The Cavalier Trilogy: Book 02 - The Rise of Malbeck

by Jason McWhirter

  “Thank you, Jonas. The pain has subsided,” Fil said, slowly standing and lifting Jonas with him. Fil flinched slightly, his wounds still aching, but he was able to stand on his own. “Are you going to be okay?” Fil asked.

  Jonas stared at his friend, too tired to stand anymore and too exhausted to speak more than a few words.

  “I must rest, Fil. I can barely stand. We will talk, later,” and with his last words Jonas leaned into Fil, letting himself go and succumbing to merciful unconsciousness. Fil was able to catch his friend, slowly lowering him to the grass covered ground where he could now find the rest that his body and mind both desperately needed.

  Six

  Preparations For War

  King Baylin stood on his balcony looking out over his great city. It was early morning and the city was just coming awake. He could see smoke from fires rising from the stone chimneys and the peddlers were already out setting up their goods for sale in the city streets. The young king sniffed the cool fall air, taking in the clean and invigorating smell. It was late fall and the winter snows were soon to arrive.

  Every morning the king went out on his balcony and looked at the city of Finarth. It was what he did to prepare himself for his day to come, for the many duties and hardships that his position required. It reminded him daily of what he was working so hard to protect. His city, his people, all were in danger, and it was his duty and desire to protect them and keep them safe.

  Every day was filled with preparations for the siege that they all knew would occur. The questions were many. Would Malbeck arrive during the winter? Or wait out the snows in Tarsis and come in spring? Would he take the time to crush and burn every town and village from Tarsis to Finarth? Would he try to take Cuthaine? Surely Cuthaine’s Free Legion would slow him down. The Free Legion warriors were well known for their skill and courage, and they would surely deliver a sting to Malbeck’s army. Scouts were being sent out continuously for information, but either way he had to make sure that his city would be prepared.

  A call to arms had gone out weeks ago requesting all able bodied men to prepare themselves to defend their land. Men and boys alike were arriving by the thousands and erecting make-shift camps outside the city walls. Some were returning warriors who had been on leave to tend to their farms; others were retired veterans, while some were just farmers, men and boys alike who came to defend their homes. The king was doing all he could to bring in food and supplies for these men, preparing for a certain drawn out siege. He was emptying the royal coffers and buying up wheat and salted meats and storing them for the battle to come. Necessities like water, blankets, medical supplies, as well as weapons were being bought and collected in copious amounts and stored for safekeeping. The population of Finarth was growing rapidly, as more warriors and refugees came in from the outlying areas to be protected by their liege. It was a responsibility that weighed heavily on the new king, but one that he carried fiercely on his powerful shoulders.

  The king had changed over the last few months. The injuries that he had suffered under the knife of the Dykreel cleric had a lasting effect on the young and untried monarch. He had lost his joy for life and it had been replaced with cold hard determination. His eyes no longer sparkled when he looked upon a young child, a beautiful woman, or even a piece of art. He simply could not enjoy them anymore; neither physically, nor mentally. Never again would he lie with a woman. His royal line, the Gavinsteal name, would be no more, destroyed with one quick swipe of the dark cleric’s knife. Now his moods were almost constantly dark, and he thrived on a rage that never seemed to leave him. He did not sleep much. His was often plagued with nightmares that were filled with images of pain, rage, and revenge. But he took one positive thing from his experience; he no longer felt any fear. He would face Malbeck and his army unhindered by the fear of death. Death was no longer something to fear.

  King Baylin ran his hands through his long hair, sighing heavily. He had a lot to do today, as he did every day since his father’s death. He spun on his heel, moving through the large double doors, pushing aside the long white silk curtains draping the doorway. His room was spacious but sparsely furnished. The bed was unmade and covered in heavy blankets and furs to protect him from the cold winter air. A large fire was burning brightly in the stone fireplace and he could feel its warmth as he walked by it to the arched entry into the anteroom. As expected, Persinius, his servant, waited there for him ready to perform his morning duties.

