Aethir

by DeWayne Kunkel

  The following morning the sun rose over a frigid landscape mantled in white. The burning orb afforded little heat, but the dark snow laden clouds were gone. Only a few gossamer wisps remained to stain the clear sky overhead.

  They moved onward into the town. Its citizens turned out to watch the large force of men march past. The soldiers warding the bridge left their posts and joined the ranks. Slipping in before the trailing packhorses.

  Boots rang on the bridges cobbles, adding to the drums thudding beat. As the first rank reached the far side of the bridge two flags were unfurled. One bore the white silhouette of a rearing stag on a field of emerald. It was the Kings standard and the men cheered at the sight of it.

  The second flag surprised Gaelan; he had never seen its like before. A field of blue so deep it almost appeared black emblazoned with a scarlet phoenix.

  “What standard is that?” Gaelan asked Captain Irson.

  “A gift from Lord Fullvie,” He answered with a smile. “A new King needs his banner.”

  Gaelan smiled. “Out of the fires of treachery comes a new beginning.” He said with a laugh. “Good old Burcott, the man never ceases to surprise me.” He watched the flag snap in the wind and approved of the design.

  The column followed the road southwest over low rolling hills of fertile land. The Rildrun River lay several miles behind them when one of the forward scouts raced his horse over the crest of a distant hill. He ran the horse hard reining the tired beast to a halt before Gaelan.

  Sliding hooves dug deep furrows in the snow and ice. The mounts breath came in huge gasps that sent clouds of vapor high into the air. The man leapt from the saddle and saluted.

  Gaelan returned the salute; he knew it was not good news that drove this man to ride his mount so hard.

  “An armed force numbering more than two thousand are marching this way, they are less than two miles distant and moving quickly.”

  “Did you see any standards?” Gaelan asked.

  “None sire,” The man replied.

  “Take your mount to the rear and rest him,” Gaelan ordered. “He will bear no mans weight today.”

  The scout saluted and moved to the back of the column.

  Gaelan looked over the surrounding countryside. A lone hill stood above the others less than a mile away. Its sides were steep and covered with dense clumps of brambles.

  Gaelan drew his sword holding it high overhead to command the warriors attention. “Men of Trondhiem!” He shouted. “Our enemy is near and we must make haste. Run to that hilltop. If we are to win the day we must hold the high ground.”

  With a yell the men broke ranks and dashed through the snow. Sore feet and taught muscles forgotten. Once the hilltop was gained they shed their heavy packs and readied their weapons.

  Gaelan formed the lines; it was with grim faces that they waited for the approaching army to appear.

  After only a few minutes the sound of several thousand feet marching in step reached their ears. A few moments more and a dark line of marching men came into view. Their armor gleamed brightly as they crested the next hill.

  The approaching men stopped at the base of the hill. For several long minutes the two armies stood facing one another across the unspoiled snow.

  A lone rider separated from the group and closed the distance. He stopped several hundred yards away and raised his sword upon which a white cloth had been tied.

  “It appears they wish to parley,” Irson said stating the obvious. “I will ride down with your terms sire.”

  Gaelan shook his head, “Nay Irson. This is something I must do.” He waved for a horse to be brought forward.

  Irson held the reins while the Prince mounted. “Be wary,” He advised. “Goliad’s cutthroats have betrayed every vow they have taken. Violating the pennant of truce will not cost them any sleep at night.”

  Gaelan donned his helm, “Should I fall Irson, hold the line.” He ordered. “Do not come after me. Find a way to escape and get what men you can and head south to Burcott.”

  Irson straightened and saluted. “You have my word Sire.”

  Gaelan let the horse pick its way down the steep hill. When he was no longer within the range of his bowmen he felt suddenly exposed. He stopped his horse a few feet from the man bearing the white flag. He was heavily armored in chain with an iron helm that hid his face from view.

  His shield bore the emblem of the house of Whiten, a member of the lesser houses. Whitenshire was a small region known for the fine wines it produced.

