by Alex Sapegin
The army, coming in from the summer camps, brutally dealt with the rebels. Rigaud and Timur took part in the storming of three castles. Although you can’t really call a massacre of innocents like that a storming. First, the whole wing attacked the castle or fortress at once. Special flexible tubes with magical chargers attached to the griffons’ saddles. When the riders flew over the fortress, they would tug on special cords and dump magical treats on the defenders’ heads. Hundreds of military mages stationed near the fortress prevented them from shooting the griffons down. After massive bombardment, if the defenders did not wave the white flag and did not hang a shield reverse-side out on the gates, the battle mages would take over. The army did not have to risk the lives of its soldiers. A few hundred magician “warriors” concentrated on the castle or fortress and simply wiped the unfortunate opponents from the face of the planet. After a few demonstrations of what they could do, the lords started leaving their lands, castles, and militias and hiding who knows where. The abandoned castles were razed to the ground. The half-bloods who surrendered were spared; those found with a weapon in their hands were executed on site. No trial, no trace left of them. Having been given carte blanche by the king, the Norsemen who settled on the coast drowned the rebels on their and the surrounding lands in blood. The Vikings did not have mercy on anyone. Four days later, it was all over; unpleasant memories and castles burnt to the ground were all that remained of the lords. The negotiations taking place between the Woodies and the Patskoi Empire, the fact of which had been disclosed in the newspapers, as well as the news of rebel ties to the Lordships almost lead to another war. Now the state had to defend elvish half-bloods; indeed not all of them supported the rebellion. Many fought for the king with weapons in hand.
The wing did not return to its home base. The general staff decided to organize massive training. Rumors ran through the ranks that the Patskoi Empire had declared war on Tantre, but for now, no one could confirm or deny this. Rigaud, who had a knack for analyzing different gossip, was inclined to believe it were true and considered their maneuvers well timed. The only thing that surprised him was the place—Thunderstorm Plateau in the Southern Rocky Ridge.
***
Once he had organized hot food for the men, Rigaud ran to the location of his wing and in the first tent ran face to face into Timur. The young man, who had grown up a lot in the last month and smelled blood, looked confused.
“Hey, buddy! What bug’s bitten you, or did a griffon peck you, that you’re wandering around the camp like a shadow?” Rigaud asked Timur, who had lost the last few extra pounds.
“I just saw Rector Etran,” Timur answered, twisting the button on his sleeve nervously. “She’s been given her job back, she said that they’re gathering all mages except combat mages for military retraining, regardless of their name, title, or bloodline. After the training, the troops will get orders.”
“What was the rector doing here?” Rigaud asked, surprised.
“I don’t know. Half the teachers were with her. She said we were two full-of-ourselves bumpkins, making ourselves out to be goodness knows what, and imagining that the special forces might want us. As it turns out, goodbye army?”
“Not goodbye, just ‘see you later.’ I don’t think they’ll cancel our contracts. Probably after the retraining, they’ll send us back to the military.”
“Maybe so,” Timur kept twisting the button. “Targ!” The threads couldn’t hold out and the dark little circle, the same color as his flying uniform, came off.
“Rigaud!” the commander’s roar reached the friends’ ears.
“Sew the button back on. Well, gotta go,” Rigaud patted Timur on the back.
“Rigaud, where are you idling around?” teg Ridon yelled at him.
“Ler, my fault, ler!”
“Your fault. Did you feed the men?” Rigaud nodded. “Alright, I’ll let you off the hook. Follow me, make it snappy. The general’s gathering all the wing commanders. We’ll see what he has to say. Stay behind my back and don’t move to the right or left.”
Teg Ridon walked briskly towards the staff tent; Rigaud stomped a couple of steps behind. Why had these desk-job generals taken it into their minds to have a powwow at this time of night? When they were about a quarter mile away from the headquarters, Rigaud saw dozens of supplies coming in from an open portal. Maintenance engineers walked along beside the carts. Tubes and saddlebags full of ammunition were carefully loaded onto all the supply carts.
“Ler, I don’t think they’ve called us here for training, ler,” he told his commander.
“Keep your thoughts to yourself. We’ll find out at headquarters,” Ron retorted, examining the transport drivers driving all over the wing.
