“There’s always the chance we lose all pursuit in the mountains,” Sylin replied as he looked up at the daunting peaks of the Grimstone Mountains.
All of the answers he sought lay somewhere ahead.
NINE
The War in the South
Winter storms blew fiercely across the plains of Trimlon. Denes Dron wondered when that fury was going to let up. His Rovers had been hit relentlessly since they crossed the Simca River several weeks ago. Dozens, probably more, but there was no way for him to verify those suspicions, had already died in the night from the cold. No matter how many blankets they pillaged or fires they built, Denes knew more would pass. Hundreds more had already caught frostbite in their fingers and toes. Morale was low. Even lower than the defeat at Krim Salat decades ago.
The life of a soldier was a hard, miserable experience. They endured hardships no sane man should have to, did more than most thought possible. To be a soldier meant doing what others wouldn’t attempt. It meant watching friends die, without being able to prevent it. There were regrets and hopes, shattered dreams and extreme violence. It was the ultimate test of manhood.
Denes Dron sat in his decidedly fragile tent, trying to warm up with a fire that did little good. Fortunately, the flask of ale kept him warm on the inside. It wasn’t very good, in reflection, but it managed to please his unrefined palate. The map laid out on the ground, anchored by stones dug from the snow, showed his army was halfway to the Unchar Mountains. He grimaced at that. If the storm continued to magnify, the Rovers would never make it through the pass.
The wind howled like a monster prowling for blood. Damnable weather this. There must be a better way. He searched the map for another, a better route past the mountains without being funneled into the Hierarchy garrison. There wasn’t one. Weeks would pass trying to circle the mountains. The Black wouldn’t stand for that. It didn’t take much imagination for Denes to find the darklings attacking him rather than the rest of the Free Lands. His frustrations mounted.
Perhaps a little sleep would help. On the same token, he couldn’t sleep when a world of troubles continued to lie in wait. He took another swig of ale and exhaled the bitter aftertaste. Now, even the ale failed to do much good. Angered by his worsening predicament, Denes collapsed in his chair and stared at the mesmerizing dance of flames.
His tent flap opened and closed so fast, snow barely had time to blow in. Denes looked upon a nightmare. Ten feet tall and dark as the foulest pits of the underworld, the figure was enshrouded in black robes. Or maybe it was the alcohol distorting his vision, turning what might have been a mere man into a winged monstrosity, threatening to steal his life. Old Grim come to pay a visit.
“I have come for you, Denes Dron.”
He dropped the flask and fumbled for his sword.
A skeletal hand reached forth. “You’ll have no need of that with me, or have you forgotten what I am capable of?”
The Rover commander let his hand slide down. Alcohol riddled eyes narrowed, desperate to see through the illusion filling his tent. Regardless, he felt … evil. Old Grim devolved into a man. One terrifying figure of a man. Denes slumped back in his chair and fumbled for the flask.
“Gods, wizard!” he barked. “Do you need to sneak upon men so?”
“I come and go as I please. Pathetic creatures such as yourself are of little concern to me. Time is mine alone,” Imelin said, as calm as the morning sun rising.
Undaunted only by the vast amounts of ale already consumed, Denes leveled his fierce gaze. “Why are you here? Especially now? Our campaign is still weeks from evolving into combat. Unchar Pass is plugged with snow. It will take forever to dig our way through. By then, the enemy will know we are coming. Not even my strength here will be a match against a reinforced Golden Warrior battalion. All they need do is fall back to their entrenchments and let us break upon the stone. I am in a losing situation, wizard.”
Imelin’s eyebrow peaked. “Are you quite through?”
“Why?”
Warming his hands, Imelin continued. “Much has changed since last we met. A new factor is working against us. I am sending half of the darkling army to your support.”
Denes scoffed, even as his stomach clenched. “What of the snows? Can these demons of yours tunnel through several feet of snow for near a league?”
