by Kal Spriggs
The forces that Boir had marshaled would not stretch to two fronts. The cost of building it in secret, of overstating their weakness in public forums was that they'd had to moderate what was visible. They didn't have the forces to hit both targets. In fact, he thought, we don't have the forces to defend ourselves from either threat while we deal with the other.
It would be an all or nothing gamble. He would have to decide the fate of a tyrant... and if he chose wrong, his entire nation would suffer the consequences.
Oddly enough, with that realization, he knew there could only be one decision.
***
Grand Duke Christoffer Tarken
Aboard the Ubelfurst, Near Boirton, the Boir Sea
2nd of Shallob, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
The last of the blustery weather had begun to clear and as he looked back from the bridge deck, he could see the rest of the fleet strung out behind, the sails bright in the mid-morning sun. Eight ships, two of them windships, aloft above the rest of the fleet. The big, heavy transport vessels lumbered through the waves, loaded down with Marines and supplies, while the leaner, predatory iron-hulled warships prowled the waves in protective formation around them.
It was the third time in a cycle that he had led a fleet out of Boirton Harbor. The first time he had led the Northern Fleet into the worst naval disaster in memory. The second time he had lost over a thousand sailors and Marines at Arkavar. Granted, he thought, I wasn't there when the Northern Fleet met their end, but I was their assigned commander.
At those thoughts, he almost --almost-- turned to Elias and told him to change course.
Yet, for better or worse, the decision had been made. How could he change things now, after hours spent arguing with the Council and the Admiralty? His very supporters in this endeavor, those who had backed him all along would be betrayed. Besides, the element of surprise would be lost. It would take days or even weeks to reset their scouting ships, to reorganize their supply stops, to draw up new navigational routes. Even when the ships moved themselves, you couldn't change where so many men were going without time and effort.
In that time, his enemy's spies would have time to ferret out their destination and to send warning. Boir's enemies could use that time to prepare or even to commit to an attack.
Besides, a change of plan like that would sow confusion and worry in his Fleet at a time when they needed to feel confident. Sailing out in this fashion showed strength. They would need that confidence and strength in the coming days and weeks, fighting the last of the winter storms at sea and preparing to fight for their lives.
"Everything meeting your approval, Your Grace?" Admiral Elias Wachter asked.
Christoffer smiled slightly, reminded of a similar question the first time he had sailed aboard the Ubelfurst, what seemed like cycles ago. "Everything looks exceptional, Admiral. As always, a fine ship, and a fine fleet. My compliments."
Elias nodded his head, but he also stepped closer and pitched his voice low enough so that it wouldn't carry against the wind and sounds of the ship. "You are certain about this?"
Christoffer only nodded. Christoffer knew that as an officer of the Navy and as a Restorationist, Elias would feel very conflicted over his decision. On the one hand, Lord Admiral Hennings was both a threat to the Grand Duchy and a disgrace to the uniform. On the other, Xavien threatened to tear down the Five Duchies, starting with the Duchy of Masov where the Starblade would be at risk. There wasn't really a decision that satisfied both sides of him, Christoffer knew.
I made the right decision, Christoffer thought, I didn't chose my own preference, I didn't chose to salve my own conscience... I chose to protect my people.
Even as he told himself that, he turned his gaze back out towards their distination, his gaze looking past the waves to the battles that awaited his fleet... and he prayed to the spirits of his ancestors that he had made the right choice.
***
Chapter XII
First Sergeant Walker
South of Castle Ember, Duchy of Masov
2nd of Shallob, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Walker ducked under a lunge, trapped the mercenary's blade, and slipped his dagger into the juncture between the man's neck and shoulder, right above the collar of his chainmail hauberk. The rush of energy coursed through him, at once familiar and alien.
He didn't have time to savor it. More mercenaries rushed forward into their line and Walker heard Aerion's shouted commands. "Forward!" Walker shouted, "Forward, don't give them an inch!"
