A Cruel Tale

by Alex Sapegin

  The poison-pen letters and rumors were effective. The friendly choir of the highest of the high-born stopped singing in unison. Squabbling broke out among the dignitaries vested with enormous power. In the struggle among the families, the king was forgotten. Who needed the pup—a mere shadow of his once-great father? As long as he didn’t get in the way. Busy with their own quarrels, the nobility let Gil go into a marriage with an unknown noblewoman from an ancient, albeit poverty-stricken family. The wedding did not bring the monarch any blessings and did not affect the alignment of forces of the political camps. The dukes and the lords were wrapped up in the intrigues against one another and forgot about the king. To their chagrin, the king did not forget about them. One fine day, they suddenly saw the light, but it was too late….

  The Soft Spoken, like a thief in the night, had gradually and unnoticeably appointed his own people to all the major positions. The Kion garrison was led by Colonel Olmar. Getting the upper hand over the noblemen (who had recovered from their bickering), fifty army soldiers showed up at their doors, reinforced by five mages. Some of them even got several hundred soldiers and dozens of magicians sent to seize them. In one night, the real power passed into the hands of Gil and his supporters. The people and the simple noblemen remained unaware of the events that had taken place. Some former strongmen of this world lost their heads in dark dungeon cells. Some fled their posts and paid huge fines, rejoicing that they did not repeat the fate of the former. Some left Kion and the country for good. The Soft Spoken had confirmed his nickname, pulling off a huge task in secret, without letting on to the numerous spies and frienemies.

  After that came long years of consolidating his royal power and strengthening the country. The army underwent radical reform. Like mushrooms after a rainfall, griffon breeding plants sprung up in the mountains. The system of material maintenance of parts changed. The number of combat mages who could not only conjure but also hold a weapon increased by an order of magnitude. In the depth of the Southern Rocky Ridge, dozens of secret laboratories were engaged in various military investigations, often completely illegal. Gil realized that the boil of human-elf relations that had come about after the siege of Orten four hundred years ago was beginning to come to a head with new strength and would, at some point, burst. He would have to take measures to heal the boil in advance. As it turned out, he had good cause for concern twenty years ago. The boil burst, as always, at the worst possible moment….

  The former allies became foes. The north and south were on the brink of war. He was forced to hold balls and receptions for the amusement of traglomps. Politics could go to Targ for all he cared. How disgusting it had become for him to look at the ugly mugs of the leeches, sucking up to the throne, trying to procure favors from the crown and boasting of their nobility and proximity to His Majesty!

  Garad and Drang escaped the fate of being crushed by the vices of power, but their children should not be allowed to approach the feeding trough. The gray mass that couldn’t smudge the parents corrupted the offspring. Since the times of Olmed, nothing had changed. And what of it? You haven’t got long left. The Arians would beat all the nonsense out of your heads. Recent events made many fear the king and had shown people who was really in charge of the country. And things would get even worse—Gil looked at the joyful faces and thought that he would have to introduce a strict dictatorship. The nervous faces of Garad and Drang just shouted about the need for this step. In the meantime, we’ll still smile….

  Exchanging a couple of meaningless words with those hungry for communication and making some happy with some compliments, Gil walked around the hall. Immediately behind the monarch, as if from under the ground, three bodyguards sprang up. The custodians of the monarch’s body kept a certain distance, but no one was deceived by their feigned relaxation. Looking at the trained guardsmen, one wanted to get rid not only of one’s weapons but also of any seditious thoughts. Mage-killing mages struck an unconscious sense of fear into people and elves.

  The king walked around the courtiers for twenty minutes, then lingered a little near a group of decorated military officers. Now the main burden of strengthening the country rested on the army. Hm, of all these officers showered with lofty favor, the two youngest seem to be missing. The young heroes and their dates preferred to retreat to the dancing part of the hall, which was separated from the banquet portion by a curtain of silence.

