by Nic Weissman
Abakai quickly drew his short sword while preparing the shield against a new onslaught of the champion's sword.
“He told me it cost almost twice what we had expected, but he managed to get it,” the Count answered.
“They're good news, but ... almost twice as much! How it is possible?” the Major roared.
“He says he could not access the seller on time and it ended in a secret auction. You know how these things are. It seems that everything was disbanded a little and he had to pay much more than expected to acquire it.”
Elynath breathed tiredly as he lifted the heavy sword for another blow. Then, Abakai started with a brilliant gallop with his shield forward and charged the Calen by surprise while he held the sword up. The champion fell back and lost the two”handed grip on the greatsword. Before he could react, Abakai was upon him with the edge of his short sword at his throat. The fight was over.
The stands, surprised with the victory of the young local, roared cheers and gibberish. Part of the audience began shouting shyly the new hero's name: Abakai! Abakai! Soon, the opposite stand began to roar to a far greater outcry: Bor! Bor! Bor!
For some inexplicable reason, despite being the capital of the Kingdom, Deepcliff wasn't used to producing famous champions. Most of the warriors of the capital, who had achieved success and fame, came from neighboring counties and marks. Lakajev watched Vargarr look at the square with satisfaction.
“Looks like you now have your local hero,” the Count said.
“Exactly, this will attract more people to the tournament, which will create more vocations in the brave young people to join the Army. The Province of Central Bor is the most populated, but proportionally, it's the one that has the fewest soldiers,” the Major reasoned.
“Being at the center of the country, you do not have a border to defend. That's what the Marks are for. And in any case, the province of Bor continues to have a militia of more than fifteen thousand soldiers; in addition to the power of having the Army Headquarters of the Kingdom here.”
“I see you know the numbers well, for not being a man of special dedication to weapons. Let’s go to a more private place while the next fight doesn't start,” the Major requested, while pointing the way to the Count.
They walked into a room located behind the box, inside the Royal Castle. After crossing the room, they looked out to a balcony overlooking the main square inside the enclosure. A thick layer of clouds left just a glimpse of the midday sun in the sky of the capital. It was a warm day in late autumn. The temperature had dropped considerably since the summer, although the harsh winter had not begun yet. In the distance, the roar of the stands of the tournament could be heard, still chanting and cheering.
“How do we know that the orb is authentic?” the Major asked.
“Devgon took Urlabus with him; you know, the magician he confides in. Urlabus recognized and identified the object before the auction began. All bidders had option,” the Count explained.
“Yes, of course. If there is no doubt of its authenticity, you can get a much higher price. How have they transported it? They say that if it's not handled correctly, you can go crazy in a second, or it can even kill you.”
“Urlabus was prepared with a special container. I guess with an inhibitor spell or something like that.”
“What has Devgon said about the gold?” Vargarr asked.
“That he will talk to his contacts in the Chamber and the Industrial Association to request additional funds for our mission,” Lakajev said.
“As long as you don't ask me,” Vargarr clarified. “Devgon was responsible for the gold and the orb, you of the Marquis, and I of the maneuvers and King. That was the deal,” clarified Vargarr.
A figure approached the doorway from inside the room. For some reason, Lakajev had not heard his footsteps. He could observe that it was a reasonably well dressed dark elf. But not enough to be one of the guests of honor. He had some disturbing red eyes; one of the most distinctive and common signs of the dark elves. The Count noticed that the figure avoided entering the balcony and had stopped just at the point where the shade that the cornice of the building provided ended. He had heard stories of how the dark elves avoided direct sunlight whenever they could. They were accustomed to places with low light, like caves or the underground. Nothing prevented them from staying under the sun, but the shadows or darkness were their preference. The elf waited before speaking.
“What is it, Phoroz?” Vargarr asked.
“The next battle is about to begin, sir,” the elf said.
“I'll go in a little while. I have some business attend to,” the Major said.
The elf got lost inside the room, with the same secrecy with which it had appeared. Lakajev could not help feeling a chill down his spine.
“I did not know you had that servant. It is something unconventional,” the Count asked.
“Ha ha ha! You're jealous! Indeed, Phoroz is extremely helpful and very good at certain types of tasks,” Vargarr commented mysteriously.
“Where did you get him? And where did you keep him?”
“I found him a couple of years ago in the woods of Hardin, in the marks. He was bound and badly wounded. He was to be dinner for a group of ogres.”
“Ogres!”
“Yes. We were going to see the Marquis of Mositus, and decided to cut through the forest. Although it is not a recommended road, you save some time. When we had boarded, I heard the sound of a campfire and went with two of my men by a flank. At that time there was only one ogre on guard. It seemed that the others had gone hunting. We eliminated the ogre, catching it off guard. And thank goodness. He was incredibly strong! Despite being surprised, with a blow of his ax, he cut one of my men in half before we could finish him off.”
“And then I guess you'd get out of there as quickly as possible.”
“Not really. Before releasing the elf, I made him an offer he could not refuse. He had to swear to serve me until the end of my days or I'd leave him there to be chopped up and end up in the stomachs of those ogres.”
