Army of the Dead fl-8

by Richard S. Tuttle

  “The Qubari have allies this time,” smiled the Astor. “Let us deal with one battle at a time. Tonight the battle rests with the horsemen of the plains. Send out the word to attack when the moon rises.”

  Mobi nodded and withdrew to speak with the shaman.

  “What is going to happen?” asked Bakhai.

  “Yojji will lead the attack from the north,” explained the Astor. “Adger’s men will charge from the south, and Harmagan will lead the Jiadin from the west.”

  “No attack from the east?” frowned Bakhai. “Premer Cardijja will wonder why I am missing then.”

  “There is to be no attack from the east,” replied Rejji, “but there will be more than enough death to cover your escape. We want Cardijja to think that the east is his only path to safety. If he avoids the jungle and discovers the true path to Angragar, we will not be able to defend it. He simply has too many men.”

  The brothers watched the camp silently for over an hour. Mobi came back and stood quietly alongside them. When the moon finally appeared in the eastern sky, they watched and listened carefully. The first hint of battle was a low rumbling of the earth as thousands of hooves pounded the ground. At first no one in the Motangan camp appeared alarmed, but as the rumble grew louder shouts rang out and soldiers leaped to their feet, their movements silhouetted by the campfires.

  Within moments the Motanga encampment sprang to life, soldiers grabbing their weapons and racing towards the perimeter. Few Motangans actually reached the perimeter before the Fakaran horsemen struck. Tens of thousands of Fakaran tribesmen charged into the camp from three directions, arrows from their horse bows reaching out to fell the enemy soldiers. As the Fakarans rushed past the perimeter, their bows fell to sway on leashes attaching them to the saddles. The Fakarans drew their swords and rode into the heart of the camp. Tents and soldiers alike were trampled by the war horses as the tribesmen slashed out with their swords.

  The Fakarans rode completely through the encampment with the Jiadin exiting to the east while the free tribes crisscrossed each other. Motangans who were defending against a northern invasion were soon forced to turn around and face the threat to their south as the other prong of the attack came upon them. Confusion reigned supreme in Premer Cardijja’s camp. As the Fakarans fled from the battle, the screams of the wounded drifted on the air.

  “Get me reports on our losses, Mobi,” instructed the Astor.

  The Qubari warrior nodded and retreated from the hill. When Rejji made no move to leave, Bakhai began to wonder.

  “Are they going to attack again?” asked Bakhai.

  “That is exactly what the Motangans are asking one another right now,” smiled Rejji. “The answer rests on the reports of our losses, but another attack will not come immediately in any event. We will give the Motangans a chance to envision a peaceful night ahead of them.”

  “They had no sleep last night,” Bakhai informed his brother. “I called upon the insects to attack them. If you wait a few hours, most of the Motangans will be asleep whether they want to be or not.”

  “Excellent,” smiled Rejji. “Unless our losses were extreme, I think another attack tonight will be worthwhile.”

  * * *

  “I want damage reports,” shouted Premer Cardijja. “And make sure that the perimeter is well manned. They may come back for another pass.”

  The Motangan premer gazed around at the trampled encampment and shook his head with a sigh of defeat. Tents were burning, and men were crying out for healing mages. Everywhere the premer looked, destruction was evident. For some strange reason, only his tent had been spared, just as it had been the previous night when the insects had invaded. The thought made him think of Bakhai. He gazed at the tent and opened his mouth to speak, but General Luggar read his mind.

  “There is no sign of the boy,” the general offered softly, “but that does not mean anything just yet. He could be wounded, or he might have run away when the Fakarans struck.”

  “He was near the eastern perimeter,” the premer said softly. “He must have been terrified. Send someone to look for him.”

  The general nodded and signaled for a soldier to come to him. He issued terse instructions and sent the soldier to search for the lad.

  “It is possible that he was a spy,” suggested the general.

  “A spy?” balked the premer. “To what end? What could he possibly learn from his short visit? We always excluded him from important conversations.”