  The king looked at the dancing young men and again sank into unpleasant thoughts. Garad and Drang were wrong. He wasn’t thinking of getting an edge over the Rauu and Miduel. He had other plans for the dragon’s friends. The guys were good at making friends. The chancellor was right. They couldn’t care less about awards and estates, and they didn’t want power. The dragon really had a knack for selecting his friends! These people would never betray their country or their crown and would take a fireball for their friend. The dark shields around Count Soto’s aura made one think twice when speaking to him and have an attitude of respect. Rait, who was in his second year at the Orten School of Magic studying under a false name, like the heroes of Ronmir, had just turned seventeen. Rector Etran should subtly unite the young people. Her son needed real friends and comrades-in-arms. The young count wouldn’t ever give him away under the pressure of circumstance. He wasn’t that kind.

  Causing him to start, the pea of the communicator amulet vibrated. The double is ready, and you must leave unnoticed and make a beautiful exit. The royal Mages’ Guild will have to work a piece of bread and butter. The room is full of magicians; none should notice the substitution.

  Cunning flashed in the king’s eyes. The corners of his lips twitched in a slight smile—this is exactly what no one expects of him. Stepping over the curtain, Gil plunged into the sounds of the orchestra.

  “Your Highness,” Count Soto bowed his head. The elf woman curtsied.

  “May I invite your friend to a dance?” the king smiled and practically choked from the youth’s penetrating and slightly glacial look. And they called the Rauu “Icicles!” The roi-dert seemed a likely candidate for the title at the moment, not his blushing lady friend. Truly, the elf had found a kindred spirit. The count bowed elegantly, stepped aside, from the encouraging smile he gave the elf, the white scars on his face formed into rays reaching from the corner of his left eye. The ice in the glance melted, giving the girl a wave of warmth and giving himself confidence. Garad is right, a thousand times right: there’s nothing fake going on here. How they look at each other….

  Gil took the girl in his arms and spun her around in time to the music.

  The music stopped. Taking the girl by the arm, the king, to the whispers of the courtiers, invited guests, and elves, led her back to her cavalier.

  “Don’t forget to invite me to the wedding,” he whispered to the austere young count. And where was his imperturbability?

  The guy’s shields dissolved. His aura shone with all colors of the rainbow. His eyes grew round.

  Satisfied with his little trick, the monarch left the dancing half of the hall. It was time! While most of the courtiers would be discussing the king’s escapade and busy examining the girl, he wedged himself into the center of the group of guardsmen, from which point they all accompanied him to the throne. No one paid any heed to the fact that this solid group of guards subsequently made its way to the hall’s side door.

  ***

  “Drang, may Targ invade your liver! What on Ilanta??” the king swore, walking through the secret passages under the palace.

  “Your Majesty, let’s go to the operator’s room,” the duke said tiredly.

  “Tell me—cat got your tongue? There’s a whole hall full of guests, foreign ambassadors, and the head of the Rauu up there. What is the meaning of this circus?”

  “The High Prince will be joining us any minute now. You’d better see for yourself. It’s hard to explain. If I had to sum it up in one word…,”

  “Well?”

  “Arians.”

  “Mother o
f…,” the monarch hiss between his teeth.

  “Mother of…,” he said again in the operating room, examining the panoramic illusion. The elderly High Prince came up beside him.

  The ground was far below. From the height of the bird’s flight, they could see the thousand-fold armies lining up in ranks for battle. There were at least a hundred thousand warriors and mages on each side.

  “Drang, the Arians are already on the continent?”

  “Yes, sire. The Shanyu was lying in wait for them, but the gray orcs missed the landing of the army’s first wave too, and did not have time to sink them.”

  “So there’s the second wave too?”

  “Yes. Truvor, show him,” the head of the Secret Chancellery asked one of his workers.

  “Mother of…,” the king sighed a third time.

  A thousand ships—from simple drekkars to enormous leviathans, next to which the combat galleons of the Dawn Bringer elves looked like puny minnows—were beating the waves with their stems, leaving trails of white foam, which were immediately sailed over by other vessels. As far as the eye could see, the sea was covered with sails.