Imelin decided the Rover leader was quickly outliving his usefulness. “Men have died for less. Do not think to insult me again. The snows of Unchar Pass are of little concern to me at this juncture. The pass will be clear by the time you reach the mountains. Magic is a tool of necessity and it is very necessary for you to seize the objective and hold it within the next three weeks. When deep winter hits, you should be in possession of the high road down to Meisthelm.”
“If you can clear the pass, my men can hold it,” Denes said confidently.
“Good. Your change of mission goes as follows: deploy several units of riders out into the surrounding fields of Unchar. They should be sufficient to draw out enough of the defenders. I am familiar with the garrison commander. Like most of his breed, he is young and overanxious to make a name for himself. There are few left with the true warrior soul.”
Imelin sat in the opposite chair. “A siege will be fruitless. The enemy has enough supplies and weapons to withstand any prolonged assault. Not to mention direct access back to Hierarchy command. Lure the Golden Warriors back into the pass. By the time they give pursuit, a legion of darklings will already be deployed in the surrounding forests. Denes Dron, it is imperative that you hold Unchar until the main army arrives. Capture the townsfolk and hold them in the fortress. Let a few escape to spread word of our coming. Fear will take care of the rest.”
In the blink of an eye the wizard was on his feet and gone, leaving a much confused Denes staring back at his fire in confused reflection. What a strange breed wizards were. No wonder most of the world didn’t trust them. Weary from too much too soon, the Rover commander finished his flask and drifted off to sleep. Executing his new orders could wait until morning. After all, what was a few hours?
***
Guerselleorn was a vast kingdom west of Valadon and the capital city of Meisthelm. The Jemman Sea formed the far western border with Coronan in the north and Sadith Oom far to the south. It was one of the largest kingdoms in the Free Lands and was filled with grassy plains, the southern tributary of the Simca River and the largest port on the continent. Trade with Guerselleorn was vital to the continued economic growth of the Free Lands as well as keeping the Hierarchy funded.
Those plains became the breeding ground for warriors in extreme situations. Such as now, thousands of soldiers, both afoot and mounted, marched down the dusty roads. Supply wagons and hospital crews trailed for a league behind the main combat power. Logistical support used to keep the army moving was far more organized, and developed, than any campaign in Hierarchy history to date.
General Conn and his inner council of advisors and senior military commanders rode at the head of the great beast snaking across the kingdom. His strong eyes took in the sights of the land stretching out before him. The land he’d come to save. Content with his role, Conn had always considered himself above a nobleman. He was a knight born for the quest. A driven man in search of the ultimate quest.
Elf, dwarf, and Wylin rode in his entourage. A pair of gnomes rode the far point. They were, for the moment, one of his most valuable assets while on the move. Their skills in tracking and hunting left him wishing for a thousand more. As it was, two would have to be enough.
Young Rhea Ailwin also rode at his side. Where once he rode to deliver an urgent message from Meisthelm, he was now immersed in what might well amount to the direst, and important, campaign since the war against Ils Kincannon. Being so near General Conn helped him forget the worries of the High Council. It was easier to focus only on his own desires and needs. Glory awaited. Or death.
This was what life was meant to be. Rhea became one with the campaign and the wi
ll of the strongest man he’d ever met. He’d tried explaining, to anyone who would listen, the depth of his inexperience. He hadn’t wielded a sword since basic training, as all new recruits were required to do. Even so, the messenger rode proudly at the head of a vast army. The tales he’d be able to tell his grandchildren inspired him. I was there, he’d say with bluster, the day General Conn liberated the Port of Grespon and saved the young prince.
“We should gain the port within the next two days,” Conn mused.
Rhea was surprised at the sudden change in Conn’s mood. The general had barely spoken since breaking camp. Lost within himself, Conn focused on what needed to be done to successfully accomplish his goals. A stern look hardened his already weathered face when he thought about what it would take to sack the city while keeping civilian casualties to bare minimums, and remove the pirate captors. Numbers flowed across his vision. Casualty figures. Dead and wounded, both friend and foe. Men sworn to defend the freedom of the kingdoms, while obeying his word, were going to fall. Some screaming from help. Some emerging from the fray missing limbs, crippled for life.