“I see. You're very generous.”
“Ha ha ha! If you think it's a good deal for someone who can live several thousand years. At the end of the day, I saved his life,” Vargarr reasoned satisfied.
“But, although we have met often during the last three months, I'd never seen him,” the Count inquired.
“True, he was out there, doing some errands. Like I said, he's very clever and very useful. And, no, I will not consider giving it to you, even if you are a very dear friend,” Vargarr commented with a sarcastic twist.
Thundering trumpets sounded. The next battle was beginning. Vargarr looked thoughtfully at the castle square, where some soldiers were training, before resuming the conversation.
“Then Urlabus will be responsible for activating the orb?” the Major asked.
“That's right,” the Count confirmed.
“Did he explain how it works? From the moment they activate it, how long do we have?”
“The effect begins immediately. So, discounting some minimal skirmish, the bulk of enemies might appear a few hours after,” Lakajev explained.
We should prepare ourselves a few leagues of the border; say about three leagues; perhaps on a hill or other breeding grounds. This way no one will doubt that the attack was not provoked.
“Yes, I had considered that,” the Count lied.
“Also, we must minimize the garrison of the border. The excuse would be to mobilize some of these men to participate in the maneuvers,” Vargarr planned.
“I don't understand. Why?”
“That way we can show the King's men how the orcs have killed our border guard; and give a dramatic touch to the story.”
“But it will be a slaughter!” Lakajev commented, disgusted.
“Exactly. I see you're getting it. However, if we are to wait inland with the bulk of the troops, the border will have no choice. By moving troops to the maneuvers, we minimize losses, while rei
nforcing our story,” Vargarr mused, machiavellian.
“I see you have it all figured out.”
“How long does the effect last?” Vargarr asked.
“Urbalus said about three days. But, possibly, after the first 24 hours, there won't be more battles; maybe some minimal skirmish,” Lakajev said.
“Good. I need to coordinate times. I have to call a man of the King's utmost confidence to visit the maneuvers; say, after half of the second day. In this way, they won't have the opportunity to see how we activate the orb. At the same time, there is probably an opportunity to show some skirmish, although we will have finished most of the work. In any case, a field strewn with orcs' corpses three leagues inland at the Mark will be irrefutable proof.”
“The Plan seems solid, but what about general Bellish?” the Count asked.
Vargarr's face suddenly changed.
“That bastard will not be able to do anything. I'm almost tempted to invite him also the second day of maneuvers. So I can see his face of fear and cowardice, when he realizes that nothing and nobody can prevent a war on a large scale,” Vargarr said with an angry look.
“Calm down, man. And think about it. I personally prefer not to have the old man there. He has damn good timing,” the Count said.
“Yes, I know,” Vargarr remarked with a snort of resignation. “If he appears at the wrong time, he would immediately question the size of the maneuvers. We cannot mobilize troops over a territory without an explicit royal warrant. And in this case, to be sure of the victory, we will mobilize all territorial troops of two marks and two counties. I may even convince the King that the orcs have attacked when they realized the scale of the maneuvers, as a defensive act.”
“That would ruin all of the plans.”
“That's why it is very important that in the middle of the night, after the first day of battle, the bulk of troops of Kiyats, Borydos and Golsou, stay away from the battlefield and hide in a forest. We can call them to return a few days later, in order to "strengthen" the border.”
“I agree. Moreover, the regrouping of troops could be the start of a full-scale campaign where we'll crush the kingdom of Fugor,” Lakajev commented with ecstasy.
“I see you do not know a lot about logistics,” Vargarr commented with a gesture of contempt. “To prepare the campaign, with its supplies, logistics routes, and all the necessary organization requires many weeks. Besides, that's what Devgon and his contacts of the Chamber and the Industrial Association want, right? The opportunity to make big business with the war.”
“Yeah, what about what you want? General Bellish is too old to lead a large-scale campaign. If the war begins, as number two in the Army, in practice you would lead the campaign. The general would become a mere figurehead. And rather sooner than later would be forced to resign. You would become the general of all the armies of the kingdom of Bor.”
Vargarr turned and looked carefully at Lakajev. The Count had perfectly understood his intentions. Now Lakajev knew he had a lot to lose if the plan did not go forward for some reason and the war didn't start. That placed him in a situation of vulnerability in possible future discussions. So, he decided to change tactics and raise the bet.
“It's possible you're right. But let's talk about what you want. You've managed to align the marquis and a count with your position regarding this war. If the campaign starts and we win, you'll earn enormous prestige. First, the "vision of the state" demonstrated between the nobility to devise this initiative; second, for the period of peace that would follow a victory in a campaign like that; third, to provide enrichment to all who were properly positioned around you. In the latter, Devgon's help would be invaluable.”
“True, but I don't see what's so special about all of it,” Lakajev replied.
“The campaign would allow you to win prestige, influence, power and you'll also win a lot of money too; all very necessary for your following objectives,” Vargarr said.
