Tariens, cunningly watching from the obscurity of a column, returned to move the man to a sitting position against the wall. Disturbed with having betrayed one of his men, Tariens searched for the hidden key used to open the bolt hole. Dwarf masons often used bricks and specific stones built within their structures as keys. He shifted the ivy draping down from the parapet, running a gloved hand over the smooth surface until finding what he was looking for. Tariens gave the odd shape stone a hard push. The bolt hole opened with a constricted groan.
Three riders emerged from the darkness and halted before him. Each saluted in one fashion or another but said nothing.
Tariens looked to the lead rider and said, “Wait here until the guards change shifts. Ride the wall for a mile north and break for the tree line. No one should see you leave.”
“Are you sure the forests are clear?”
Tariens stared at the crimson wrap covering most of his face before answering. “As near as we can tell. I’ve been sending probes out for a week and they have all come back with negative reports.”
“Our tracks?”
The very tone of his voice suggested a man more lethal than any Tariens had ever encountered.
“A fresh storm is blowing in. Seems we can’t escape them this year. Tracks shouldn’t be a problem for too long. Besides, tired men don’t look for the obvious.”
And everyone on the wall was past tired. Everyone in the city, for that matter.
“Head for Prossin. There you’ll find the necessary contacts to complete your missions. I’m placing heavy trust in you. Our forces have already engaged the Black on the Crimson Fields. So long as they are occupied, you have a chance at going unnoticed,” Tariens said.
“We understand,” the rider said sourly. He didn’t appreciate being talked down to.
“May fortune favor you,” Tariens said, as he stepped aside to let them pass.
His hopes and prayers rode with them. If Galdea was to have any chance of lifting the yoke of oppression shackling them, his riders must succeed. Tariens closed the bolt hole and returned to the top of the wall to finish his rounds.
***
From his vantage point, General Conn could view most of the Port of Grespon. Disorganized rows of tin and thatch roofed buildings twisted and curved in no discernable pattern, with the Jemman Sea in the background. The city was divided by the Simca River, providing tactical challenges he wasn’t looking forward to. Fortunately, the separation was enough for him to seize half of the city at a time. Crossing the river was going to be his toughest problem.
The pirate force was dug in and expecting a heavy assault. This displeased him for two reasons. One was that his army was not equipped for a prolonged siege. The second was pirates never stayed on sight long enough to be caught. Something wasn’t right. But he didn’t know what.
He turned his horse back to the rest of his commanders. “I don’t know what game they play at but the sight of it all mocks me.”
His two gnome scouts whispered in their native tongue at his side.
Haf Forager, the stout dwarf, said, “Dug in or not, they won’t prove much of a match for heavy cavalry.”
“Perhaps.” Conn wasn’t so sure.
“It seems to me that they hold all of the advantages. The entire city stands open to their whim and mercy,” Genessen, the elf, said.
Ur Oberlin fanned his gills. “They are too many to be mere pirates. I think we are being drawn away from the true objective. This is a trap.”
Each gave the wylin’s words deep consideration. If what he said was true, the real objective was in question.
Conn asked, “How many days ago did Meisthelm recall all units?”
“Close to thirty now,” Rhea Ailwin said, somewhat caught off-guard.
“When did the pirates seize the city?”
Zin Doluth thought for a moment. “Roughly the same time.”
“Coincidence or not?” Conn pressed. “I’m beginning to think there are foul hands at work here. Think on this. The High Council recalls all forces, fearing an invasion. A massive one it must be to bring the bulk of our army in. There can be no other reason for abandoning the rest of the Free Lands. At the same time, this crisis erupts, drawing away a large chunk of the army. Right when we are needed in Meisthelm the most. I think we have been tricked into coming here.
“This kidnapped heir being held for ransom?” Genessen asked.
“A ruse. This trap stinks of the Black Imelin.”
Haf bolted in surprise. “How can a man halfway around the world impact us so?”