“Good,” Haf Forager grunted. “It’s been too long since my axe was wet.”
The dwarf was as hearty as they came, slightly robust and honed to a razor’s sharpness. He was as lethal as a dragon. Like most in his position, his best years were behind him.
Genessen laughed, his voice golden with merriment. “Why is it, for as long as I’ve interacted with your kind, dwarves are so intent on death and gore? Do you ever take the time to enjoy the fragile smell of a flower? Or the way the sun beautifies the land after a summer rain shower? Enjoy life while you can, for tomorrow may never come.”
Haf grunted again. “Elves. I can’t for the life of me figure out why our two peoples have stood in alliance for so long. Exact opposites, if you ask me. Flowers and sunshine. Give me an axe and the rush of battle and I’ll be happy to meet the makers.”
“We balance each other.”
The dwarf had trouble disputing that. “We are from the same lands, my friend. I credit you much for the roads we have travelled together. Now let us go down this one before returning home. I would exercise my muscles once. Call it a warm up, if you will.”
Genessen sighed. “Too sad, and much too true. The Wilderlands are engulfed in war with goblins and there is little hope of it ending soon. It seems our quest of obtaining aid from the western nations has failed. Though not through our doing.”
“Then we make do with what we have. It will be a cold day in the underworld before a dwarf runs from a fight, be it here or home,” Haf said. The resulting silence afforded them the opportunity to brood over his words.
It was, even to the most optimistic thinker, a dire prospect.
Flankers and outriders guarded the army with watchful eyes. Lieutenant Zin Doluth led a company of scouts spread out along a league wide line. Their purpose was to give warning should the pirates move on the main army and discover the best approaches to Grespon. Each man was hand-selected and bore Conn’s complete trust. Their orders were not to engage unless they had superiority.
A dust cloud hovered over the sky on the horizon. Genessen’s elf eyes spotted it first, though he failed to make out the source. Whatever it was, was well within the scout screen. His hurried looked spurred Conn forward.
“I don’t believe it, he’s the general of the army!” Rhea whispered to the color bearer at his side.
“See all those standards?” the younger man asked, with a jerk of his head.
Rhea turned and was instantly impressed at the fifty flags of every color waving in the slight breeze.
The soldier continued. “Each one is a reminder of a battle won. I think I’d be confident as well, if I’d managed to do half as much.”
Rebuked, Rhea fell silent and smarted at his wounds. The dust cloud ahead was getting closer at an alarming speed. What new tortures did the day hold?
Conn held up a hand and the army ground to a halt. Easier said than done, however, for units in the middle and rear bounced off each other. Genessen announced the source of the cloud as a scout returning from the Port. Much anticipation bustled through the front ranks. Rumors spread, as they did in every army, quickly to the rear. Perhaps battle was about to be joined much soon than thought.
Conn’s eyes narrowed to bare slits when he saw who the scout was. Zin Doluth. His uniform was the color of dirt.
“Sir,” he panted. “The enemy is dug in much better than we anticipated. They’ve been waiting for us.” Concern painted his voice.
Conn nodded, grim with the knowledge. “Spies can be anywhere. Perhaps within our own ranks. These are days when nothing is what it appears. We cannot afford to take anything for granted. Have any of your scouts been able to infiltrate yet?”
“No, sir. As I said, they are well coordinated and seemingly waiting for an attack,” Zin said.
Haf Forager let out a deep, bellowing laugh. “Of course, they are! Pirates are a cautious breed, lad. They check and double check everything, leaving nothing to chance. When they took the city and the bastard prince, they knew they started a small war. Wouldn’t you expect to be counterattacked?”
“I suppose I would, but this is too odd. Most of their defenses are geared toward fending off heavy cavalry and pointed directly at us. I have an ill feeling.”