  “True,” shrugged the general, “but who knows what goes through the mind of these savages?”

  “You must not think of the Fakarans in such a way,” cautioned the premer. “That only makes us underestimate them. The attack tonight was well planned and flawlessly executed. We must be ready for the next wave.”

  “You think they will attack again?” asked the general. “Their element of surprise will be gone.”

  “I would attack again if I were them,” declared the premer. “Even without the element of surprise, we are fairly defenseless here.”

  “Defenseless?” balked the general. “We have two hundred and fifty thousand men under your command. They could not muster half that many men if they had the whole nation of Fakara assembled out here.”

  “And who is to say that they do not have all of their fighters here?” asked the premer. “Look around you. Show me a tent that wasn’t trampled when they passed through. I cannot imagine how many thousands of riders passed through this camp, but it was a lot.”

  General Luggar did not bother to point out the premer’s own tent. He understood the point that Cardijja was making, and it was a valid point. There had certainly been tens of thousands of riders in each of the three prongs to the Fakaran attack. The thought of another attack sent shivers up the general’s spine.

  “How do you think they found us?” asked Luggar. “The lad said that the tribes were far to the south.”

  “I suspect that their scouts have been following our progress for some time,” answered the premer. “We cannot exactly hide our presence very well, not with the size of this army. They probably have scouts up on the mountain peaks.”

  “Then we must gain the safety of the jungle quickly,” suggested the general. “Perhaps it is wise to strike the camp right now and start marching, especially if you expect another attack. Let’s be gone from here before they return.”

  “I would agree wholeheartedly,” frowned the premer, “except that the men had no sleep last night. Curse those insects. That couldn’t have happened at a worse time. No, Luggar, the men can’t march tonight. Increase the perimeter by tenfold, especially in the areas where the Fakarans entered and exited the camp. Let the others rest, but with their weapons at their sides. As soon as dawn arrives, I want this whole camp up and ready to move out at a brisk pace.”

  The premer did not wait for a reply. He turned and entered his tent. General Luggar walked to a group of runners stationed nearby. He issued orders that would implement the premer’s commands. He left it up to the individual generals to determine which troops would be forced to stand sentry and which would be allowed to sleep.

  For the next two hours, General Luggar walked around the encampment making sure that the premer’s orders had been carried out. Eventually he was pleased with the preparations and confident in his belief that the Fakarans would not return before morning. He returned to his resurrected tent and went to sleep.

  When the attacks came an hour later, they were not from the same directions as the previous attacks. The Jiadin came from the southeast, Yojji’s men charged from southwest, and Adger’s troops attacked from the northeast. Despite all the preparations, the Motangans were unprepared for the changes in direction. Once again the Motangan encampment was invaded and destroyed as the three cavalries crisscrossed the camp.

  While the second attack was more costly to the Fakarans in terms of casualties, it broke the morale of the Motangan troops. The tired and injured Motangans remained awake for the rest of the night, wai
ting for the next wave of Fakaran horsemen.

  * * *

  Emperor Vand entered the throne room of the temple at Vandegar. His eyes narrowed as he watched Premer Tzargo and the mage, Pakar, talking softly near the door. They were so absorbed in their conversation that neither of them had noticed the emperor enter the room. Vand walked to his throne and sat down. Clearing his throat loudly, he glared at the two men. Premer Tzargo bowed low towards the emperor while Pakar hurried across the floor to take his place with the other eleven mages assigned to guard the emperor.

  “You have something to report?” Vand scowled at Tzargo.

  The premer nodded and marched across the room to stand in front of the emperor. He bowed again and waited for permission to speak.

  “Report,” scowled Vand.

  “I was just informed of a battle in Khadora,” Tzargo swallowed hard. “The report came from the force under Premer Shamal’s command.”

  “Yes, yes,” the emperor snapped impatiently. “Tell me what is significant about this report. Has Shamal conquered the country?”