  The emissary removed his helm and smiled. He was dark haired with bright green eyes that seemed to be shining with a light all their own. His face was narrow and clean-shaven. He was young, barely twenty from his appearance.

  “Prince Gaelan,” He said in greeting bowing his head in respect.

  “You have me at an advantage,” Gaelan responded with a slight bow of his own. “I know the house you serve but not your name.”

  “I am Edwall of Whiten. Youngest son of Lord Eyahn, master of Whitenshire.” He answered.

  Gaelan knew Lord Eyahn; he had met him many times in Galloglass hall. He was an outspoken man whose views often infuriated his father. “I know your father.” Gaelan said. “Does he lead the army at your back to oppose me?”

  Edwall’s eyes narrowed. “He is dead,” He announced in a voice filled with anger. “Butchered along with all my kin. My father refused to bend knee to the usurper Goliad. In response Lord Vernal’s men burned the house of my father to the ground.” Edwall swallowed his anger and stilled his rising temper. “It is I who leads the men you see. They are freemen from many houses. All have suffered losses, be it loved ones or destroyed homes they have sworn their service to me. I have led them here through traitors and Morne alike to serve the true King of Trondhiem.”

  Gaelan nearly leapt from his saddle in joy. The black cloud of impending battle was cast aside by the simple words of Edwall.

  The young man slid from his saddle and knelt on the ground before Gaelan. He held his sword before him offering the hilt to his liege. “Will you accept the service of what is left of my house and the men sworn to its banner?”

  Gaelan dismounted and pulled Edwall to his feet. “The honor is mine Edwall, Lord of the house of Whiten.” He clasped the young mans hand.

  A great cheer rose up from both sides as the assembled men sheathed their weapons and rushed forward to greet one another in friendship.

  “How many?” Gaelan asked Edwall, shouting to be heard through the celebrating men.

  “More than twelve hundred seasoned warriors from various houses.” Edwall replied. “Add another thousand able bodied men who have rallied to our cause.”

  Gaelan couldn’t help but smile, in a matter of a few minutes the size of his army had more than doubled. “How are you set for provisions?”

  “The greatest advantage to having tillers of the land joining our ranks is that they come well prepared. We have a supply train of mules, horses and wagons less than a mile off.” Edwall looked away from the happy faces around him. “I know you did not sortie from Carich to face us on the field. Where is it that we are heading?”

  “To the Vipers den itself Edwall,” Gaelan answered. “We go to reclaim Rodderdam for Trondhiem.”

  Edwall’s heart leaped, he would soon have his chance to mete justice on the men who slew his family. “Then let us get this rabble organized and on the march.”

  An hour later nearly five thousand men set forth. Returning to the snow covered road they marched towards Rodderdam, Goliad’s stronghold. The tramping feet left a broad scar on the white landscape. A path on which several hundred horses and wagons followed.

  The black banner of Gaelan led the way. As they passed villages and isolated farms men would leave their homes and join the swelling ranks of the army. Leaving behind crying children and worried wives.

  On the fifth night since leaving Carich Gaelan was stirred from his slumber. It was well past midnight and the moon lay hidden from
view behind a thick veil of clouds.

  A distant rumble dragged him into wakefulness. Thunder? He wondered sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Riders!” Came the warning cry from one of the sentries.

  Gaelan jumped to his feet. There was no mistaking the sound now. Iron shod hooves thudding upon frozen earth, thousands of them by the sound of it.

  From the east they came a ribbon of fire snaking through the hills, like a dragon of old. Hundreds of torches leading the way shedding sparks with the speed of their passage.

  “Put out the fires!” Gaelan shouted above the din of the shouting men. “Form a circle, spears to the fore, archers in the middle.”

  The fires went out and only the dim light from the veiled moon offered any illumination. The riders raced on, the thunder of the horses growing into a roar. Brazen horns split the night air with clarion voices that shook the earth.