The mercenary line battled with Ghost Company. Spears jabbed back and forth, men going down with screams or shouts, blood bright in the weak sunlight. Walker deflected another attack and stepped forward in a perfect lunge, his light blade slipped through a gap in this mercenary's studded armor, the blade punching through the leather over the man's heart.
This time Walker could feel the man's terror as he died... and the rush of energy seemed all the stronger. Walker almost froze, yet his training brought him back from his lunge and put him back in the protective formation.
"We got this, First Sergeant," Oren called out.
Walker almost snapped at him. The rush, the surge he felt when he took a life had felt so incredible. Instead, he just gave Oren a nod and stepped back.
It wasn't as if they had needed his help on the line anyway. He had simply felt compelled to join in as the mercenaries came charging at them down the road. Walker waited as the line advanced inexorably. Foot by foot, they drove Hector's men back.
"Walker," Aerion called out, "See that our wounded get to our healer!"
Walker gave his friend a wave of acknowledgment. Yet he didn't want to be near the company's wounded. He didn't know if he would be able to resist temptation. Not a dozen steps away, he saw Alben, a young recruit who had just joined the company over the winter. Alben had taken a spear to the shoulder, where it had penetrated his leather armor. There wasn't much blood, but Walker could sense that an artery had been nicked, that Alben bled internally. Walker could feel the young man's soul, trembling, weakened, and just waiting to be taken...
"Oren," Walker snapped, "See to him." He pointed at Alben.
"First Sergeant," the stretcher bearers hesitated, "He looks like he can walk..."
"I said see to him!" Walker snapped. The stretcher bearers hurried away and Walker tore his gaze away from Alben. In the other direction he saw one of the mercenaries, passed over by his men, coughing blood from the spear still buried in his chest.
Walker moved over to him. The man's eyes were unfocused, his face slack with shock and bloodloss. He tried to wheeze something as Walker knelt next to him. "It's okay," Walker said. "It will end soon."
Walker reached out and with a grunt he ripped the spear out of the man's chest. The mercenary gave a groan and then lay still... and Walker felt the energy of the man's soul pour into him. It wasn't enough. It felt as if he had a void within his chest, an emptiness that sought to be filled.
He hadn't killed anyone since the fight at Dawnspring. Over the winter the hunger within had grown. Walker had sought to fill that hunger, first he had killed a rat, then dozens of the creatures... yet the tiny bit of energy he got from the deaths of animals had merely taken the edge off his hunger. Only when he killed one with his bare hands was there enough for him to feel anything measurable. The most he had felt from any animal was when a wagon ox had broken its back when its wagon rolled... and he had put it down.
Walker didn't know what had happened to him. He knew that the spirit of Dawnspring had changed him somehow. He'd managed to spend some time in the library at the Keep in Zielona Gora, yet he had come away with more questions than answers.
Walker threw away the spear and stood up. He could feel that the battle had already ended, the rush of energy release, all of it just out of reach, had run its course. As he lifted his head, he saw the mercenaries in full retreat, a section of Lady Katarina's cavalry already in pursuit. The smart ones would surrender, th
e others would die.
What a waste, he thought even as he wondered if the waste was their deaths... or the energy lost to the quiesent spirits of the area.
He could feel the spirits of the rolling hills. Old, tired, and weak. They welcomed the soldiers as they died... taking their energy, their knowledge, all those men had ever been. Yet what would they do with it? Nothing, they were passive, quiet things, which protected the land and the dirt-grubbing farmers who lived there.
Walker rose and directed the stretcher bearers, having them gather the worst wounded but avoiding those of the enemy who would not survive. Those, individually, he drained, each time shuddering a bit as he felt their last moments. Some of them went to death in fear, some with quiet relief.
All of that helped to fill the void he felt within.
As he closed the eyes of the last of them he heard footsteps.
