Gramus had been wounded countless times in his battles with the Skandivians. His wounds in the rebellion of Ralgens were the worst, the permanent marks on his arms and torso served as simple reminders of those bloody days. He should consider himself lucky though; Skandivian war axes were wicked weapons, meant only to crush bones and tear deep organs apart, to make cripples or distorted corpses—no armor could stand such a monstrous blade. That was why Rusakians wielded relatively lighter blades, to be able to carry their heavy steel shields. Oaken shields would turn into splinters under its mighty blows.
But that man with the awkward accent. . . that foreigner. . . he fought Gramus with a greatsword and a steel shield. Since that encounter at the wall of Herlog, the image of that Masolon donning the black Murasen armor haunted him, infesting his mind. That duel was far from over, Gramus had no doubt, but the last thing his men had seen of the encounter was him roaring in pain. And fear, he could hardly admit that even to himself, but it was the truth. For a moment, he thought he had lost his eye when the flood of blood blinded him. After he had grasped what had happened, he roared again, but in rage this time. Rona’s vassals and their soldiers must have found an amusing tale for their tedious night watches.
Wearing his armor, the beefy Darrison entered, the smile absent from his round face this morning. Among Rona’s ambitious vassals, the gray-haired lord was the most tactful and the most dangerous. Gramus trusted no lord anyway, but those who sounded amiable when they talked were the ones who worried him the most. And no one was as honey-tongued as the old kind Darrison, the new Duke of Kalhom in Queen Rona’s reign.
"Feeling better now, General?" Darrison asked, his voice lacking its usual warmth.
"It was nothing but a scratch."
"Good." Darrison did not seem happy about it when he nodded. "Because I was wondering when we were going to resume our march to Subrel. The rams you've ordered the men to build here will encumber us. The castle is still twenty miles away."
Gramus doubted that Darrison might be unaware of the purpose of those rams. "The rams are not for Subrel."
Darrison's chest heaved as he took a deep breath. "You are not going to hinder Queen Rona's conquest because of your personal revenge."
"This is not personal," Gramus was telling only a half truth. "If I let the peasants of Herlog sing about their victory over the queen's soldiers, more towns and villages will dare to defy us. We may even lose Kalhom that way."
"Swords bring victory, General. Not songs."
"The main city of Kalhom surrendered without a fight because we were feared. I don't think anybody will fear us anymore, unless we make an example out of those who defy us."
"General," Darrison said curtly. "I have confirmed news that Di Galio will soon be mobilizing fifteen thousand men to Subrel. We will spare the lives of hundreds and maybe thousands of our soldiers if we move now to capture the fort before the arrival of Di Galio’s reinforcements."
Storming a castle defended by fifteen thousand men would be costly, Gramus knew. He also did not need to be reminded of the importance of capturing that castle for the fate of this war. Subrel was the key to Ramos, and Ramos was the gate to Paril. And he who ruled Paril earned the Bermanians’ obedience.
Yes, every hour he spent here near the walls of Herlog was making his next battle with Di Galio harder. Gramus was aware of all of that, but he could not overcome his shame. Whatever the title he was addressed by, he was a warrior. The lordly hypocrites like the one standing before him would never grasp that notion. Most of the glorious victories they boasted of were won in meeting halls.
“Leave me a thousand men and ride with the rest to Subrel now,” said Gramus. “I will catch up with you after I’m done here."
“A thousand men for one village?” Darrison sounded more astonished than disapproving. “Led by the queen’s general himself? How should I explain this to the lords and the commanders?"
“I’m quite sure you will find a way, milord.” Gramus rose to his feet and left the senior lord behind him in the pavilion. “You had better hurry."
A few knights greeted Gramus as he strode past them, the rest just making way for him or giving him a hollow look. Do they still fear me? Despite his attempts to brush these thought aside, he could not stop them. He had no doubt that some of them believed they were more worthy than him to lead the Queen's army in her war, especially that blond one, Edmond, whom Rona had chosen to be his deputy, based on a recommendation by old Darrison himself. Darrison's son by Rona's side, and his pet by mine. Rona had to be alert to the web the veteran lord was weaving around her.