  The riders parted passing to either side of the encamped army. Armored men flashed past in the darkness, the faint light of the moon shining brightly on the tips of their lances. They numbered in thousands, a racing column nearly half a mile long. The split ranks rejoined and a crisp horn blared into the night. With remarkable precision the riders stopped and turned their mounts to face Gaelan’s hastily erected defenses.

  Gaelan’s men stood bravely, ringed by thousands of torch bearing riders. They knew they were vastly outnumbered but they would fight to the man should their Prince command it.

  The air was silent, only the faintest of breezes could be heard beneath the nervous breaths of the men and huffing pants of the horses.

  “In whose service do you march?” A voice demanded from the riders’ ranks.

  “We are men loyal to Trondhiem,” Edwall shouted back after getting a nod from Gaelan. “We serve Gaelan the rightful King.”

  Gaelan stepped out from the ranks and stood defiantly facing the place from where the voice had come. “Where are your banners?” He shouted back. “Who dares ride across Trondhiem as thieves in the dark.”

  Two men rode forward, wrapped in dark cloaks with hints of armor gleaming through the folds. Each man wore a helm plumed with horsehair, their eyes shining through the narrow slits in the steel.

  “It is considered a discourtesy,” One of the men answered pulling off his helm. “For a King to ride through another’s realm displaying his colors without leave.” King Wolhan inclined his head in greeting and smiled warmly. “You’ve led us a merry chase Gaelan.”

  Gaelan recovered his composure and bowed. “You are a most welcome site King Wolhan. I thank the gods that you have come.”

  King Wolhan dismounted and threw back his cloak revealing a blood red breastplate over gilded chain. “Thank Connell,” King Wolhan said nodding to the other man.

  Connell dismounted and removed his helm. “Going to war with out me I see.” He said in greeting coming to stand next to his father.

  Gaelan embraced his cousin, “I had no choice Goliad sought to pin us at Carich. Even as we speak his army is marching on the keep from the north.”

  “A surprise awaits them on their arrival.” Connell said.

  “How so?” Gaelan asked.

  “Two full blades of Keshian soldiers now ward the pass and hold the keep.” King Wolhan answered.

  “What is a blade?” Edwall asked Gaelan.

  “Ten thousand men,” Gaelan responded in shock.

  “I will not allow the Morne filth to spread beyond these lands.” King Wolhan answered. “Before leaving the spire I sent emissaries to Ril’Gambor and Ao’dan as well. Alerting them to the threat that we face.”

  Gaelan looked at the mounted men before him. “How many did you bring with you?”

  “Five blades,” Connell replied. “Half of Kesh’s standing army is now in Trondhiem. We brought only the mounted warriors with us when we left Carich.” Connell slapped his stunned cousins shoulder. “Smile Gaelan,” He said. “The Horse Lords of Kesh ride to war, thirty thousand strong!”

  “We cannot possibly fail!” Edwall blurted out excitedly.

  King Wolhan shook his head. “Nothing is certain in war.” He looked to his son. “Have the watch set, we will await the dawn here.” King Wolhan looked at Gaelan closely. “We have much to talk about.” He pointed to the remains of one of the fires. “I have many questions and they will be answered before this night has passed.”

  “Of Course, King Wolhan.” Gaelan responded, turning to his men he shouted loudly so all may hear. “The Horse Lords of Kesh have come to our aid. Rekindle the fires and offer our friends what comforts we have.”

  It was as if a heavy weight was lifted from the men of Trondhiem’s hearts and the camp sprung to life. All thoughts of sleep cast aside.

  Casius dismounted, his back was stiff and his shoulders ached. The armor Connell had given him weighed him down and was uncomfortable. He wanted to shed it but Connell had insisted that he wear it at all times. Eventually he would become accustomed to it and would no longer feel its weight.

  Suni had looked on disapprovingly while Casius was fitted for the suit of mail and breastplate. He remarked that only a man of little skill would ever consider encasing himself in steel.