“I don’t have the answers yet, but I do suggest we abandon this quest and return to the Hierarchy,” Conn answered.
“What of the pirates?” Zin asked in reply. He’d never heard Conn give up so easily.
“They are not pirates. No scourge of the seas would dare think of doing what these men have. I suspect they are a well-equipped and trained military force. I’m not about to risk the lives of my men on that. We’ll send a probe against them when it gets dark. If they respond like I think they will, we leave in the morning.”
His decision was akin to law and his commanders knew better than to question further or argue. Elements were selected to launch the raid, the route of assault finalized, and units stood down in preparation. Conn resumed his examination of what he viewed as professional defenses once more. The mystery of it all allured him. One way or another, he was going to get to the bottom of it. Only how remained unknown.
Baron Vryce Mron circled the highest parapet of the Port of Grespon, a marginally uninspiring wall that did nothing to make him feel secure, like a predator. He was an older man, slightly overweight and balding. Despite appearances, he projected a dangerous air. Thick, black eyebrows accented his round face, turning a flaccid expression rich with evil. His arms and legs were corded with muscles. Most times, he wore loose clothing to hide his true form.
Nothing he saw inspired confidence. Both armies were evenly matched. He was trapped. Mron couldn’t wait for the Hierarchy soldiers to attack, nor could he strike forth. One army was built upon the foundations of honor and duty. The other worked for the highest bidder. No honor lived among the camps of Baron Mron.
A deeply tanned man in full leather armor stood at his side. He, too, watched the enemy with intent, though for different reasons.
“They are not going to attack us. Conn’s not that foolish to commit.”
Mron nodded slightly. “No, but he will probe us to find out our strength. Tonight I imagine. Have the men ready.”
“Yes, Baron.”
Mron turned to leave but stopped short. “I have a suspicion that he’s going to turn and head for Meisthelm. In that case, you already know your orders.”
“Yes, Baron.”
Mron left in search of the quaint ale house he’d discovered when his force first seized the city. Several mugs of frosted, imported ale and a few wenches should ease my troubled mind. He didn’t think that would be the case, but a man could hope.
***
She waited and watched with the patience of a predatory cat. She knew she was going to get her opportunity. Her one chance. In massive operations with so many moving parts, there was always a window, a sliver of time in which to slip through the confusion. She double checked her riding bags. Her only possessions. Her golden hair was tied up in a tight knot and concealed under the burden of her hood. Taking precautions to remove her presence from the army, all she had to do was sit… and wait.
The Golden Warriors led their mounts on foot while they began lining up. Time was of the essence. The first darkling waves were expected shortly and they needed to be away before the battle began. As the anticipation mounted so too did the urge to depart as quickly as possible. There was no way of telling how many men had already crossed the river into Almarin.
Amean Repage inspected his men one last time. A fresh storm was brewing, threatening to delay the start of their quest. It was all he could do to stay motivated. Amean
viewed the storm as more blessing than bane. Any disturbance might offer cover for their exit. Not only would it aid his mission, but it might keep the airborne threat the Black possessed grounded.
He found Jou Amn standing under the cover of an oak tree. The warrior watched the coming storm wall with clear disgust. Amean understood his torment. They’d all volunteered to leave the Saverin garrison with the intent of fighting, and had done little but run. How much further was there to go? The world only went so far.
“Contemplating the joys of the past?” Amean asked, once he finished his rounds.
Jou Amn snorted and scratched his beard. “More like the problems of the moment. I want to stay.”
“We have our orders.”
“Exactly what orders are those?” he asked. “I don’t recall getting clear instructions. Aron is dead, and with him, this quest. We left garrison to seek out and destroy an enemy, the same enemy staring down our throats right on the opposite side of that river.”
“You’ll die, if you stay.”
Jou Amn laughed. “Seems a chance worth taking to me. I stay.”