  “I do not know,” frowned Premer Tzargo. “The report was sent as the battle was beginning. It occurred somewhere between Sintula and Chantise.”

  “Then Sintula has fallen?” asked the emperor.

  “It would appear so,” Tzargo said hesitantly.

  “It would appear so?” mocked the emperor. “Is it too much to ask to have decent reports on my armies? Pakar!”

  The black-cloak hurried across the floor and stood beside the premer. He bowed low in a sign of ultimate respect and then rose to look into the emperor’s eyes.

  “The mages under Premer Shamal have been negligent in their reporting,” Pakar offered, knowing that his words would cause some deaths among his confederates. Vand did not stand for incompetence and his punishment was a humiliating death. “We should have had a report when Sintula fell, but none arrived. The fact that Shamal’s army was already north of Sintula declares that the Khadoran city must have fallen.”

  “I do not want your suppositions,” scowled Vand. “I want the reports from the people in the field. When I want an analysis, I will ask for one. Now, leave me and get a thorough report on Shamal’s victories.”

  “We have been trying for some time to contact him,” replied Pakar. “We have been unable to contact a single mage under Premer Shamal.”

  “What are you saying?” frowned the emperor. “Are you trying to make me believe that the Khadorans defeated Shamal? That is preposterous. Go and get me my reports.”

  “If the emperor will allow my thoughts?” Pakar asked hesitantly.

  Vand sighed with frustration and shook his head, but he waved his hand in a show of permission for the mage to speak.

  “We have had a communication from Meliban,” declared the black-cloak. “I think it is of great interest and may reveal another reason why Shamal might not be able to communicate.”

  “Proceed,” ordered the emperor, his curiosity aroused.

  “Two mages arrived in Meliban from Vandamar,” stated Pakar. “They spoke with great authority and warned against any use of the air tunnel spell. They informed our people in Meliban that the air tunnel was corrupt. They said that the elves had found a way to weave a compulsion spell through the air tunnel and that using it over any distance would be dangerous. They even demanded that our calls to Meliban not be answered. It was only after I threatened to go there and kill them that they finally picked up the air tunnel.”

  “And what is the importance of this?” Vand asked. He thought he understood where Pakar was going, but he wanted nothing left unsaid.

  “If the same rumor was spread in Khadora,” reasoned Pakar, “Shamal’s mages would be afraid to contact us for fear of jeopardizing your safety. I do not know if this is the case, but it is a possibility that we must consider.”

  “Then you were wise to bring it to my attention, Pakar,” nodded the emperor.

  “Perhaps we should send some of Premer Tzargo’s men over the Fortung Mountains to investigate,” suggested Pakar.

  “Are you so easily convinced that the elves can corrupt the air tunnel spell?” inquired the emperor.

  “No,” Pakar shook his head, “I am not convinced at all. In fact, I see no possibility of that happening. There would have to be an elf at one of the ends of the air tunnel. If it were broken anywhere else, both mages would feel the disruption. I believe this to be a story made up to limit our communications. The enemy wants to blind us to what they are doing.”

  “Well reasoned,” smiled the emperor. “Who were these traitors who spread the false tales of the corrupted air tunnels?”

  Pakar bit his lip and hesitated just a moment too long. The emperor’s demeanor instantly changed to darkness as he detected the mage’s hesitation. As Vand’s mouth opened to scold the mage, Pakar spit out the answer.

  “It was Xavo and Lady Mystic,” Pakar said hurriedly. “They claimed to be coming here with word about the corruption. That is why the mages in Meliban felt at ease with not answering our calls.”

  “Xavo?” echoed the emperor with disbelief. “Did he not accompany us here? Who gave him leave to return to Vandamar?”

  “He did not come with us,” frowned Pakar. “I assumed that his orders were to stay there.”

  Vand seethed at Xavo’s betrayal. The mage had been afforded the highest position for his loyalty, and his duplicity stung the emperor. Vand’s mind shifted to his daughter, and suddenly he nodded to himself. His rebel daughter had managed to seduce another mage to help her in her attempt to seek revenge. Vand vowed that she would not live to see her goal.

