The Chimaera Regiment

by Nathaniel Turner

  Two days later, twelve days after leaving the northern homeland of the Wellites, Lord Aneirin and his fellows stood at the western precipice, overlooking the Valley of Kyros. Resolve hardened his silver eyes as he surveyed the dell, and tendon-driven manipulators locked down tight in his anxiety; they were running out of time.

  Lord Wellyem stepped up beside him. “Come along, lord,” he said, “We can’t afford to wait.”

  Aneirin shook his head. “No, Lord Wellyem, we can’t afford to travel further. We’re climbing down here.” He pointed at the edge of the cliff.

  Wellyem followed his hand and leaned over the cusp, looking down the jagged wall to the valley floor far below. “You can’t be serious,” he said as doubt seeped into his voice.

  “We’re too late to go around,” Aneirin explained. He turned to face the Wellite lord, pointing past him to the south. “If we carry on, then the best case scenario is that we meet the Regiment at the Pass of Anthea, where we will be outnumbered and outflanked.”

  Wellyem narrowed his eyes. “And what’s the worst case scenario?”

  Aneirin shrugged, as if estimating what he already knew. “The Alkimites will be long dead and the Valley will be empty.”

  Wellyem sneered in his frustration. “How can you know?” he demanded, “What if someone else fought the Regiment, slowed them down?”

  Aneirin leaned a little closer to the northern warlord; his unblinking gaze unsettled the man with its intensity. “Do you really,” he asked patiently, “want to risk thousands of lives on the gamble that I might be wrong?”

  Gesturing wildly at the steep cliff beside him, Wellyem yelled, “I don’t want to risk thousands of lives in a suicidal attempt to climb down these bluffs!”

  Aneirin smiled in an expression that Wellyem took as condescending. “Don’t worry, Lord Wellyem,” he said, “your warriors will be fine.”

  The Wellite’s eyes narrowed even further and he ground his teeth heavily. He seemed about ready to break his oath and attack the Guardians outright. Instead, he took a deep breath and released it in a defeated sigh. “Fine,” he said. He stormed off to his soldiers, ordering them to prepare to descend the cliffs.

  Meanwhile, Aneirin and his brothers retrieved a pair of cables from further south. The four Guardians had used them to climb the cliffs more than nine weeks earlier; Aneirin had left them hidden in anticipation of needing them again. Securing the cables among the stones near the cliff’s edge, the Guardians tested both cables before dropping the free ends over the side of the cliff. Alastair and Liam descended first, to ensure the safety and security of the lines. Aneirin and Tate moved to a broad jut, where they could keep better watch of the proceedings.

  Wellyem ordered his warriors to descend the cables after the two Guardians. The Wellites were hesitant, but one suggestion of cowardice from their lord quickened their pace. “Every last man of you,” he shouted at them, “is getting down these bluffs, and I don’t want to hear one sideways word about it!”

  The cables were made of strong, intertwined metal cords; Aneirin warned the warriors that they could not descend without gauntlets, since the cables were not as easy to grip as regular rope. The descent was slow work for the Wellites, especially with their great numbers. Liam and Alastair, meanwhile, had already reached the base of the cliffs before the first pair of Wellites had traversed halfway.

  One of those lead warriors, a man named Heryre, was climbing down the southern line. He was bold and fiercely competitive, so he tried to rappel as quickly as the Guardians had. He soon outpaced his fellows, creating a distance of about twenty feet between him and the next climber. Taking a chance, he dropped another four feet, aiming for a thin ledge. The ledge snapped under the sudden pressure, and Heryre’s tenuous grasp of the cable failed him. He dropped another ten feet before his arm caught an outcropping, arresting his fall. His feet dangled precariously, and the cable was now beyond his reach. The base of the cliff was still thirteen hundred feet away.

  Aneirin saw what was happening before Heryre even cried for help. The Guardian lord took two paces back, then dashed to the edge of the jut and launched himself toward the cliff face. His leap took him past both cables. He caught a stone just south of the startled line of Wellites, who clung to the rock in their surprise.

  Aneirin took short, precise drops down the side of the crag. While Heryre begged for help, the Guardian passed him by in a matter of moments. He landed on an overhang eight feet below the Wellite. “Warrior!” Aneirin called up, “What’s your name?”

