time.
The elves lined up three deep, while several foot soldiers moved through the ranks with torches. Jerns Palic, the stern elf captain, raised an arm once the last torch was lit. His angular face reflected the shimmer of water. Narrow eyes studied the darklings, recalling the atrocities committed when Dol’ir fell. Naught but contempt boiled through his veins. Poised to give the final command, sudden commotion in the trees to their right flank drew his attention.
Darklings sprung forth, felling several men and elves before the Galdean task force recovered enough to shore their defenses. Calri quickly reinforced the flank, while staving off an ill-fated frontal assault back over the bridge. The thunder of a thousand feet crunching over snow and ice came from yet a third direction as a fast approaching darkling force aimed to end the battle and preserve their route of march into the valley of the Twins.
The bridge in danger of falling, Calri drew his sword and led a company onto the weathered planks. “Consolidate ranks! Let no darkling near the archers!”
Jerns Palic took in the flow of battle and knew there wouldn’t be a more opportune time. His arm fell. “Fire!”
Fifty flaming missiles scorched trails across the night sky. They struck hard, deep in wood and flesh. Darkling screams were rivaled by the intensity of awakening flames. Those not struck by the first salvo were hit by the second and third. Calri’s raiders succeeded in clearing the bridge long enough for the entire length to catch flame.
Fighting raged on for another hour until the darklings were steadily beaten into submission. Unfortunately for the Galdeans, their fervor for attack heightened once the bridge became impassable. Cutoff from their army, those darklings on the wrong side of the river made the Galdeans pay for each life taken. There was no real contest, however, Calri and his force overwhelmed and eliminated the darklings. The sickening stench of charred flesh and hair accompanied the defenders on the cold ride back to camp.
SEVEN
Lord Felbar
They rode like ghosts through the sleeping village surrounding Greyhawk Keep. Dlorn guided them through three picket lines, taking time to point out the hastily built bulwarks and entrenched defenses Lord Felbar felt would prevent the darklings from taking his castle. Spike filled trenches stretched in each direction off the main road, while cauldrons of oil were mounted strategically atop old buildings and natural rock formations. Alert guards patrolled the trenches. Dlorn was glad to see Felbar’s men had learned from Galdarath’s mistakes and were prepared to deal with an airborne assault as well.
The town itself was largely insignificant, so small, in fact, it had no name. Nor did many
live there. A few of Felbar’s minor relatives and most of his home army made it their home, but without an ingrained logistical center, the Twins was forced to rely on outside trade in order to function properly. And Lord Felbar had no trouble obtaining that support. He was the logical choice to succeed Elian, provided Elsyn was unfit for rule or got killed before the war ended, even if he had no actual desire to languish under the burden of crown.
Dlorn rode in the lead, for he’d been to Greyhawk Keep more times than he could easily count. The others were content with following. Aron most of all. There’d be more than enough time, too much in his modest opinion, for the anguish of command. Any respite was greatly appreciated.
“Felbar is as strong as royalty comes,” Dlorn explained, as the rusted gates of Greyhawk Keep closed with a groan. “But he’s also brash and likely to fly off the handle on a whim.”
“More reserved, I’d say,” Aron commented.
The Field Marshal scowled. “He’s no fool. Loyalty is a tender thing to have. One not given easily. These people here have placed their trust in him to do the right thing. Felbar won’t abandon them, not when it means stealing from the defenses and leaving their families unprotected. This town wouldn’t hold up for an hour if the army pulled out.”
Stable hands rushed out from side doors and took the horses after Aron’s party dismounted. Dlorn gave instructions that they were to be saddled and ready to ride within two hours. An escort was offered to take the party to Felbar and was politely refused. The page did go on ahead to alert Felbar his guests had arrived. Soldiers and various visiting merchants and dignitaries watched as the unlikely group of, now seven, westerners and southerners awkwardly made their way through the outer courtyard.
Few others were about. The hour was already late and there was need of rest, if the reports coming from the river were true. How any army could be as large as the scouts’ reported was beyond belief. At some point, numbers stopped rising and simply became pure death. A pair of wolfhounds, their long grey fur scruffy and unkempt, sat beneath a torch-lit porch. Their piercing eyes watched the strangers closely; their noses sniffing deep. To Aron’s surprise, the dogs fell in, almost too obediently, behind them.
Felbar’s private chambers were open and inviting as the page ushered them in. Aron took in the surroundings with melancholy. Despite the shelves containing rare books and, even rarer, bottles of liquor from across the Free Lands, it felt akin to Marshal Sevron’s chambers back in Saverin. Familiarity meant more than raw titles. His gaze fell on Felbar, the portly lord seated on his favorite cushioned chair before a quiet fire and enjoying a goblet of wine. He rose with the grace of a much smaller man and gestured them to sit. Elsyn smiled upon seeing him but said nothing.
“Princess, it is good to see you again,” Felbar wasted no time. “Dlorn, you as well.” Who are your new friends?”
“You remember Prince Andolus and Long Shadow. The others come from the Hierarchy garrison in Saverin. This is Lord Aron Kryte and Amean Repage of the Golden Warriors. Last is Karin Ilth. She has the ability to see.”
“Greetings to all, though they fall in bitter days,” Felbar said sincerely.
Aron picked up the hidden agenda buried in his tone. No doubt every lord and noble from here down to Meisthelm has special concessions in mind while dealing with the Black. How much will this cost the High Council before they decide to put life above all else?
“I am intrigued by this unexpected visit, though I can surmise a goodly amount of it. I have already spoken at great lengths with Dlorn and King Elian. Those forces I could spare are already in the army ranks. All else I have need of on my own borders. Elian understands this.”