“Relax, young lieutenant,” Conn’s voice boomed. There was no denial of his authority. “War is always a tricky sport. I recall my first battle. Wasn’t but a mere foot soldier. We took on a force three times our own. By the gods, it was a fight. They surrounded us and squeezed until less than a hundred of my brothers remained. We struck out in one final, determined attack, knowing that if we failed, it would be our heads on the pike. Men perform better when desperation is all that remains.”
An odd glimmer caught in his eyes, cold and fierce, as memories forced their way free. “We fought like demons that day and were rewarded with victory. The enemy was shattered and driven back into their forests. When the dust settled and the pains of our wounds became reality, less than ten of us stood. I… fear these days are returning.”
Conn fell silent. None spoke for a long while, allowing the general the respect of revisiting old wounds. Listening to each word on the edge of his saddle, Rhea absorbed both glories and doom clashing in the eternal struggle of right over wrong. Though, he was quickly coming to understand, there was no glory in war. He wanted to weep for the old man, for all those simple pleasures in life Conn had never, and would never, experience.
Undaunted by the ghosts of the past, Conn called his army back to the road. There was a battle ahead waiting to be met. Nostalgia aside, he planned on marching his army down the pirate’s throats and retake the Port of Grespon. There was no other choice. The rest of the Free Lands was falling apart and would soon have need of his force.
TEN
The Darklings Attack
Dawn wormed slowly across the night sky. For the men of the Galdean army, it came far too soon. As eager as many were to extract revenge on the darkling hordes of Suroc Tol, they liked less the idea of watching more of their friends and countrymen fall. Today marked the first day in what promised to be the long war against the rising darkness, though the first blows had already fallen many weeks before inside the walls of their home city.
Aron Kryte rolled over and stretched the sleep away, oblivious to the nervousness setting in among the defenders. His bed was crudely constructed but did the job. With a smile, he leaned down and kissed Karin’s cheek. She smiled in her sleep and awoke with a tender, warm feeling. Forgotten for the moment was the dilemma of the day and the near freezing temperature. This was the simple morning that she decided made life worth living.
“How did you sleep?” he asked.
Her smile widened. “Mmm. Like a baby. I wonder if this is but a dream. If maybe one day I’ll wake up and nothing ever happened.”
She stopped abruptly, her eyes glazing over as they did when a vision came
to her. Her body writhed and constricted under the bear skin blanket. Sweat covered her face and hands. Horror gripped her face. Spittle drooled from the corners of her mouth. Aron fell out of the bed and watched helplessly.
“Gods, Aron!” she whispered as warmth returned to her body. “It’s Imelin! He knows. He was inside my mind. Laughing. We’re all going to die.”
The combat veteran and future of the world, reluctantly, eyed her with fright. How did that devil get in her mind? Her very soul? The toll of a hundred drums suddenly stole his thoughts. War drums beating out their death knell. Paining him to do so, Aron released his love and hurriedly got dressed. There was but one reason for the drums. The armies of the Black had been sighted. War was upon them.
Field Marshal Dlorn stood atop the highest point in the battlements, back stiff as calculating eyes watched the front ranks of the darkling vanguard slither across the snow-covered fields. The enemy front was close to a third of a league across. No surprises there, for he had come to overestimate the size of their army. What caught him off guard was the handful of men riding at the head of the force. This was discouraging, to an extent, but nothing he wasn’t prepared to deal with. Men he knew how to kill. Returning from their own forward lines, Captain Calri and Andolus assumed positions on either side of Dlorn. Optimism yet shone in their eyes, though his were much more skeptical.
“They got here much faster than I thought they would,” Calri said in his typical flat tone. He still ached from wounds suffered during the raid several nights past.
Dlorn clasped his hands behind his back. “We still have time. It will be past midday before they can mount a direct assault. The main army won’t arrive for a while yet, maybe not until tomorrow, if we’re fortunate. They may be creatures of darkness but a cold-blooded man commands them.”
The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2 Page 9