"Good job," Aerion said from behind him. "The healers just sent word, we've only lost three men."
"Dale, Tanar, and Hendryk," Walker said softly. He had realized all three men wouldn't survive, but he didn't want to consume them, so he had sent them to the healers anyway. They were his men and it felt wrong, somehow. "We shouldn't have lost any," Walker said as he rose and faced his friend.
Aerion nodded in reply, his face grim. The center of the vanguard, made up of some of Earl Joris's companies, had withdrawn from the surprise assault. In the process, they had given Hector's southern commander room to send a company into the gap. If Aerion's company hadn't cut them off, the mercenaries could have made it to the rear area and burned supplies or even attacked the supply trains and the wounded.
Walker spat at the ground, even as he watched the corpse pickers go to work. By now they had their work down to a system. They would strip the dead of anything of value, with weapons and armor going to a company pool and coin and jewelry to Lady Katarina's central pool. That would pay down to companies in shares, based off their accomplishments, with every company gaining some of a bonus.
Ghost Company would get the lion's share of that bonus. But that bonus was one reason that the nobility fought to have their companies in the van. They earned more loot that way... but only if they did their job. "I'm beginning to hate all noblemen," Walker said with a snarl.
"Captain Swordbreaker!" Lord Jarek called out. No exception there, Walker thought darkly.
The nobleman had approached on foot, his armor dirty and bloodstained, a clear sign that he had been in the thick of things. Walker almost would have felt his hatred of the man ease, but for the friendly smile on Aerion's face. Damn you, Walker thought to himself, I need your help and I'm right here, why don't you see it?
But he didn't say that. He couldn't say that.
“I see who had our left flank,” Aerion said with a grin. “Thanks for that, it would have been much worse if they'd gotten around on that side.” The very fact that he didn't use Jarek's title was another sign of how close they'd become.
“As I see it,” Jarek replied with a matching grin, “you had my right flank. That's what my report to Lady Katarina will say anyway.” If they had been any friendlier, Walker thought to himself, he might have to throw up.
“What the hell happened up front,” Walker snapped. “I thought the nobles were supposed to be better at this than us common born peasants.”
Jarek raised an eyebrow at that, but he didn't argue. “I'm not certain. I hear that it was Earl Joris and Baron Marcel who had the vanguard. They should have been able to handle what forces Hector put in our way to slow us down.”
Walker gave a sneer at that. “I still think the bastards would sell us all out if Hector made the right deal with them.”
Aerion frowned at him, but Walker didn't care. He was tired of playing things nice. Tired of how no one said it how it was... and tired of having to hide what was going on within him. I'm consuming people's souls, he thought with a roiling sense of self-loathing. He had done terrible things in his life, but this… this was the worst thing he could imagine. What am I becoming?
“Well,” Aerion said, “We'll learn more soon enough.” He nodded at where Lady Katarina's signaler had begun to wave flags from on a hill to their rear. Walker smiled a bit as he recognized the simple flags that Quinn had suggested, waved in hand to signal simple orders.
He nodded as he recognized the order going out. A general assembly, tonight after they made camp. Walker frowned a moment later as he thought about it. “Well, it'll be a late night for us,” he said with a sigh.
“That it will,” Aerion replied. Since Ghost Company had not been at the lead, they would have most of the duties for setting up their battalion's camp and they also would have the guard shifts. As First Sergeant, Walker would have responsibility for those guard shifts. While Katarina wouldn't require First Sergeants at the meeting, Walker would rather hear things first hand.
Besides, he thought, it isn't as if I sleep much anymore.
He found he had too much energy to sleep. When he did manage to sleep, he had odd, vivid dreams of other people's lives.
“Okay,” Aerion said. “We're only a few miles short of where we're to make camp for the night. I'll go check on our wounded, see if the battalion's healers need any additional help moving their positions. Walker, if you'll look the men over and get them moving...”
