Someone shouted back, “Where is Lord Aneirin? I heard he fled the camp!”
Murmurs began to rise, but Gregory cut them off. “Lord Aneirin,” he responded, “is so sure of our victory that he has departed early, to give that Leonite scum a fighting chance—a mongrel’s chance of crossing the River Neth, if you ask me!”
A cheer rose past the mumbling. Gregory pressed on, “We must hold the line! Do not take one single step back! Keep your shields held high and block out the sun with your arrows! We will hold them here! For our families and our villages! For our peoples all across the land! For our friends, be they next to us in battle, fighting on some distant field, or already in the warm embrace of the gods! Hold the line!”
Another cheer arose, louder than before. But it faded as weather eyes spotted movement in the field. They were the front lines of the enemy army.
Tension grew thick in the valley as Draus rode out on horseback to meet the chieftain of the Regiment. From his distance, Fintan could not see whether Derek himself came out or he sent one of his captains. The Sundan did not know what the Alkimite general was offering, but the Leonites did not seem to care for it. After only a minute, the two Leonite horsemen and Draus turned their backs and began riding back toward their armies.
But before Draus could reach the Alkimite lines, the enemy launched a volley of arrows, cutting him down. The Alkimites’ gasps of surprise were quickly drowned out by a rumbling roar rising to a crescendo.
The Chimaera Regiment had charged.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The twenty-first of the month of Ennemen
Early in the fourth hour
Northeast of the valley, far from his people’s battle with Derek’s forces, and after two days in Termessian territory, Hector stood before the lord of the Termessians.
The Termessians—though warlike—were not aggressive toward travelers. The fair-skinned and fair-haired warriors had greeted Hector and Fornein amiably. Always eager to test the mettle of strangers, the soldiers had insisted on hosting the two men for feasting and games. Hector participated in a foot-race, a discus-throwing contest, and a boxing competition. After his time in captivity, he had great stamina, but not much speed; he came third in the foot-race. The discus was foreign to him, and he did very poorly. But his time in the arena served him well, and he won the boxing competition. This earned him the Termessians’ admiration, so they promised to bring him to their lord’s great hall.
The lord’s name was Tiernach. Like his people, he had pale skin and a scruffy shock of blond hair. His blue eyes glittered like flecks of ice in the sun, but there was a gladness in his smile that warmed the whole hall. “Welcome to my home!” he cried out at meeting his visitors, “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
“My lord,” Hector began, “I am—”
“Hist!” Tiernach silenced him, “You may introduce yourselves once we have dined together!” He gestured to the long table that dominated the western half of the room, then stepped down from his dais and sat at the head of the table. Then he waited, an expectant look on his face.
Hector looked at Fornein, who shrugged. Both men hesitantly went to the table and were about to sit about halfway down its length when Tiernach interrupted them again. “No, lads!” he called, “Up here, next to me!” He pointed at the chairs to his right and to his left. Baffled by the manner of this man, the two foreigners went to his side and settled into their seats.
Tiernach clapped his hands so loudly that Hector had to wiggle a finger in his ear to make sure that his hearing still worked. In response to Tiernach’s call, six boys hurried into the hall and sat at table, ranging in age from three to fourteen years; two of the boys were twins. Close behind, three servants came in, bearing trays of food. They placed the spread in the center of the table.
Tiernach pounded the table, demanding silence from the boys. He explained to Hector, “These are my sons. They are wild, but they will tame that into a warrior’s spirit before too long.” Standing, the lord raised his arms to the gods and prayed, “O sweet Anthea, O hope of suppliants, O you who delight in rain, we thank you for these breaths we take, this meal we share, and these guests we embrace. We have given up the fruit of this harvest to your pleasure; we ask only that you preserve us for another day.”
Then Tiernach sat down, and the boys attacked the food with gusto. The plates were passed around, so that everyone could try each item. Hector found himself laughing at their antics and enjoying the time as it passed, without consideration of his slavery to the Keldans.
At last, when the meal was finished and the lord’s sons had gone off to play, Tiernach settled back in his chair and said, “Tell me, men, who you are and what place you call home.”
Hector bowed his head. He was not sure that he could trust Tiernach and the Termessians, but he knew for certain that he could not trust Eitromal. He introduced himself, saying, “I am Hector, son of Abram, of the Alkimites, and this is Fornein, the Sage.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Fornein frown at the title, but Hector ignored the reaction. He continued, “I take a grave risk in telling you this, Lord Tiernach, but we have come to your land under compulsion to kill you.”
To the man’s credit, Tiernach hid his surprise well. He continued eating, his calm demeanor belying the tense muscles beneath his fur-lined cloak. He eyed his guests cautiously as he guessed, “Eitromal sent you here.”
Hector nodded slowly. Fornein interjected, “Under duress, milord. He threatens the lives of our companions.”