The officers were met with a pleasantly cool temperature and the low hum of voices upon stepping into the administrative tent. In the middle of the tent, there was a wide table with a few stands for crystals; wicker chairs were arranged in a circle. Almost all seats were occupied. Rigaud counted the number of wing commanders and quietly whistled. Seventeen people, and maybe more would arrive. But even with just those present, that would make about two thousand griffons gathered on the plateau. He was becoming more and more convinced that this was no training session.
Pulling the canopy back, a few Rauu entered the tent in summer costumes made from the skins of mountain cats. What were they doing here? Judging by the amazed expressions on people’s faces all around, all officers present were asking themselves the same question.
“Respected officers!” someone called from the entrance, “His Highness Gil the Second.”
Rigaud sprang upwards as if a strong spring had been unleashed in his spine. He stood at attention and devoured the king with his eyes. The others stood at attention beside him. Gil the Second was a man of average height; his wavy hair framed his handsome face and strong chin. Rigaud did not manage to note the color of the royal’s eyes due to just how bloodshot His Majesty’s eyes were. That, coupled with his pallor, told Rigaud His Majesty had been having a hard time lately. The Chancellor and several generals followed the king in.
“Please be seated,” the king waved his hand. The crowd sat down in their chairs. “I won’t take much of your time.”
His Highness really did take only five minutes, but his words shocked many. The newspapers had published reports of base negotiations between the Forest and the Patskoi Empire. There was only a tiny blurb on what the accursed forest “friends” and their “kind” southern neighbors had prepared for Tantre. It turned out that according to the agreement they reached, they were going to divide Tantre into two occupied zones. Everything in the middle and southern reaches of the Ort was to come under the protectorate of the Forest; the Empire would have taken the rest. The insurgent revolt, inspired by agents of the Forest, was supposed to be the excuse for the Woodies to declare war and was funded by the Empire’s money, but the quick and capable actions taken to quell it prevented the enemies from quitting the ranks in time.
“Nevertheless, despite all our diplomatic efforts, today I’ve been informed they have indeed declared war,” the king went on. A dead silence fell upon all in the tent. “Your wings have been gathered on Thunderstorm Plateau in order to strike at Pat’s legions concentrated at Ronmir. Seventeen royal wings and seven air regiments of the Rauu ally army should become the instrument of retribution which will forever repel foreign enemies’ desire to attack our states… General Olmar, continue.”
***
General Olmar stood up heavily and walked to the table, sighing.
“The old man’s failing,” Rigaud heard a quiet whisper behind him. “He’s in his eighties….”
“Gentlemen, officers,” Olmar coughed into his fist a few times. “His Highness (a short bow towards the king, who was now seated) has given you a general outline of the situation. I shall expound. Tantre is being threatened by a war on two fronts. We’re facing the powerful fist of the Empire’s northern legions and the Forest’s hundred-and-
fifty-thousand-strong army.” A murmur of alarm rang out in the tent. “Quiet! I need quiet here!” The general put his hand up as a gesture calling for silence. His eyes flashed threateningly from under his bushy eyebrows and he coughed once again. “Over the course of twenty or more years, the Woodies have been strengthening their army with specially grown half-bloods. Our intelligence has obtained information on the purchase by the Woodies of about twenty to twenty-five thousand slaves, so we can only indicate the approximate number of our opponents’ army. If you count regular units, the watchmen’s squadrons and the border guards, the Lordships have no less than two hundred thousand spears at their disposal.” Someone whistled loudly. “And now, about the Empire’s legions. The main mass of the griffon wing forces and church knights are concentrated in the vicinity of Ronmir. According to our agents’ information, the total number of troops massed by the emperor totals up to one hundred and thirty thousand people, and this without counting the auxiliary units, clerks, and mages.” The general paused. A ringing, deafening silence reigned under the thin felt dome. Olmar leaned on his hands, palms down on the tabletop, and looked at all the people gathered in the tent. “No country can survive a war on two fronts unless it uses all necessary resources towards its military effort, both manpower and material resources. If we want to win, we have to act swiftly and decidedly. The main advantage of the countries of the Northern Alliance,” here the commander allowed himself a barely noticeable grin, “in case you weren’t aware, is the fact that the Pats’ newspaper writers christened the military-political alliance between Tantre and the Rauu Principality ‘the Northern Alliance.’ They hit the nail on the head, so to speak. I repeat: our main advantage is the griffons and the drag wings, of which we have three times more than the Imperialists. The Empire and the Forest realized all the advantages of a strong air force too late,” the commander again let out a strained cough. “We’ve invested a lot of effort into hiding the true state of this army from the Imperial agents. We’ve significantly reduced the number of griffons on paper. It’s time to reveal what we’ve really got. Please.” Olmar gestured to his adjutant. A box of several rock crystals appeared on the table instantly. The agile fellow secured one of them in the rack and pressed the metal plate that activated the illusion spell. A picture of Ronmir and the surrounding area unfolded before the audience from the height of a bird’s flight.