  The man replied through a choked voice, “Heryre, lord!”

  “Alright, Heryre,” the Guardian said, his voice calm, “Lower yourself slowly. You’re not far from the rock face; reach your feet toward it until you find purchase.”

  The man tried to obey. He swung his feet toward the cliff, but scrabbled off of the loose stones. The effort only weakened his grip, and as he swung back, he lost his hold. He fell away from the wall, plummeting earthward—

  —until Aneirin caught his outstretched arm. The Guardian held the rock with one hand and the screaming warrior with the other. A long moment of relief passed while Heryre realized that he had been saved. When calm reigned again, Aneirin asked him, “Think you can make it the rest of the way?”

  Looking up, Heryre nodded. He did not look sure, but he was proud, and he was not about to be carried down the mountainside. Rocking back and forth, Aneirin swung the man like a pendulum until he could reach out and catch the cable.

  Heryre stayed there for a time, gasping. Eventually, he regained his composure and his courage, and he resumed his descent—slowly. Aneirin remained where he stood until the whole army had passed him by. At last, after Wellyem and Tate had gone by, he grasped the cable and followed them down.

  When Aneirin reached the ground, Wellyem pulled him aside. “Tell me, shiny one,” he said, curious, “why would you risk your life to save such a man? You owed him nothing. Why risk death for a man who may not even deserve life?”

  Aneirin smiled coyly. “What makes you think I risked anything?” he asked. Then he laughed and went to rejoin his brothers, leaving a confused and unsatisfied warlord in his wake.

  Forty paces from the base of the cliff, there was a dense forest. Aneirin led the army into that forest, guiding them through its murky depths. Two hours later, the great Wellite army poured onto the plateau overlooking the deepest tract of land in the area. Gesturing at the green fields and the distant, shimmering Clerisauk Lake, Aneirin announced with a smile, “Welcome to the Valley of Kyros.”

  *

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The twentieth of the month of Ennemen

  At the turn of the eighth hour

  Meanwhile, not far to the south, Einar led Fintan and the other twenty-four surviving captives across that same tract. They had come through the mile-long Pass of Anthea early the previous day. The broad gap in the mountains could have provided easy passage for fifty men, let alone twenty-six.

  Einar seemed glad to return home; a smile creased his face as he pressed them onward. But Fintan still smoldered at the loss of his old friend, cut down like a dog by the Regiment—all while Fintan was held back, prevented from saving him and forced to watch. The Sundan warrior’s face was downcast, and he refused to look at the glowing afternoon beauty of the gentle grassland.

  But for Einar and the other captives, it was a welcome sight to sore eyes. After long months in the Regiment’s custody, the twenty-four former prisoners were glad to come to a land of peace—even if it was not to stay that way for long. Wounded by the death of his own friend, Einar was eager to rejoin the fight against the Regiment.

  The meager band of men, ragged and weary, were startled as they crested a shallow hill and came face-to-face with Aneirin and the Wellites. The great army was descending from the plateau into the valley, headed north to the Alkimite village. Aneirin recognized Einar and hurried forward to greet him. “Greetings, man!” the Guardian welcomed hi
m, “Where have you been, and where is your brother-in-arms?”

  Einar recovered from his surprise when he saw the familiar and genial face of the lord. “Lord Aneirin,” he answered with a bow. Looking at his fellow escapees, he forced a smile past his darkened heart. “It is a long story.”

  Aneirin recognized the pain in his eyes, so he clapped him on the shoulder and began to direct them further north. “We still have time before we reach your village,” he encouraged, “Tell me what has happened.”

  Einar told the tale with as much detail as he could manage. He pulled Fintan into the retelling, drawing the man from his grief. They told Aneirin all that had happened to them over the past month. By the time they reached the Alkimite village, the Guardian lord was more convinced than ever that Derek was the true threat to peace in the land, not Drystan.

  The village was bustling with anticipation of the upcoming battle. Aneirin, Wellyem, and Einar went directly to Lord Cyrus’ home, letting the other warriors and Guardians mingle among the people, looking for food and rest.