  Grabbing his head in his hands, one of the operators fell off her chair. A tiny stream of blood trickled from the mage’s nose. The Rauu who was controlling an owl fell into convulsions. The view of the army in preparation went dark. Life mages rushed in; the operators who lost consciousness were carried off on stretchers.

  “What happened?” Garad asked. “What’s wrong with the operators? Why did we lose visualization?”

  “The Arians attacked the large mana absorbers. The birds are dead. The death of the animal is always felt by the operator!” Beriem answered instead of Drang. “Well, there you have it. The northerners have left the shamans and themselves magic-less. You can’t win a battle with just personal defense amulets. Steel will decide the outcome. Whoever kills more of the other’s mages first will win. The absorbers can’t work for too long, three or four hours at best, then they’ll blow up and let all that they’ve collected out, and their functionality radius is limited.”

  “Drang, do we have anything we can replace the birds with?”

  “We’ll try to cast off some gulls and golems from the shore, but it’ll take at least three hours to get everything ready.”

  “Go!” Gil turned to Miduel: “What are we going to do?”

  “Wait.”

  Northern Alatar. Peninsula of Kanyr. Ulus Kirn…

  “Noino,[15] what was that? Yljag asked, clenching his spear. A strange wave of cold ran over the orc’s whole body. The other warriors around him glanced at one another, baffled, barked and squatted on the warg’s hind legs.

  “Shaman stuff,” the uncle spit on the tangled grass. “Don’t be a wuss, stay near me, hold your shield, and everything will be alright. Don’t go getting ahead of me. Get your bow ready. I’ve no desire to meddle with these newcomers. It’s better to shower them from afar with arrows.”

  “They’re not newcomers—they’re Arians.”

  “Shushug dung all the same. I’ll put their heads on a stake, maybe that’ll add brains to their heads It’ll teach them to trespass on our land. We need to cut them up, before they cut us up. If we don’t stop them now, it’ll be too late later on. Look at the island orcs—where are their islands? No islands! Where are the redbeards[16]? No redbeards! They’ve gone begging. Who else wants to become a beggar?” the old gray-haired veteran yelled loudly and looked at the frozen line-up. A dozen of eyes was looking at him from under their helmets. No one wanted to leave their ancestral territory. They’d been working this land for thousands of years. “No one? What are you silent for?! Your mouths stuffed? Do you think the old fart’s lost his mind? My fangs fell out, that means my mind’s gone too? There, beyond the hill—there’s your enemy! A true foe! This old fart’s not a crow, he’s not gunna caw and croak worthless words! The Arian freaks pushed the Vikings and the island-dwelling orcs off the islands. We’re all the same to them. Fight, Hygyn’s degenerate trash, or we’ll be chased out of here with mares’ tails! They’re not here to plunder! This spawn of the accursed gods needs land and slaves!

  “Look!” someone in the line cried. A few orcs were pointing at the neighboring hill, from behind the top of which the smooth ranks of the enemy infantry were coming out on the gentle slopes. Banners were fluttering and colored flags flapping on long peaks.

  “Why’s the Shanyu taking so long?! We have to strike while they’re still getting into formation!” Ilyag heard.

  “Knock off the conversation!” yelled the commander of fifty soldiers, whipping the nearest back. “Shut your pie holes! What are you afraid of? The ‘greenies’ and our ancestors drove the Arians out like street rats. Do you think there’s any force that can stop orcs? These pikemen—the hand gripping the whip pointed in the direction of the Arians—are just blind puppies against ‘white shields!’” Dozens of heads simultaneously turned towards the rows of phalanges bristling with spears. The rows of orc infantry looked much more imposing.

  The heart of every Steppe warrior filled with pride of their army. There was no force in the world capable of defeating the Shanyu’s baturs and nökürs. They could annihilate any barrier! No troop formation could withstand a joint attack from a phalanx of “white shields!” The cavalry charge was like a rockslide or a steppe wildfire—it wiped out everything in its path! Why was the chief dragging his feet? Give the order, Big Steppe Wind! Oi-lo, hhhrrraaa-hrrra! Your warriors will sweep the wretched freaks off the face of the planet and stuff sacks with enemy heads! Hrrrraa! We’ll have a great plunder! Lots of loot! Hrrra-hrrraaa! Our blood is boiling, our horses wheezing, our wargs, sensing the adrenaline and upcoming battle, are roaring. What was the Shanyu waiting for? Did he doubt his nökürs?