Ronmir, from its very origin, served as a trans-shipment base for the Imperial troops. Two thousand years ago, the Empire of Alatar required a reference point for further advance to the north. A small border village, located on the right bank of the Rhone River, was best for this purpose. From the nameless village to the Rocky Ridge there were convenient trails right up to the passes. In just a short time, the village turned into a city of thirty thousand, surrounded by military camps. After the conquest of the northern lands, convenient roads were built through the mountains, and Ronmir became a trade and transport hub, connecting the growing Empire to the far-away barbarian provinces. When the Empire fell, so did Ronmir’s prosperity. The trade routes were cut off; the legions withdrawn from the north did not stop but continued southward and burned up in the fire of civil war. The city was desolated. The population shrunk ten times over. Four hundred years ago, Pat captured the southern foothills, declaring themselves the successors of the bygone Empire. The large town in which the once blossoming city was reborn once again took on a strategic importance. The barracks and military camps were rebuilt. From there the Pat legions headed north several times and returned to where they came from, empty-handed. The barbarous province turned into a strong kingdom. Strong fortresses appeared on the passes; the foreign army locked down the mountain passages. The Emperor of Pat was preparing to attack from there yet again.
“Ronmir,” the general said in his wheezy voice. The end of his long pointer touched the illusion and rested on a clump of rectangles from the northern side of the city. The image immediately got larger and all present could see clearly a fortress standing apart from the city, dozens of barracks inside and thousands of tents laid out in straight rows outside the walls. The commander’s tone and manner of presentation changed. He moved from lengthy sentences to short, stopping phrases. “The barracks are our main target. Our agents report mages were in the fortress last night. Our intelligence says the number of Imperial ‘warriors’ is over fifteen hundred. They housed the mages in the barracks of the eastern fort.” The pointer moved a little to the left. “The western fort. The rooms here are divided up, some to the ‘pure ones’ and some to the ‘lasso brigade.’ The Emperor has made a deal with the official Church. Ten thousand special forces raiders were dispatched to sweep the local terrain. The ‘pure ones’ ordered them not to spare anyone. Another order was to destroy all temples to gods other than the One God. Your main task is to completely destroy the mages and the ‘pure ones.’ The raiders and sorcerers must die!” His strong fist hit the table. “Without mages, any army is just a crowd of idiots in uniform. Your second priority: capture the enemy griffins and destroy the arsenal. A separate brigade, which we will form from the best swordsmen and fencers, must capture the mana accumulators designed to ‘puncture’ our protective magic screen. To the commanders of the wings and Rauu regiments: I order you to allocate ten riders who can handle weapons. The ‘puncture’ structures and the stables are located here and here.” Olmar, once he had pointed out the locations of the storage warehouses and the griffon stables, switched to presenting the plan of attack….
Patskoi Empire. Outskirts of Ronmir…
Mitku walked up to the top of the hill and looked around. Below, in the crevice between two sloping hills, Lake Nechai emanated with a dank, pre-dawn fog. Behind him, through the smoky vapor, the lights of the city and the citadel of the military camp near the walls twinkled brightly. The mountains, silent dark giants, rose to the sky, most visible at sunrise and sunset. Mitku took a step towards a trail, barely visible in the morning twilight. He tripped on a rock jutting from the ground and almost fell, stumbling forward. Gran laughed meanly at him from behind. Orweed, who was following Gran, lightly poked his friend with his fishing rod, which was cut from purple osier willow.