  Cyrus looked weary and belabored; his eyes were dim and his lids were heavy. In the meantime, Gregory had established himself as general; even old Draus respected the boy’s insight. Those two greeted the three arriving heroes with firm handshakes and determined nods.

  Einar caught them up on what he had learned of the Regiment and its great numbers, and warned them that the first Leonites were likely marching into the Pass of Anthea at that very moment.

  Before they could set to planning the battle, Lord Cyrus interjected, “How many have you brought now, Lord Aneirin?” The tiny glimmer of hope in his cracked voice was fading fast; fear of the Regiment taunted the man, who had neither slept nor eaten for days. Aneirin suspected that he was surviving on wine alone, and pitied him.

  “There are two thousand, two hundred thirty-three Wellites at your service, lord,” Wellyem said, his strong voice resonating through the hall, making Cyrus sound even weaker feebler.

  Gregory nodded, recounting the remainder of their armies. “That is a great help, lords,” he said, “There are one thousand, one hundred thirty-eight Alkimites defending their homes. With the men you have brought,” he nodded toward Einar, “our other forces are three hundred sixty-five Annali, three hundred seventy-four Athranlati, five hundred eighty-six Daraeags, seventy Spretnessi, thirty-six Karethi, forty Shemami, thirty-four Niuvans, fifty-five Deichans, eighty-nine Hendekites, one hundred forty-four Duadeki, fifty-two Geoffi, thirteen Hallans, forty-seven Menoskites, forty-two Dentans, twenty-three Waltrites, four Jarrans, eight Lockians, fifteen Paciens, sixteen Reyens, twenty-three Valenzetti, forty-two Dharmans, and twelve Maclenni.”

  “Five thousand, four hundred sixty-one men,” Aneirin summed, “Give or take a few brave citizens.” He glanced meaningfully at Einar, who knew that Fintan was exhausted and broken from losing Azos; Fintan had no obligation to fight in this war, and Aneirin wanted Einar to make that clear to the last surviving Sundan.

  Draus, proud as he was, seemed uneasy. “Will that be enough, when Derek leads eleven thousand?”

  Wellyem had quickly grown tired of the fatalistic talk all around him. “Listen here!” he exclaimed, stepping past Aneirin to tower over the Alkimite soldier, “You’ve got the Wellites on your side, and I don’t care if this ‘Regiment’ is eleven thousand men or seven times eleven thousand! They will not take this valley so long as there’s breath in the breast of a Wellite! Have faith in your people, man! Does the blood of your ancestors not flow through your veins?”

  Gregory stepped between the two men, taking up the challenge laid out by the warlord. As Aneirin watched, approval tugged at the corners of his mouth; Gregory had matured greatly since the Guardian had last stood in the valley. “Four battalions of the Regiment are Ferites, mightier warriors than any of us has ever met in battle. I trust in my people, lord, but more than that, I trust in the gods. If we are to win this battle, then we shall win it—but right now, outnumbered two-to-one, we must be clever. We need your support, lord, not your criticism. Do not overestimate our chances.”

  Wellyem stepped back, an expression of grudging respect on his face to match the admiration in Aneirin’s mind. The Guardian stepped forward and suggested softly, “Then let us prepare our plans, men.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The twenty-first of the month of Ennemen

  Late in the first hour

  The next morning, Aneirin surveyed the Alkimite camp. Three battalions stood about anxiously, ten miles from the village, waiting for a sign of the enemy. Scouts reported that the Regiment had entered the Valley late in the previous evening, a few hours before dark; the battle was imminent.

  The Guardian lord went down to the chieftains’ tent, where Wellyem, Draus, Gregory, and Aneirin’s three brothers were waiting. Tate, Alastair, and Liam were more than willing to stand with the Alkimites and fight against the Regiment; since the deaths of their own charges, they saw it as their sworn duty to protect Hector and his family. Aneirin was proud to see them defending the Valley.

  The four lords, Draus, and Gregory looked up expectantly when Aneirin entered. “Any word?” Draus asked eagerly.

  Aneirin shook his smooth silvery head. “No,” he answered, “The last I heard was that Derek and the Regiment were about an hour’s march out. It would be best to get the men to their posts.”