  Marcos said nothing but Casius noticed how the Tal’shear avoided the touch of the metal and stayed distant to anyone wearing it.

  D’Yana had refused the armor as well saying none could be found to fit her and they had not the time to wait for a suit to be fashioned.

  To the men of Trondhiem her presence and that of many other women among the riders shocked them. Unlike Kesh, the women of Trondhiem did not often ride to war.

  Marcos joined them at their fire with the ever-present Suni in tow. “ I am going to intrude upon King Wolhan’s and Gaelan’s conversation.” He had resumed his disguise since leaving the Spire and appeared as a middle-aged man with dark hair.

  Suni eyed the mass of armed men moving about them. “I shall accompany you,” He said in a tone that offered little room for argument.

  Marcos nodded to his companion. “You would not be Anghor Shok if you had said otherwise.”

  Casius took a place by the fire that was shared by men of both nations. D’Yana joined him and passed a flask of wine to him.

  Casius upended the flask and felt the warmth of the liqueur warming his stomach. “I am surprised Connell allowed you to come along.”

  D’Yana laughed taking the flask from him. “You have much to learn Casius,” she said taking a drink. “He may be a Prince but he does not command my fate. He did try and convince me not to come,” she said with a wicked smile. “His pride will mend given time.”

  It was Casius’s turn to laugh. “I thought I saw the imprint of a hand upon his cheek the other day.”

  D’Yana’s face grew serious, “Why did you come along Casius?” She asked. “You are too smart to be a warrior.”

  Casius shrugged, “I cannot set aside and watch while other men risk their lives. Besides this is an adventure like none other.”

  “Another dreamer,” D’Yana said with a chuckle. “Just pray the dream does not sour when you awaken.”

  “I lived a dream once D’Yana.” Casius responded laying claim to the flask once more. “But Cytheran raiders took that life away from me.” He took another drink and handed it back. “Once I used to set on the crags and wish for the chance to see the world.”

  “You can always return,” D’Yana said.

  “To what?” Casius said shaking his head at the memories that came rushing forward. “All that I knew and loved was burnt to the ground, my people either enslaved or slain by the Raiders. Even if it remained, I could never go back. I am not the same boy I once was. The path once trodden cannot be walked again.” He said quoting one of his favorite writers. “Enjoy this moment, For tomorrow will not be this day.”

  D’Yana understood all to well what he had said. She had made choices in her life that led her far away from the place she would desire to return to. “You are wise f
or your years, Casius.”

  He shrugged at the compliment, “Besides it feels right to be here. To do other wise may go against fate.”

  Some of the Keshian riders began playing small wooden pipes, a merry tune that was complimented by drummers from Trondhiem. People around the fire clapped to the beat and then the warriors began to sing. The tune was an old one sung by countless warriors on the eve of battle, the ballad of Roborse bloodfist and the taming of his bride Vitera the fell.

  Casius looked at D’Yana who was singing along with the men. His cheeks and ears burned hotly. In all his days wandering with Connell he had never heard such language. Even the sailors of his homeland had never spoken so foully.

  All across the vast camp men joined in, each verse growing louder and fouler than the one before. The song finally ended with Roborse fleeing into the wilderness, witless and naked with Vitera in pursuit.

  With the final note the men roared with laughter and demanded another tune. To Casius’s surprise D’Yana was among the most boisterous of the lot.

  The singing continued on until the early morning hours. With the sunrise and many protesting groans the camp was awakened and the days long march begun.

  Four days they journeyed, the weather remained cold but no more snow fell to impede their progress. Leaving the rolling hills they entered the lowlands of Trondhiem’s heart. Passing through scattered villages where frightened people fled the approaching army.

  Across snow covered fields they trod. While Keshian warriors scoured the countryside searching for any signs of the enemy. The closer they came to Rodderdam the more homesteads they passed that were abandoned. Many of them nothing more than a collection of burnt timbers where buildings had once stood, their occupants either dead or run off to safer lands to the south.