“What objectives?” the Count asked.
“Though the King isn't very old yet, he's not going to live forever. You're much younger than him. Anyways, there are always other ways…”
“If you're implying...”
“I'm not implying anything. But the fact is that with that kind of military success, you would have many options to align two other counties with you, and then you'd have six votes. You could win the next Reprobation Ceremony and end the Eladel House. Next, it would be a natural step to replace them with your own house and just take the Crown.”
This time it was Lakajev who stopped and looked attentively and scrutinized his speaker. All the bets were off. They all had a lot to gain from this war and, therefore, they all had the most interest in taking things forward without wasting time.
“I think it's time to return to the box,” Vargarr declared.
In the background, the trumpets sounded, announcing the end of combat. Although Lakajev had missed part of the show, it was worthwhile to clarify things and make plans.
“What comes next? Oh yeah! The archery contest.”
CHAPTER 3: ARROWS AND BOWS
The footmen worked quickly and effectively. A group of them removed the partition that was used in the battle of the knights, while the Squires collected the weapons and pennants of the last two contenders. Another group placed eight major targets at the bottom of the track. They were very heavy and needed at least two men to move each one. At the other end of the runway, about two hundred steps away, a third group of lackeys placed starting positions and marked a line on the ground.
In a few minutes, everything was ready to begin. A new trumpet served to mark the start of the archery tournament and to welcome the first participants. The crowd cheered and shouted at the archers, while the nobility and other high ranking representatives of the government and the Army watched from the Royal Box.
Samar had to wait patiently. There were about forty registered participants who were competing in their order of arrival. And she was one of the last to arrive. She had to do it with the fifth and final group.
In this first round, each archer had five arrows. If the archer could not reach the target with at least two, he was immediately disqualified. If he could reach the target with four, he automatically passed to the next round. The archers with the top four scores between the ones to reach three targets also passed.
Samar watched silently the participation of the archers of the preceding rounds. Six archers got at least four targets. Two of them had done the full five shots on the target: a young man named Goulbire from Carition who was handsome and well dressed, and a high elf belonging to the nobility of the Principality of Hovako called Nemelas.
The elf was wearing a long ocher cloak that reached her ankles, and the coat included a hood that covered her head. Under the cloak, she was wearing a discreet green doublet and light brown tights. The outfit was completed with high black leather boots of good quality. Her clothes did not attract attention and constituted an outfit that could have been of any explorer, ranger or common traveler.
The hood barely hinted her oval sapphire eyes. The common beauty of her elf face was also hidden. In fact, her face could hardly be seen. This allowed her to register for a tournament that was supposedly only for men. This, and the potion that she had gotten the week before, which modified her musical voice to make it sound like a rude boy's voice; fortunately, its effects were limited to a few hours. She had also covered her thin hands with tight riding gloves. In general, all these elements weren't the most comfortable way to compete in an archery tournament, but each participant had his own crazes or curiosities in their gear and no one was especially surprised by it.
For Samar, the bow was the main focus of her life. Perfecting her technique, beating the best of the best, learning new tricks, gaining more agility, getting a higher rate of fire, bettering her aim in the worst visibility, weather or discomfort conditions were some of the challenges that she sought daily. There was always something new to learn or improve. This
was her greatest passion. Her greatest desire was to become a legendary archer, even within the elf standards; the best archer in history, second only to the goddess of the hunt, Callemora. She lived for this.
For this, and to accomplish the genuine desire of her heart to experience adventure and feel free and independent. That's the reason she had left her home, about a century ago, and had left the comfort and security of her father's house, a senior official of the Principality of Chartres.
“It's your turn, sir. Prepare yourself. Your position is third in line,” a voice behind her said, bringing her mind back to the tournament arena.
“Thanks,” Samar said, after a moment's doubt. Her voice still sounded strange.
She advanced to the right position and handed her belongings to the assistant she had been assigned. It wasn't really a squire, just a footman who would facilitate arrows and other objects that she that might need. She took her bow and waited. It was a simple bow, but one of good quality. She could never go to those competitions with her usual bow, which was fine work of the Nira Clan elves, in the Principality of Hovako. A bow like that would draw too much attention. People would ask questions and she would be discovered even before competing.
“Archers to their positions,” bellowed the coordinator of the tournament's voice. “Remember, you have five shots. Only one arrow in hand for each attempt. You must wait for my notice before taking the next arrow from your footmen for the next shot. Best of luck to you! First arrow!”
Samar took an arrow, turned and placed it in position. She looked left and right, watching the other seven rivals from that round. She only knew one of them. A strange gnome that was quite clever and who she had seen compete on other occasions.
Samar and the other archers took their positions. The elf closed her eyes for a moment to feel better the light but icy breeze blowing from the southeast. It must have been about three or four knots. It was intermittent, and had to be taken into account at the time of shooting. The sun was high but almost always covered by clouds and didn't bother her at all. It was a little cold, but the temperature was not too unpleasant, and there was barely any humidity, as usual in the capital of the Kingdom.