“Of course,” Walker said, even as he breathed a sigh of relief that he wouldn't have to go past the healer's tents. He would be safely away from temptation.
Yet a small voice whispered that the void within him had only grown... how long before he wouldn't be able to resist that temptation any longer? Walker had no uncertainty over the darkness within. He had already felt no compunctions about killing, had felt no real connections to anyone before Josef, Quinn, and Aerion. His resistance to feeding off his wounded men came more from the realization of how Aerion would see him than out of any real feeling of it being wrong. His friend kept him in check… for now. When Aerion found out the truth, how could he remain friends?
What kind of monster would he become without Aerion to keep him in check?
***
Duke Hector the Usurper
Barony of Seidlyce, Duchy of Masov
4th of Shallob, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Hector grimaced as Covle Darkbit strolled into the field tent and the busy conversations and discussions trailed off. Given his latest series of failures, he should have shown more concern. Then again, Hector had come to the opinion that the only thing more boundless than Covle's ambition was his ego.
Despite the field conditions, Hector could plainly see that Covle had taken the time to bathe and dress in his finest before he reported. The lack of urgency to give that report told Hector all he really needed to know, not just about the battle but also about his former Commander of the South.
"My Lord," Covle gave a deep, courtly bow, "I am sorry to report that my rear guard force was unable to effectively stop the rebels south of Castle Ember."
"I see," Hector said. He glanced over at where Kerrel stood, a disapproving glare on her face. He wasn't certain if that glare was more for his benefit or that of Covle. Given her anger at the various heinous acts attributed to Covle, he would put money on the latter. "Very well, what of the forces I sent with you?"
Covle gave an eloquent sigh, "I'm afraid, my Lord, that most of them were lost, all but my own company were decisively engaged and were unable to retreat." His tone suggested sadness, but Hector knew that would be for the benefit of the other officers in the tent. The slight smirk on his face told a different story.
"All five companies?" Hector asked with a harsh voice. Granted, those five companies were some of his worst, made up of criminals and "reformed" bandits that Grel and Covle had put together over the years. Hector had every intention of using them up... but he had hoped to get substantially more use of five hundred fighting men. "What damage did you do to Katarina's forces?"
Covle's smirk flickered, "I routed a company of Earl Joris's infantry a
t the center of her vanguard, but two companies of reinforcements stopped my follow-on forces before they could get into her rear area."
Ah, Hector thought, of course... Earl Joris's men were involved. Covle would have thrown everything he could in an effort to embarrass his father. I should have brought him off the southern forces when the spring campaign began, Hector thought, but I guess I just hoped he would get himself killed.
Covle had long since gone from useful to liability. The atrocities he and his men had committed over the winter had made even the most fervent of Hector's supporters uncomfortable. Worse, in many ways, was that he still showed outward loyalty to Hector. He couldn't punish the commander for his actions when all of them were undertaken to the letter, if not spirit, of Hector's orders.
If Hector punished Covle for this latest failure, he would alienate many of his mercenary commanders. Not because they liked or even respected Covle, but because they would fear that their loyalty would not be repaid in kind.
With how things had gone over the winter, Hector needed every man he could get. "Very well, Commander Darkbit." He looked over at the map table in thought for a moment. "Please see to your company, I'm sure they'll need some time to resupply and recuperate. I'd like you at the staff meeting tonight."
"Of course, my Lord," Covle gave another bow and then strode out.
I will have to deal with him myself, Hector thought absently. Unfortunately Covle's Starborn blood meant he was in good health and unlikely to die from disease or other fortunate accident. Hector would have had someone plant a dagger in his back, but for the fact that Covle had paranoia to spare and fighting skills that would match most assassins.
Besides, Hector thought, he's survived enough close calls at this point that I'd probably have to order his head removed and bury his body feet-up so he doesn't crawl out of his grave. Rats and cockroaches didn’t have anything compared to Covle Darkbit’s survival instinct.