“What’s so funny? I almost did a nose dive into the earth. It’s dark as the underworld here. Targ must’ve pushed me, you guys, to go fishin’ at such an hour.” Orweed yawned contagiously and stretched his whole body; watching him, the others also yawned so big their heads almost turned inside out. “Oooh, you guys, such a thick fog’s comin’ from the lake. I shoulda gone restin’ in a haystack instead. You fish-poops….”
“Watch where yer goin’!” Gran turned around and immediately fell flat on the ground after tripping over a long root. His old fishing rod snapped in two with a dry click; his net flipped out of his hands with a pling.
“Weeell, there’s nothing to get all mean about, Mitku said, and he and Orweed helped their friend up.
“Eeh,” Orweed looked at the fading stars and the disk of Nelita, melting into the horizon. “Soon they’ll sound the alarm in the citadel to wake everyone up.” He stopped and looked mournfully at the twinkling city lights. “It’s too bad I’m only fourteen. I’d join the legions if I could. Oooh, what a force! They’ll tromp down those Tantrians like squished roaches!”
“The hornless goats!” Mitku swore. “I hope the Tantrians crush them.”
“What are you saying!” Orweed threw himself at him, chest puffed out. “Watch what words come out of your mouth! You’re against the Emperor?”
“I’m serious!” Mitku answered, clenching his fists in anger. “Haven’t you heard that these goats are knights? The squires and militiamen got drunk and shouted it in the tavern. Noble sirs! Argh. They yelled that they would burn the cities and all over! All the boys—the sword. All the non-believers—the sword. All the old people—the sword. Throw the men down the wells, take the women and girls and then sell them at the slave markets… and some more stuff even worse. I have an aunt and two cousins, girls, i
n Panme. They live on the other side of the mountains. What, should we just let packs of knights and militiamen first rob them of their honor, then sell them as slaves, or let them chop up your father’s brother-in-law? They almost raped Frosta on the homestead in the evening. Mirt and dad only just managed to fend off the attack on my sister. They kicked Mirt in the legs so bad, and dad they just beat up everywhere, all on his face, the rotten scoundrels. They were shouting that we’re Tantrian trash and we should kiss their boots. I went fishing with Gran… dad’s not going to open the tavern today.” Mitku kicked a little pebble and sat down on a dry uprooted tree. Gran, upon hearing such a confession from his friend, fell into a dazed silence.
“You… um, where were the guards?” he pushed Mitku gently in the shoulder, who waved his hand in a gesture of helplessness.
“Those guards crapped their pants.” The boy spat at his feet and threw the tackle to the side. “The guards, who ran to the screaming cries, stopped at the gate and faltered at the entrance, afraid to approach the ‘pure ones’ militiamen. They were going crazy and making a ruckus. Someone chastised them, but a guy with a narrow face who looked like a rat, a ‘pure,’ just laughed out loud and said that the Vegils’s hadn’t the guts to argue with the servants of the Holy Church.”
Gran turned towards the lake. He too dreamed of joining the legions, but after hearing that, his desire faded a little.
“Well your sister’s really getting a swelled up head. Couldn’t choose a man she liked, wanted a pretty boy rich boy! No husband, so here they came for her!… Ow!” Orweed toppled to the ground, kicked down by Mitku.
The teenagers weren’t just fighting, they were fighting to the death. Fists and feet flew, with some teeth in the mix. The husky Orweed held Mitku in a death grip; Mitku punched his enemy in the jaw, bloodying his lip and knocking out a tooth. In response, Orweed bloodied Mitku’s nose. The war had not yet begun, but it had already divided friends and neighbors into different camps. Orweed unconsciously repeated the words of his father, secretly envious of the successful innkeeper, who moved to Ronmir from Tantre a quarter of a century ago and who built the tavern from scratch. Throughout the years, it had become more and more popular, which couldn’t be said for the rest of them. Willingly or not, children take in whatever is said and all that goes on in their homes by their parents, for better or for worse, and sometimes they take this out on those around them at the most inappropriate times.