“King Elian is dead,” Aron growled in a voice betraying his urge to shut the other up before matters became too muddled. “The Black Imelin and his army march on the Twins in numbers too vast to accurately count.”
The pompous lord fell back into his chair, mouth agape in shock at the revelation. Just a few days ago he and Elian said their farewells and set about defending the kingdom.
Aron pressed before Felbar tried to find a way out of his commitments. “I speak for the Hierarchy in this matter. We do not ask for additional troop support. Darkling units may well be across the river and operating in your domain. We cannot send aid to your lands either. The die has been cast and we both must play the hands dealt. Instead, I need detailed maps of Trimlon and Almarin. I also have need of a network of scouts in both kingdoms, primarily Trimlon. There are reports of a Rover army moving in the south. These scouts will report directly to me or Field Marshal Dlorn, if I am unavailable. No exceptions. “
Felbar shifted uncomfortably. He was proud, almost too much so to take orders from a man not representing a kingdom.
“Lord Felbar, we are done retreating. Done hiding in the shadows while this mockery of humanity plays out his schemes. The Hierarchy was cohesively taken off guard but I’ve been given the opportunity to make amends and reclaim the advantage. All I require is your faith and complete support.”
Aron leveled his gaze, a measure of sanity returning, and extended a hand. He saw the turmoil in Felbar’s eyes. That cloudy struggle to figure out what was happening. The Lord of the Twins bordered on losing composure.
“Felbar,” Dlorn gently prodded. “We need to cooperate if victory is to be accomplished. The darkling army is vast, just as he says. Listen to him.”
Reason seldom carried weight when dealing with matters of state. Felbar was a man used to getting his way, usually handed to him with smiles. Now he was confronted with a series of nightmares from which there was no evident escape. Secretly, he knew he wasn’t as ready to assume control as others thought. Both of his parents had been killed earlier in the year in a freak wagon accident, thrusting the burden of leadership more heavily down upon his already sagging shoulders. Long moments stretched on before his internal deliberation ceased. He accepted Aron’s hand. “Very well. I give you the entirety of my lands and forces for as long as you have need.”
A thin smile broke Aron’s serious façade. Add another small victory to the list.
“Do you think that was the proper approach?” Amean asked.
They walked down the halls in search of the delightful smells of the kitchens. Andolus came with them, faking his hunger. Men knew so little of elves, including their reduced need for sleep or nourishment. Besides, he dearly wanted to know what was going through the young lord’s mind. Any conversation this night involved what remained of his people as well. Decisions had yet to be made, ones on which the fate of the world rested.
“He lacks guidance,” Andolus said, making public his otherwise private observations. “A man like that might easily be swayed to join the wrong factions. Felbar needed to be herded in the right direction. Otherwise, we stood to lose him to indecision.”
Aron pushed what had to have been the same wooden door in every castle kitchen aside and strolled in. Wondrous smells entertained their senses. Roasting meats. Fresh baked breads and pastries. Wine and ale. Cheese wheels and winter vegetables lined one of the walls. It reminded him of home. Or what home he enjoyed as a commander of the Golden Warriors. He perused the cauldrons of homemade soups and stews and his stomach growled.
A kindly old woman saw them enter and ushered them to an empty table without delay. Her pleasant nature was almost as warming as the food. She smiled as she prepared large plates of venison, still hot bread, and bowls of soup. Each was served a very large mug of foaming wheat beer to wash it all down and offered a pipe of exceptional southern tobacco. Andolus passed on the latter, though Amean graciously accepted under the reasoning that so few comfort features were going to be available the moment they departed Greyhawk Keep.
“It’s hard to convince me that the world is teetering on the brink of collapse,” Amean said, after a mouthful of beer. “Damned fine, this brew is!”
Aron agreed, but his mind was centered on other matters. “Felbar has a good heart, or so I deem. He has the po
tential to rise in station the longer this war draws on.”
“Or fall like so many others are sure to,” Amean countered.
Andolus frowned and asked, “What do we do now? He’s given his support, unconditionally, I might add. That’s a healthy chore for any race.”
Aron swallowed a bite of deer. “I think it’s about time we headed back to the army. We’ll certainly think clearer away from these pleasant, and most appreciated, distractions. The darklings will no doubt be getting closer and I am curious to see how effective Captain Calri’s unit was at night fighting.”
“Not much of a plan.”
Aron’s smile was painfully thin. “I’m open to suggestions. Karin’s bringing the maps. Dlorn and Long Shadow are off inspecting the defenses, and I’m pretty sure our Lord Felbar has taken a shine to the princess. I’m not one to broker people’s lives, but that last might be an added bonus to our plight.”
“Cold, but I agree,” Andolus said.
Karin entered a short time later, followed closely by Dlorn and Long Shadow. Her arms were overflowing with an assortment of maps, scrolls, and the odd book. Aron immediately felt secure. She had a calming effect on him, one he was so desperately craving the longer they spent in the field. He caught himself before smiling like a love-struck fool and glanced at the materials. The old books would serve little purpose given how the boundaries between kingdoms had shifted so radically over the generations. The maps however…
“Where’s Elsyn?” Dlorn asked.
“With her unsuspecting lover,” Karin chided. “What’s for supper?”
They were given plates before the small company poured over the maps. Ones older than a year were set aside and forgotten. They needed up to date information, if they hoped to escape the darkling army and continue south toward the Rovers. What they desperately needed was a way through to Meisthelm without detection. Aron hoped the answers were in the disorganized mess before him.
The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2 Page 7