In an attempt to attenuate the lords' influence in his army, Gramus had commanded Edmond to group the soldiers by their specialty, not by the noble houses they served. When some lords had protested after finding themselves idle, Gramus let his deputy worry about finding tactical posts for those whimpering highborn bastards. "I bet you are more aware of Bermanian noble houses than I," Gramus had told Edmond. To give Darrison's pet the credit, the blond showed an utter commitment to his task. A real dog, he is.
The clamor of the infantry camp was higher than that of the cavalry, soldiers eating and blabbering by cookfires. A bunch of swordsmen were quarreling near the mercenaries’ tents. And while Gramus was wondering if the Skandivians were taking part in this heated conversation—he could not tell from such a distance—Edmond showed up. His dedicated deputy, accompanied by ten armored knights, was hurrying toward the arguing soldiers. The Skandivians will slaughter those fools if they fight them head to head, Gramus thought as he stopped to watch. When the hubbub of the quarrel settled down, he resumed walking until he reached the soldiers who were supposedly working on the battering rams and ladders. Actually, he found the crew enjoying their break under the trees in the shade, save for two soldiers striking the wooden wheels of one ram with their hammers.
They all pushed to their feet upon seeing Gramus, their superior, approaching them. “We are done, General,” their leader announced, gesturing toward the two other unattended rams standing next to six wooden ladders. “Those two are ready to breach some walls. Just a few more nails to be hammered, and the third one is yours."
“They are all yours, soldier.” Gramus glared at him. “Get done with those nails and make your men move their arses. We march to Herlog now.”
Gramus could hear the hollers of the captains and sergeants of the infantry squads to their soldiers while he was inspecting the finished battering ram. The slanted roof of the siege engine was eight feet high, its hefty log slung by eight thick ropes. The ram's point was not reinforced with a metal head, but that heavy log would fare well against the palisade wall of the village.
"General Gramus," came out the honeyed voice of the good-looking Lanark
"Lord Lanark."
"Is it true what I heard? Darrison claims that Queen Rona's general is not marching with Queen Rona's army to Subrel."
Talking to that worthless lordling was a waste of time. "You may ask him yourself to make sure." Gramus went past Lanark, heading to Edmond to help him assign the thousand soldiers marching with him to Herlog.
"General, general," Lanark called out. "That's not a proper fashion to make a conversation. . . With a lord."
This is farce. Gramus stopped and turned to the lordling, sighing. I have to bear these arrogant bluebloods for her. "A particular topic you wish to discuss, milord?"
The young, black-haired lord put his hands on his waist, peering at Gramus for a moment before allowing a chuckle. "Damn it! Can't you even pretend you are interested in bandying a few words with me? No surprise you have no friends here."
"I have more pressing matters," Gramus curtly said, hoping he might discourage that lordling from bandying more words with him.
"Come on." Lanark gave him a dismissive gesture. "Don't talk to me like you talk to them. I'm not like them." He looked around before he held Gramus by the arm, walking him away from the throng. Usually, no one dared to get that close to him excep
t Rona. But for some reason this short fellow (to Gramus, all men were short) did not find Gramus intimidating. Because of that blasted duel. . .
When they were out of earshot, Lanark went on, "I understand your rage. I know how it feels to be underestimated not for a reason other than your age. It is not our fault that those bastards have lived longer than they should."
Lanark was in his late twenties, Gramus judged. "I'm thirty-three. My age shouldn't be a reason for anybody to underestimate me."
"See? We have an understanding, then." Lanark gestured with open arms. "However, you should always show those veteran lords your respect to their wisdom. It doesn't bite, trust me," he scoffed. "The game is to make them feel they are in charge, while in fact, it's actually you who leads this army. Haven't you observed how Queen Rona handles her lords, especially the senior ones? For her age, you can't but admire her wits." He allowed a chuckle, winking to Gramus. "Though she has more than her wits to admire, I daresay."