  Wellyem nodded and stepped out to begin arraying the soldiers for battle. Tate frowned at his brother, recognizing something in Aneirin’s silver eyes. “If you are not here with news of the enemy, then what has you worried?”

  Aneirin drew his lips into a thin line, almost imperceptible on his metallic face. When he spoke at last, his voice sounded regretful. “I cannot remain here for the battle,” he said, “I must get to Hector.”

  Draus looked angry. “But why, milord? We need your prowess here, with us,” he argued.

  Aneirin gestured to the other three Guardians. “My brethren will remain here as generals in the battle,” he replied, “but I cannot let Hector stand alone. It has been over a month since he left; I had hoped he would return with the Blessed Blades by now. It is against my character, against my whole self—and against the will of the gods for me to remain here while he may be in danger.”

  Gregory stepped forward and gripped the Guardian’s arm. “Tell me one thing, lord, and I shall let you leave us.”

  “What is that, man?” Aneirin asked.

  “Is he worth all this?”

  Aneirin smiled very slightly. “Your death will bring you glory,” he answered, “only if he does not meet his before year’s end.”

  Gregory nodded resolutely and released his grasp. Aneirin bowed to each of them in turn, then exited the tent. He slipped away from the camp, staying inconspicuous until he was out of sight; then he put on all haste for the eastern pass through the mountains.

  Just southeast of the camp, Fintan sat alone on the grass, sharpening his sword. He had spoken to no one since telling his tale to Lord Aneirin. The wounds were still fresh, and speaking of them had opened them anew. Einar had wisely given him a wide berth, and now the Alkimite approached cautiously.

  “They’re gathering us into battle lines,” Einar said, “Are you joining us?”

  Fintan bore down on his sword a little too heavily. The rock in his hand chipped the edge of the blade. Dropping the stone, Fintan cursed under his breath. He stared down at the weapon, unable to clear his mind of the image of his friend, cut down by the Leonites. He wished he could have fought them; he wished he could have attacked, slaughtered, and died defending his friend. But Einar had held him back.

  “We were the last,” he said finally. Then he corrected himself, “I am the last Sundan.” He glared at Einar. “Our people were enslaved by Fero. Our women were used to breed more soldiers for his armies. Our men were the first line of defense in his battles. Azos and I, we were the last. He kept us in that tent like souvenirs. He would vi
sit us, from time to time, just to make sure that our spirits stayed broken.” Fintan looked back at his sword. “That was why Azos refused to join the army, even as a spy. You probably thought he was calling Derek a madman, but he meant Fero.” He shook his head sadly. “But I saw an opportunity to regain our warrior’s spirit. I convinced him to join you.” His glare returned, with more fury than before. “And you left him to die.”

  Einar looked at the ground, searching for some answer to offer. He could find nothing satisfactory, so he said, “Azos knew the risks. He chose to fight with us. And he was not the only good man that Derek has killed.”

  Fintan smiled condescendingly. “Yes, your friend Duncan,” he answered, “But he chose this life. Do you know what Azos was, before Fero came? He was a farmer, and a father of six. He was no warrior. He had no battle training, no hero’s past. He wielded a plow, not a sword.” Fintan sank, deflated by the memories. “And I cannot even take my vengeance on Fero anymore.”

  Einar set his jaw, disappointed by the self-pity in which Fintan wallowed. “Alright, man,” the Alkimite said sharply, “You can stay here and lament the lot the gods have given you, or you can stare down the eye of Aeron and dare him to take the last that you have.” Turning, Einar paused to finish, “But I tell you this: Azos died saving the lives of twenty-six men, including yourself. And if you choose to lie down and die now, then you’re not only robbing yourself of glory; you steal the glory of Azos the Sundan in the same way.”

  Then Einar left.

  The words stung Fintan, even more than watching the Leonites trample the body of his last friend. It did not take him long to make up his mind. Picking up his sword, he followed Einar back into the camp, and took up his place next to the Alkimite in the last battle line to form, at the front of the center battalion.

  Gregory marched out before them. As general of the central battalion, he shouted to them encouraging words. “Fellows!” he called, “We stand here to protect our homes and our families, whether they live here in this valley or in a faraway land. The Guardians stand with us, and the gods hold us up in their hands. We will prevail.”