  ***

  When the warriors began to grumble, and the expectation reached its pinnacle, the regiment drums sounded, and the roar of dozens of horns announced the start of the fight. The Shanyu had given the order. “HHHRRRR-RAA! HRR-HRR-HRRR!!! HRRR-RAA!” rang out over the field. The gray orcs’ war cry would make anyone’s blood freeze in their veins. There was something ancient and primal in the cries of the children of the Steppe.

  The loud yet muffled cry of the enormous gongs resounded, curdling blood and setting hearts fluttering. The warg units of the right flank flooded the hill in descent. Huge wolves galloped in long strides, speeding over the ground. The cavalry dashed forward behind the wargs. A large squadron of Arians on horseback drove out to meet them. Thousands of arrows soared into the sky, pelting both sides with fatal rain. Bright flashes made Yljag cover his eyes. Blinking from the “flies,” he looked at the battlefield. The magical charges were not finishing the enemy cavalry off. The enchanted arrows clapped down upon their targets powerlessly, pouring their killing power out in the form of the bright flashes. Their magic turned out to be no match for honest iron. It became clear what the cold feeling was some while ago that had made the warriors shiver. The Arians’ shields were sucking up mana. This time, the riders reached for their good old “whistlers[17].” A penetrating whistle accompanied the new cloud of spiky death. These arrows ripped through the heavenly blue and fell on the Arians, who covered themselves with their shields, killing and wounding, knocking the unlucky from the saddle.

  The Shanyu, surrounded by his advisers, khans, and generals, observed the battle from the top of a hill. His experience as a warrior and commander’s intuition told him that the northerners had prepared some dangerous and unpleasant surprises for them. The orcs weren’t used to fighting in the hills; the cavalry charge needed room to make a broad sweep. The battle had just begun, but he knew they would not get the upper hand if they couldn’t push the enemy back onto the flat plateau located right behind the Arians. No wonder they stood on the hills. They were not fools. They understood that in a limited space it’s more difficult to enact a large-scale strike. The cavalry’s and infantry’s actions would not be effective. The Shanyu leaned toward his messenge
r.

  The squadrons collided like two opposing waves. Yljag raised himself up in the stirrups. His sharp steppe vision allowed him to see swords and scimitars clashing with fiery flashes, spears flying, horses and wargs lying on the ground, the riders of which immediately fell under the hooves and claws of the animals. They fell like sacks from the saddles, cut down or stabbed by spears. The Arians effectively wedged themselves deep into the cavalry ranks but were stopped by the warg units. The wargs pounced at the enemy with the wrath of Khirud the lightning-armed. Smelling blood, the animals jumped right over the heads of the first few rows in giant leaps and wrecked havoc among the enemy. The toothy beasts that were stripped of their riders did not remain on the sidelines. They threw themselves at their enemy along with their fellow wargs. The Arians could no longer withstand the pressure and fled. The second wave of orcs darted from the hills in obedience to the thunderous rumble of the drums.

  The follow-up strike was terrible. The cavalry charge in pursuit of the fleeing cavalry plunged into the infantry ranks, messed up the military order of their opponent’s front-line regiment, and swept it into pieces. The lassos then immediately whistled, and there was no protection or salvation from them. They pulled the Arians’ horses down along with their riders, who were then crushed by the weight of the horses. The wargs ripped human flesh apart. The lasso-throwers, in sight of the enemy troops, dragged the soldiers they’d caught through the whole field along the ground behind their horses, ripping up their flesh on sharp stones. A dense shower of arrows shot from the hill over the heads of those standing in front could not stop the offensive onslaught of the thousands who had flown into a rage. The Arian army’s left wing began to back away.