  “Good morning, my King, your breakfast is ready,” the young man said, standing and indicating the table sitting next to a big window overlooking the courtyard below.

  Persinius was young, twenty six, but he had served the Gavinsteal royal family since he was thirteen. In fact he had been trained to do so by his father, who had served the family his entire life. The young man was handsome, almost feminine in appearance. He was of medium height and build and he moved with a grace typical of someone raised to cater to royalty.

  “Thank you, Persinius. I will be in need of my armor shortly. Please see to it. Also, find Alerion and bring him to me,” he ordered as he sat down to eat.

  “Yes, my King,” replied the young man, bowing and walking from the room.

  ***

  Kiln walked through the make-shift roads and paths crisscrossing the hastily built huts and tents that covered the fields in front of Finarth. Dagrinal and Graggis accompanied him as they surveyed the living conditions of the refugees who were pouring into Finarth in a steady flow. Graggis and Dagrinal were of equal height, both taller than Kiln, but that is where the similarities ended. Where Dagrinal was lithe and sinewy, Graggis was thick and heavily laden with dense muscle. There were few men who looked as powerful as Graggis, and still few more who could actually match him in strength. Both men were Finarthian knights, officers who had earned their station, and reputation. Dagrinal was the finest swordsman in the order, next to Master Borrum, the weapons master for the knights. Both men were an integral part in helping prepare Finarth for war.

  They had worked hard to provide decent conditions for the refugees. Huge amounts of timber were cut down and brought to the area to be used for shelter and fires. They built latrines for the thousands of people that had come to Finarth’s gate for protection, and Kiln had ordered that they begin training the young men in basic formation fighting.

  Every morning and evening the men of fighting age met in the fields to be trained by the experienced officers. The number of refugees was growing daily and it was becoming more and more difficult to provide adequate living conditions for them. But the advancing army of Malbeck was bringing the people together under a common goal, that of survival.

  “Dagrinal, how many more came in last night?” asked Kiln, greeting men and women alike with a smile and a nod as they prepared for their day.

  “Just over a thousand, Commander.”

  “And how many are capable of fighting?”

  “Three hundred or so,” Dagrinal answered.

  As they made their way past the various tents and cook fires, many of the refugees greeted the three men with smiles, nods, and hellos. Kiln’s presence alone seemed to remove the tension from the air. Word had spread quickly among the ranks and the refugees that Kiln, the legend, was back in Finarth, and taking command of the army. His name was whispered around the fires at night as if he were a ghost come back to defend them. His very presence attracted people from all around, some eager to fight under him, others just wanting to see him, all acutely aware that Kiln was a key player in the city’s defense.

  “Any men arriving with weapons of their own?” Kiln asked the two officers, stopping briefly to greet an aging woman stirring her morning meal of oats over a cook fire.

  “Fifty swords were counted, forty bows, and thirty spears,” Graggis answered, scanning an inventory scroll.

  “Not many,” Kiln sighed. “How goes the training?” he asked, stopping to focus on his two officers.

  Graggis shrugged a bit dejectedly, “N
ot well, Commander…they…”

  “Are doing their best,” interjected Dagrinal. “Many of the men arriving have only seen fifteen winters, some are well beyond that, and even fewer have any military experience. But they are determined and willing, and that is all we can ask.”

  “They are scared, Commander,” added Graggis. “The thought of Malbeck and his Banthras arriving at the gates of Finarth is beyond their imaginations, but, as Dagrinal said, they are willing, and they are working hard.”

  “Good, I would like to observe the training this evening,” Kiln said.

  “Very well,” replied Dagrinal.

  ***

  Alerion walked briskly over the polished stones leading to the king’s room. Persinius had found him in Finarth’s library going over ancient scrolls and writings from long dead kings and wizards, hoping to find some clue to the meaning of the riddle that the pit fiend had given him.