Tiernach sighed. “It is not the first time,” he replied, “I regret that your predecessors were not so congenial as you, and I fear their loved ones suffered greatly for their failure.”
“I do not pretend,” Hector said, “that we could best you in combat, milord. But in the name of Kyros, we cannot let this injustice continue. Eitromal must be stopped.”
Tiernach agreed, “He offends the gods too much. I could prepare my army by nightfall, and we could march on the forest.”
Fornein looked up sharply. “Milord,” he said, panic creeping into his old voice, “the Keldans are not altogether to blame. Many of them oppose Eitromal, but lack the courage to stand up to him. I cannot support a war against an oppressed people.”
Tiernach looked the old man over, weighing the honesty in his words, then turned to Hector. “What do you think, Hector of the Alkimites?”
“I think,” answered Hector as a plan formed in his mind, “that there is a way to defeat Eitromal more pleasing to the merciful queen of the gods. Give me some token of yours, something he would recognize; I believe I can convince him that I defeated you and ordered your armies to leave his lands, which means you must travel southeast through the forest. Wait for me beyond the trees, near the river. I will free my friends, gain the trust of the Keldan people, and meet you there; then we shall march against Eitromal and conquer his villainy with his own people by our side.”
Tiernach narrowed his gaze as he listened, assessing the foreign boy and his plan. He said, “I wish earnestly to defeat that wretched man, but I will not destroy innocent lives. I shall do as you ask, but if the Keldans attack my people, we will defend ourselves.” He looked pointedly at Fornein and finished, “Whatever the cost.”
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The twenty-first of the month of Ennemen
Late in the fifth hour
The sun was nearly at the apex of its course. It burned mercilessly across the cloudless sky, its golden rays blazing down upon the dwindling Alkimite army. Though outnumbered more than two-to-one, the Alkimites, Wellites, and their allies had made a valiant effort against their foe; unfortunately, valiance was not sufficient for victory.
The three battalions on the field were rapidly losing ground. Over a thousand men had fallen to the constant barrage of arrows and spears, and another thousand had fallen to the swords of the Chimaera Regiment, and still more joined the dead.
<
br /> Fintan held shield and sword high as he stood next to Einar. They had been pressed back as the enemy advanced, and now they fought alongside Wellyem, Tate, and Gregory. The two lords and the general were debating their next steps as they slew another wave of Leonite warriors.
Gregory shouted to Tate, “Sound the signal!” Before the battle, Fintan knew, the Guardians had agreed upon a signal that only they could reproduce. It was an effective means of limiting miscommunication.
“It’s too soon!” Wellyem interrupted, “There are still too many of them!” While he spoke, two muscular Ferites charged him, one swinging high and the other low. Wellyem was surprisingly nimble; he tucked his waist back, dodging the lower thrust, and bent over to avoid the upper. Using his own momentum, he impaled the lower enemy through the chest. The other man, expecting resistance to his heavy swing, carried on past the Wellite chieftain onto the waiting blade of a young Alkimite. Fintan recognized him as the one named Affet.
“Well done, boy!” Wellyem called as he dispatched another foe. Affet looked pleased by the praise.
“We’ve given as good as we’ve got, and more!” Gregory answered Wellyem’s objection, “Three thousand of the enemy are dead—we won’t get any more chances.”
Tate was not as powerful as Aneirin, but he held his own against the rising tide. The Guardian was surrounded by the corpses of friend and foe alike, opening a gap in the Alkimite force. The Regiment flocked there like a moth to the flame, eager to break apart the defensive line, but they met strong resistance in the blade of the Guardian lord. Without missing a step, Tate surveyed the battle, and he knew that Gregory was right. “Lord Wellyem,” he said calmly, “Distract them for a moment, would you?”
The Wellite chieftain roared a battle cry, “By Astooorrr!” The man cast away all restraint and let the full force of his warrior nature take control. Throwing himself amidst the enemy, he struck out with such ferocity that the whole Leonite line fell back. Tate took advantage of the lull to let out a great horn-like bellow.
Fintan and Einar did their best to support the wild Wellite warlord. They pressed the enemy back with their splintered shields and chipped blades, but both men felt their gaze drawn to the east and to the west, where forests hid the remaining two battalions of Alkimite soldiers.
The Guardian’s great bellow seemed to signal a hiatus. Soldiers on both sides backed away from the battle. Arrows stopped flying. All eyes turned expectantly to the forests. As warriors stepped forth from among the trees, the rousing cheer of the Alkimites shattered into a cacophony of distressed murmurs. The newcomers wore the colors of the Chimaera Regiment, and they flew the banner of Derek from their spears.