Amean knew he was losing and frankly, couldn’t debate the logic of it. “Think about what you’re saying. There is no way the Galdeans can defeat that host. Their one hope is to retreat and engage in a prolonged campaign of skirmishes. Head to head confrontation will result in failure.”
“You almost make it sound as if you’re running to save your life.”
“We are escorting the Staff of Life to the Hierarchy. The High Council can use it to end this war, and the Black traitor,” Amean defended. Even to him the words sounded hollow.
Jou Amn laid a strong hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Bah! The order of wizards is no more. The Council has lost its way and the Black is the last with magic. This is where our fates will be decided, not in a distant golden tower where men have lost touch with the lands they rule! My decision is final. Here I make my stand.”
Resignedly, Amean nodded his consent. “Fortune favor you, my friend. May we meet again in Meisthelm.”
“We shall, that or the halls of our fathers.”
Amean walked away, leaving the solitary warrior torn. Jou Amn watched as his dearest friends mounted their horses and began the long journey south. Soldiers offered prayers and well wishes, despite the sinking feeling of being abandoned by the Golden Warriors. It was the sad fact that wars often took on lives of their own, each one having distinct flavors no man could predict. Amean and the others needed to leave. He recognized that, admired it even, but the pull of staying with Dlorn was too strong to ignore.
His curiosity peaked as he noticed a shadow cloaked rider emerge from the dark to fall in at the rear of the golden column. Jou considered, and rejected, the idea of following to warn Amean. A cry from the front lines ripped through the camp like a clarion call. Jou turned his back on his friends and went in search of Dlorn. Battle was about to be joined.
SIXTEEN
Crimson Fields
A legion of drums pounded out their death song. Echoes of organized mayhem chilled the blood, giving men cause to doubt their individual courage. The horrid sound began at midnight and carried on into the early morning hours, never changing beat or tempo. Dlorn and his commanders knew the only purpose was to inspire fear and demoralize the stout Galdean army. It didn’t take him long to ignore the sounds and plan his next move.
The loss of the Golden Warriors, though only an understrength company, continued to eat at him. The very sight of their untarnished armor was inspiration he could ill afford to lose. Now they were gone and he was left with the skeletons of memory to hold off the darklings. Dlorn didn’t harbor doubt about his men, but he did wonder if they would be able to hold out long enough to complete their proposed retreat.
The drums continued their ghastly beat as the old man finally drifted off to sleep.
The army of Galdea stood arrayed along the riverbank amidst the fury of the fresh storm. Young men and old prayed to their gods as each secretly wondered if they were going to live another day. Mouths parched, palms sweat, and hearts raced like wild horses across the open steppe. Today was the pinnacle of all their pent-up aggressions and unfulfilled oaths of revenge for the pains of weeks past.
The drums were all but forgotten. The fear they induced so quickly worn down over a long period of time. All soldiers, old and young alike, were ready to finish this. Even if they lost, the Galdeans would buy the rest of the Free Lands enough time for the Hierarchy to mount a counteroffensive. Or so they clung to.
Dlorn, geared in his finest armor, stood tall and proud on the crest of the small hill in the center of their camp. Gone were the bitter fingers of cold raking down his spine. Such notions were lost to the warmth of rushing blood and the thrill of the hunt. Age shed as he remembered the feeling of steel once more. He was intent, focused on salvaging his kingdom. He was also about to see if the information Gulnick Baach provided was true or not.
A great commotion erupted just beyond his range of vision. Fog had settled in and wasn’t moving. The alliance of men and elves took refuge from this, for the enemy would not know just how few their numbers were. At last the army of the Black was upon them. Figures stalked through the fog. Scores at first, followed rapidly by hundreds.
“Catapults, stand by!”
The command echoed the newfound seriousness enveloping the army.
“Fire!”
Twenty successive thumps rang out, drowning the cacophony of darkling war cries. Flaming barrels of pitch and kindling mixed with massive boulders capable of crushing bones to dust. The flames hissed overhead. Even as the rounds impacted, scattering and killing the front ranks, another salvo was loaded and fired. The battery commander had orders to expend all ammunition. Orders he dutifully executed.