  Months ago Alerion had brought forth Ixtofin, a pit fiend, from his home plane in the Abyss, demanding answers to his questions. He got them, but one was in the form of a riddle, a riddle that was the key to defeating Malbeck, at least that is what the demon had said.

  “An Ishmian with the blood of Finarth in his veins,” Alerion whispered to himself, moving through the familiar passageway. He had not yet found the answers he sought, but he had found some clues.

  As he reached the king’s door the two knights standing guard stepped aside without question.

  “The king is expecting you, Sir,” announced one of the guards.

  “Very good,” Alerion replied, stepping through the door that had been opened by the other guard.

  He entered the king’s anteroom and saw King Baylin standing near a big window wearing his royal armor. He was just strapping his father’s sword to his belt when Alerion entered.

  “My Lord, you requested my presence?” Alerion asked.

  “Yes, Alerion, how goes your search? Have you solved the riddle?” the king asked, pouring himself a cup of tea. “Tea?” he gestured with the jug.

  “Yes, my Lord. That would be nice.” Alerion stepped forward to take the cup from the king. “I have not yet solved the riddle, but I have found some interesting information.”

  “Please tell me what you have found, my friend.” Baylin sat down in a soft chair, motioning for Alerion to do the same. The wizard sat next to the king, taking a sip of the warm tea. It had been sweetened with honey and it warmed his stomach.

  “I have found writings of some interest,” the wizard began. “I have been perusing diaries and writings that are thousands of years old that go back before King Ullis Gavinsteal was even born, before the first great war with Malbeck. But what caught my interest was a journal entry from King Ullis Gavinsteal himself, from when he was just sixteen winters.” Alerion paused, sipping the fragrant tea. It smelled of orange and mint. “The entry spoke of a female interest that he had, a young girl from Mynos. She was the daughter of an emissary from King Rhinehorn.”

  “And what is the importance of the entry?” the king asked.

  “I do not know yet, my King, but if for some reason the young king had relations with this female, before he was king, that…”

  “There may have been a child conceived that we do not know about,” added the king.

  “Exactly, my King, and this child’s line, if there is one, would carry the blood of Finarth. But I cannot find any further mention of her. So I will need to travel to Mynos to see if there is any mention of this forgotten piece of history.”

  “It seems unlikely. It was so long ago, and reaching Mynos will take many weeks of travel. But you must investigate all possible explanations. Leave at once, Alerion. We must find the answer to this riddle.”

  “As you wish, but I will not be gone so long. I have another means of travel that will get me there much faster.”

  “Very well. Now Alerion, what type of magical assistance can we expect when Malbeck arrives?” asked the king seriously.

  “My King, I have sent messages to Shyval requesting battle wizards. They know of the dangers of not confronting Malbeck. I believe they will help.”

  The king was leery of Shyval, the dwelling of wizards, located far to the east over the Tundren Mountains. The tower of Shyval sat on the end of a peninsula overlooking Milnos Bay, a giant tower whose size eclipsed the mouth of the bay. It was said that it had been made by wizards, for no ordinary human, not even a dwarf, could have made a structure as large and magnificent. Hundreds of the most powerful wizards of Kraawn lived and studied there, paying no homage to any kingdom. Wizards had always made the king feel uneasy, but he had to hope that help would arrive from Shyval. They would need more than just steel to combat the Dark One.

  “Very good, may Ulren guide you in your search. Report back to me as soon as you find something,” the king said, dismissing the wizard.

  “I will, my King,” replied Alerion as he stood up and walked from the room.

  ***

  King Baylin Gavinsteal rode his chestnut mare to the edge of the training grounds. Ten knights of Finarth accompanied him, all wearing the gleaming armor made specifically for them. The king cantered next to Commander Kiln and Fourth Lance Dagrinal. Both sat tall on their warhorses giving them a commanding view of the training. There were several hundred untrained men and boys in the field moving through maneuvers and practicing signals.

  “Commander Kiln, how goes the training?” the king asked.