"You had better watch your tongue, Lord Lanark." Gramus glowered at the young lord, who took one step back, a nervous smile on his face. It was good for Gramus to know he had not lost his touch.
"Don't mind me, General." Lanark shrugged apologetically. "I'm just a man who voices his thoughts at this very moment. I respect Her Grace, and I have no doubt you do as well. But. . . come on, General. Only a eunuch would spend all those years by her side without one single moment of wild thoughts. Just one thought."
Gramus would not need more than his bare hands to smash Lanark's skull for his insolence. He is just a pawn. His turn will come one day. "You should see to your men, milord." He laid a heavy hand on Lanark’s shoulder before he strode past the little lord.
“If he is who I think he is, then you shouldn’t be bothered by your defeat against him.”
I heard enough. Gramus stopped and slowly returned to Lanark, his hands balled into fists.
“His name is Masolon, right?” Lanark casually continued. “I wonder what the odds that this peculiar name belonged to two different men could be.”
Is he entertaining himself by making a fool of me? Gramus wondered. More of this folly and he would make the little lord regret it. “What do you know?”
Lanark’s smile widened, as if Gramus’s curiosity amused him. “Paril’s Contest, two years ago. I watched him destroy his opponents,” he snapped his fingers, “as simple as this. Nobody stood a chance against him, whether afoot or on horseback. Even in the final, after we all watched him fall, he simply rose again and hammered his opponent with his fists until death. It is no secret, I used to gamble on those Contests—like most of the lords, actually. And on that particular day, I lost a decent amount of gold because of that bastard that I had never heard of before. I almost seized him, but after a second thought, I decided to let him go, hoping he would lead me to the mastermind behind that nonsense so that I could get my gold back. That took me nowhere, however. I couldn’t find the mastermind I was looking for, and that Masolon for some queer reason became a commander in the Murasen army.”
It’s him indeed. "He mentioned he was a Murasen commander."
“They are not the same thing.” Lanark gave him a crooked smile. “He was a commander in the Murasen army, but he was not a Murasen. Demon of the Desert was one of the few names with which the people of Kahora called the warrior who had come from beyond the Great Desert to cleanse their lands from evil. I never heard of kind-hearted demons before, but the notion of being one step away from any non-human creature has its awe, doesn’t it?"
Gramus should conclude this pointless conversation. “Listen. He wasn’t a bad fighter, I’d give him that. But none of his moves were demonic, alright? He is just a man who wields a sword and shield. He doesn’t blow fire from his mouth or his arse.”
“He wields a greatsword with one hand, I heard the soldiers say.” Lanark’s smile suddenly vanished, his brow furrowed. “Who can do this?”
“I can. But it is absurd nonetheless.”
“Of course, you can,” Lanark snapped. “You are what? Seven feet tall? You can use it as a dirk if you like. But he. . . yes, he is tall and muscular, but he still looks like a normal man. Normal men do not wield greatswords single-handedly, General.”
“What are you trying to do, milord? Scare me?” Gramus scoffed despite his fury.
“Our war is with Wilander, General. What I’m I'm trying to do is stop you from exhausting our army in a useless fight.” Lanark gnashed his teeth. “That Masolon, he might be a demon and he might not be one. Either way, I would never jeopardize our campaign for some small, impossible chance that we might be fighting a real demon, who doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
Gramus found himself laughing. “You are pathetic, milord.” He walked away from the foolish lord, this time for good.
“Demons are real, General,” Lanark said loudly. “The clerics have warned us of their coming in the Tales of Gorania. The Last Day is inevitable."
* * *
The sun was falling west while Gramus and his battalion were crossing the woods that separated them from the doomed village. He could have reached the palisade wall of Herlog sooner if it had not been for the cumbersome battering rams, but he was not in rush. Punishing that Masolon and his folks was all that mattered now.
Only a eunuch would spend all those years by her side without one single wild thought.
Lanark's words kept reverberating in his mind. Was Gramus restless because he let the young lord get away with his insolence? Or because Lanark was right?