  “Contact Meliban,” commanded the emperor. “I want both Xavo and Lady Mystic brought to me here in Vandegar. I do not care what condition they arrive in, as long as they still breath. Their deaths will be an event to be watched by all.”

  “They are no longer in Meliban,” Pakar said softly. “They left days ago. They should have been here by now.”

  Vand’s gaze narrowed as he tried to imagine what the duo would be doing in Fakara. For several long moments, a silence hung over the chamber. Eventually Vand locked eyes with Pakar. He spoke calmly and softly, but no one could mistake the tinge of hatred in his voice.

  “Send word to everyone under my command,” instructed the emperor. “Xavo and Lady Mystic are traitors. They are to be apprehended in any conceivable way, as long as they arrive in Vandegar alive. The reward for their capture will be unlimited bounty and status.”

  “It shall be as you command,” bowed the black-cloak. “Should we send men to Khadora as well?”

  “No,” the emperor responded tersely. “I will deal with Shamal in my own way. Go and spread the word.”

  With a dismissive wave, the emperor sent his mages from the throne room. Premer Tzargo bowed and backed out of the room, leaving Emperor Vand alone. Vand sat silently for a few moments and then rose from his throne. He appeared to be walking casually out of the throne room, but his mind was filled with rage. He cursed Xavo and his daughter for their interference. He mentally berated Shamal for failure to keep him informed. He spat on the memory of Doralin who had failed him in the Sakova.

  When the emperor reached the roof of the temple, he was in a particularly foul mood, which was quite appropriate for the company he was about to commune with. Located on the roof were six hideous demons, visages of harshly chiseled black stones. Their metallic sounding claws tapped the roof of the temple as they felt the emperor approaching. They turned as one to gaze at the doorway leading into the temple from the roof. Vand walked through the doorway, his face a mask of hatred. The demons’ angular lips parted in what some would mistake for a smile.

  Vand ignored the demons at first, which he knew incensed them. He walked to the edge of the roof and gazed out over the plain stretching westward. The Fortung Mountains were visible far in the distance, and beyond them was Khadora. The six demons moved slowly as if with no direction, but they converged on the emperor. They surrou
nded him in a semicircle and waited to hear his words.

  “Premer Shamal has proven to be a disappointment,” the emperor said so softly that it sounded like he was whispering to someone, but there was no one there except the demons. “He needs to be told the errors of his ways. Do not harm him, but bring him to me.”

  The emperor turned and touched one of the demons. He looked the creature in the eyes and said, “Kill anyone who gets in your way, but bring me Shamal. Do it now.”

  The chosen demon grinned at the others as they backed away. The creature stepped to the very edge of the roof and leaned forward, allowing his body to fall. Vand watched with curiosity as the demon plummeted towards the ground. Suddenly, long black wings unfolded and swung out from the demon’s body, and the fall turned into a glide. With a single flap of those powerful wings, the demon rose upward and soared towards the west. Vand stood silently and watched the black specter sail through the sky until the demon was merely a speck lost in the haze of the distant mountains.

  Chapter 32

  Terror in the Jungle

  Emperor Marak rode a horse south along the roadway of death. His expression was a mixture of victory tinged with a deep sadness as he viewed the carnage left from the battle. He passed several work crews and their wagons and paused momentarily to watch the men loading the wagons with bodies and body parts. He shook his head with disgust at the wasted human lives and continued southward. A few minutes later he came to the area of the road where he had attacked Premer Shamal and his officers. Again he paused as his eyes scanned the grounds. Blood soaked the road and little was recognizable, but he saw the head of the Motangan premer staring blankly up at the sky. The man’s mouth was open wide with what must have been his dying shout. Marak closed his eyes and offered up a prayer to Kaltara. He gave thanks for the victory over the Motangans, but he also prayed for an end to the continuing slaughter brought upon the world by Emperor Vand.