  “Slow, my King. But the new recruits are willing and eager to learn.”

  “Will they be ready?” the king asked.

  “They will respond to signals and flags, and maneuver accordingly, but that is all I can say. Let us hope they have heart, for that is something that I cannot teach them,” Kiln replied, cringing while observing a line of spearmen. “Excuse me, my King,” Kiln said, nudging his horse forward.

  Kiln rode to the line where Captain Lathrin was hastily trying to get a group of spearmen in line. Lathrin was a Third Lance in the Finarthian order, leader of his own modrig, or five hundred men. But when leading men from the regular army he was of captain rank. The long lances were entangled and the men were tripping over one another.

  “Get in formation!” yelled the captain as Kiln came up beside them. Lathrin looked at Kiln apologetically. “I’m sorry, Commander. They keep getting their lances entangled when they march or turn.”

  “Do not fret, Lathrin. They are just farmers, and frightened ones at that.” Kiln, dismounted from his horse and walked forward, standing in front of the line of men. The men had just gotten their lances untangled and were frantically getting in line when Kiln stepped up to several of them.

  One was just a boy, maybe sixteen, and the man to his right was a few years older, while the man to his left was pushing fifty winters. Kiln swept his steel eyes over them as they stood up straight, trying to act like the soldiers they were not. They avoided his stare, except for the youngest, who was looking right at him with wide eyes. Kiln stopped and stared back. The boy’s face was round and dirty, covered with freckles. His hair was reddish brown and his eyes were as blue and piercing as a lightning bolt.

  “What is your name, boy?” Kiln asked.

  The boy was just about to respond when the older man next to him spoke up. “I’m sorry, my Lord, he doesn’t mean to stare. It’s just that my boy has heard much about you and speaks of you often, but we have never seen you.”

  “Are you Commander Kiln?” the boy asked quickly, interrupting his father.

  “I am,” Kiln said with a slight smile.

  “I knew it!” the boy said, elbowing the older boy next to him.

  Kiln looked at the other boy and saw the resemblance. He was the spitting image of his younger brother, but maybe three or four years older.

  “Be quiet, Kye, you are embarrassing us,” the older brother muttered through tight lips.

  Kiln looked at the two young boys for a moment before returning his gaze to their father. “What is your name
?” he asked.

  “My name is William Gastros and these are my sons, Kye, and Sylos.”

  “Have you any military experience, William?”

  “No, my Lord, most of us haven’t, but we will fight hard. We just want to do our part.”

  “I do not doubt that. You have courage for being here.” Kiln directed his gaze to the dirty piece of cloth that William had wrapped around his head to keep the sweat from his eyes. “May I borrow that strip of cloth?”

  “This?” the farmer said, pointing at the head band.

  “Yes.”

  “It is dirty and sweaty, my Lord,” the farmer said, pulling it off.

  “It will do,” replied Kiln, taking the cloth and squatting at the man’s feet. “Now, position the lance next to your right foot, and keep it as straight as you can.”

  The man did so as the others watched intently. Captain Lathrin rode forward to get a better look. Kiln took the cloth, wrapping it around the shaft and the man’s leg, tying it tight, lashing the wooden shaft to his right ankle. Kiln stood up, stepping to the side.

  “Now, march forward, William,” Kiln ordered.

  The farmer looked at Kiln uneasily as everyone stared at him. He took several steps forward and the lance easily moved with him. The tip stayed high while the bottom portion was secured to his leg. “Now turn right,” Kiln instructed. William turned right, somewhat gracefully, taking a few more steps before stopping and smiling broadly at Kiln. “Very good,” added Kiln, moving towards Captain Lathrin and mounting his horse.

  “Have everyone do the same,” he ordered. “Use whatever you can find.”

  “Yes, Commander!” replied the captain, turning his horse sideways and speaking to Kiln under his breath. “But, sir, this will only work in marching. I’m afraid it will be of little use in combat.”