At once the darklings were cast into chaos as the brunt of their frontline forces were decimated. Burning bodies and chunks of charred flesh were whipped in every direction. Screams from the dying made many Galdeans cover their ears. Had the wounded been men, there might have been a touch of remorse, but this was total war and the enemy were monsters. Each one killed, was one less to be feared.
Unknown to Dlorn, the Black Imelin remained in his private sanctuary, unconcerned with how the initial assault played out. The beginning seldom drew as much interest as the outcome. He knew, without doubt, that the lands from Suroc Tol to the river border of Almarin would be under his control by morning. Until then, he was content with letting Gulnick lead the assault.
Acrid smoke and burnt flesh tainted the air, choking nostrils and churning stomachs. The land was inundated with body parts and massive fires. Gulnick Baach was sure if he looked up, a host of winged demons would spew forth from the bowels of the underworld. Disorganized and already reduced to a third of their initial strength, his forces drove on through the withering catapult fire until at last they came under range. Savage cheers rose from the surviving darklings as they surged forward.
Reeler Monchere watched his catapult crews with pride. Months of hard training coupled with the strong desire to go home in victory had honed them into a most effective combat team. But only twenty minutes into the fray, they had already fired half of their ammunition. The morning sun cracked the curtain of snow clouds just long enough to let the soldiers know the old gods still cared. Monchere hoped the gods would do more than send well wishes.
Late in his forties, Monchere was a career military man with a penchant for mechanics. Now he stood in the center of the defining moments of life and career, proud of the men he led and the stand they took. He caught the ruckus of the enemy’s cheers and knew what must be done.
“Master gunner! Order the second battery to fire at will,” he barked.
Fifteen catapults sang in one, crisp voice. Monchere grinned savagely as the impact thumps drowned out the darkling rage.
Field Marshal Dlorn had lived through hundreds of skirmishes and battles, and a dozen campaigns. Until today, he thought he’d seen it all. V
isions of apocalyptic fury raged unchecked before him, tearing lives apart in the blink of an eye. This was true war. Ugly. Nasty. Desperate men doing all they could just to survive.
He watched the battle develop through his eyepiece. It lifted his spirits to see so many darklings fall, even while knowing it wasn’t enough. Their mass stretched so far back, the barrage was hardly going to dent them. Shifting his gaze to his lines, he saw the green and purple standards of the late King Elian blowing in the wind. Men rallied to the memory of their murdered king. The gryphon of Galdea flew strong and proud, mocking their enemy while sparking the men with something to fight for.
The darklings broke the range of the second battery and gained the now frozen river. Dlorn suspected it was dark magic that had turned the raging waters into a solid sheet of ice. It didn’t matter. The darklings were coming. They were ragged now, steadily losing their initial drive. Withering fire hurt them bad and kept doing so as they advanced. Bloodied and infuriated, the darklings finally caught sight of their enemy. Another cry went up from their ranks and they surged across the frozen Simca River. A red flag was hoisted above the front trench. Dlorn watched as the third battery opened fire.
No one bothered helping Gulnick Baach to his feet. A dozen scratches shredded his face, sending delicate streams of red down and outward in bizarre patterns. On one knee, he wiped his face and then saw what remained of his horse. The beast took the brunt of the impact, dying instantly. Another round struck directly in front of him. Shards of rock splintered out, striking his fallen horse.
Hundreds of darklings died all around him, not having the second opportunity he was given. The slaughter was incredible. Gulnick wondered if the Galdeans were capable of putting up such a fight, what would the Hierarchy do when Imelin laid siege to Meisthelm. Even through the din and roar, he caught the distinctive sounds of yet another battery of catapults open fire. The Galdeans were clearly prepared for this assault.
The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2 Page 15