No way! I was her guardian. I was looking after her to keep my oath to Father, Gramus reminded himself.
She was pretty though. Well, the prettiest girl he had ever seen. And indeed, he was so close to her, but he always knew his place, which was nothing he might be ashamed of. "No sister might have a more caring brother like you, Gramus," she had told him the day they had met with the clan chiefs of Ralgens. One of those bastards kept scanning her body with his eyes, but Gramus did not give the lusty man a chance to come close to her shadow until the meeting was concluded by granting Rona the permission to recruit Skandivian mercenaries for her army without their interference.
A caring brother. Perhaps it was some sort of courtesy from her side. Yet it was a clear statement that set the limits defining his place. Those wild thoughts Lanark hinted at were unable to invade Gramus's mind.
The sky was dark when he emerged from the woods, his blond deputy riding next to him. Gramus ordered his men to stop when they were close enough to see the faint shadow of the dark walls, yet far enough from the range of the arrows of those peasants.
Except there were no peasants on the walls tonight. . .
"General?"
Usually, Edmond said nothing more than 'yes, General' whenever Gramus gave him an order. But as Gramus contemplated the strangely abandoned walls of the village, Edmond asked, "General? Are we attacking or resting?"
"Something is wrong," Gramus voiced his concern, surprised by the quietness of a village anticipating an attack. "No archers on the walls or the watchtowers. Not a single torch is lit."
"Peasants do sleep early, General."
"That's too early, Sir." And they were not just peasants, Gramus reflected. When was the last time he saw a walled village with watchtowers? They are not asleep. Not tonight of all nights.
Edmond paused for a moment before he asked, "So, are we attacking or not?"
Waiting was pointless since he wanted to finish the Herlogan business soon enough to be able to catch up with the main host besieging or capturing the castle of Subrel. It should not be that hard, though. Once he stormed that damned gate or breached the palisade wall, the village would be his. "Send one ram to the gate, and let us wait and see."
Edmond cascaded the order to the twenty soldiers standing by the ram at the front. The wheels creaked as the men pushed the heavy siege engine over the grassy field, Gramus's eyes fixed on nothing but the dark walls of Herlog. When the ram reached the gate, he said to
Edmond without turning his head. "Order the knights to be ready. Ladders too."
There was movement atop the gate. From this distance, Gramus tried to figure out what was happening, but all he saw were shadows. A few seconds later, two fire arrows were shot at the battering ram, flames rising to the roofs of the siege engine. His men shrieked as the fire caught them. The battering ram turned into a bonfire around which his burning men ran in circles and rolled on the ground. "Blast!" Gramus did not expect the Herlogans to be unprepared for this assault, but fire arrows? Well, he must say he underestimated those peasants.
"Should we hold the knights for now, General?" Edmond asked, his voice low.
"What you say." Gramus would not send his knights to die for nothing. "Send the six ladders at once, fifty men with each ladder. And I want the second ram at the gate."
One hundred and fifty soldiers flanked both sides of the second battering ram heading to the gate. I should have taken the Skandivians with me, Gramus thought. But the finest warriors were brought for the fiercest battles, not to fight some peasants. The Bermanians did not lack discipline though. Each of the six ladder bands was marching with the exact same pace of the battering ram in the middle.
Gramus gazed at the walls, but no more shadows appeared atop the walls of Herlog. What is this nonsense? We know you are here already. Anyway, Gramus doubted they had enough archers to deter three hundred soldiers from storming their miserable village fort.
His soldiers were midway when the Herlogan shadows returned. Ten archers covering both flanks of the wall were ready to rain their fire arrows on them. Ten archers won't stop me, Gramus thought, but he changed his mind when the arrows were shot. Flames rose from beneath his ladder soldiers, catching them from foot to waist, some of his men from foot to chest. A tarred field, he realized, watching havoc strike the six ladder bands at once. The sound soldiers, who were fortunate enough not to be trapped by fire, hurried to aid their crying and writhing mates. Some soldiers tried to save the ladders as well, but the flames, those blasted flames, were faster than anybody.
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