Those same spears bore the fruits of their grisly labor. In the west, two spears carried aloft the severed heads of Liam and Alastair, metal wire hanging uselessly from their broken necks. In the east, a third spear impaled the mutilated head of Lord Cyrus XI. The Leonites had sliced off his ears and gouged out his eyes; the lolling mouth showed that his tongue, too, was missing. Fintan would not have recognized the Alkimite chieftain if not for the lord’s pendant that was pinned to the dead man’s forehead.
As the murmurs faded into cold fear, the Regiment replaced them with laughter. The Leonite soldiers parted, letting their illustrious lord through to the front lines. Derek stepped into the circle that his soldiers had formed around Wellyem.
Fintan and Einar both edged their way forward, eager to end this object of their hatred. But Wellyem put out his big hands, holding them back. He pressed more firmly, and they stepped back into line.
Wellyem held his head high, though he was wounded in at least a dozen places. He stood favoring his right leg, as his left was pierced through by half a spear. Cuts on his face and arms continued to bleed as his heart pumped the red flood of life into the open air. All that remained to be seen of a short sword that had been thrust into his side was the hilt.
Derek was a man of less girth, but no less power. Tall and strong, he had no injuries; he had not even a single bead of sweat crossing his brow. If not for his armor and sword, he might as well have been at dinner as commanding an army in battle.
Wellyem sneered. “Leading your men from behind, I see,” he said, spitting at Derek’s feet.
Derek smiled and stepped over the bloody mess. “Well,” he said with amusement, “You’ve convinced me, friend. From now on, I shall leap into the fray until my blood flows faster than the River Neth—just like you.” The soldiers nearby laughed at their lord’s jest.
The Wellite lord laughed, too, in a harsh, broken noise of spite. “You have trained your men well, Derek the Small and Frightened,” he mocked, “You are a gutless, honorless coward, but they praise you for it. You send your men to their deaths by the thousands, and they cheer you on. When at last your enemies have fallen, though they killed more of yours than you did of theirs, you arrive to gloat over the dead and dying.” He shook his head, pitying the Regiment’s warlord. “It is surely a great victory for you, scum,” he continued, “No one else could have accomplished so much by doing so little.”
The Leonites held their breath, looking to their lord for his response. Derek was still smiling. He stepped closer and spoke softly, so that his own soldiers could not hear him. “Don’t you realize,” he said pedantically, “that was by design?” Then the Leonite chieftain reached for his hip. The flash and sing of steel lasted only for a moment. Wellyem never got his blade up in time, and never would again. He was decapitated by the swift stroke.
Slowly, the Alkimites and their allies laid down their weapons. Fintan was about to charge the enemy, but Tate caught his hand and forced him to release his sword. They were outnumbered twelve-to-one, and they had no support; any more fighting would be a waste of life.
The battle was finished.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The twenty-first of the month of Ennemen
Halfway through the ninth hour
Later that afternoon, when the surviving Alkimites had been rounded up and tied into lines, Derek paced in front of them, shaking his head in disgust. There were five hundred and eighteen survivors; others had been mortally wounded, so Derek had ordered their execution. He had no patience for natural deaths.
The remainder were groaning from their injuries and whinging for mercy. Fintan was disgusted with them, too; they had spent that morning fighting for their lives, and they had spent the afternoon begging for them. It was unbecoming, and distasteful to Kyros, the King of men’s fates. The Sundan maintained a stoic stare at the dirt, trying to ignore the men around him. Einar sat beside him, doing likewise.
Like the two friends, Gregory was one of the few Alkimites left with any spirit. He called out to Derek, “Do you want something, you arrogant, asinine ape, or do you intend to stare us to death?”
The Alkimites looked uneasily at the young general. They feared for their lives, and provoking the vile warlord would only make matters worse. But Derek surprised them: he guffawed. The Leonites seemed as perplexed as the Alkimites; a few soldiers chuckled in mimicry, but there was a general air of confusion hovering over them.
At last, Derek offered the rejoinder, “You have spirit, boy, that is for certain. As a matter of fact, I do want something from you.” He leaned toward Gregory conspiratorially. “Information.”
Now it was Gregory’s turn to laugh. He said haughtily, “You won’t get it.”
As Derek approached the general, he exhibited an aura of superiority; even when he crouched in front of the kneeling prisoner, the warlord seemed to tower over him. “I do not think your people are quite so strong,” he said, his tone pregnant with pity. “Where is the boy called Hector?” he asked casually. When Gregory answered with a sneer, he persisted, “Where is the Guardian, Aneirin?” Still Gregory did not answer. Derek allowed a menacing edge into his voice and repeated, “Where are they?”
Gregory spat the last of his saliva at his interrogator and struck his cheek. The ai
r was thick with tension as Derek’s soldiers prepared to obey a kill order. But Derek maintained his calm demeanor. He reached into Gregory’s tunic and withdrew his kerchief. It was made from faded pink linen, with lace on its edges and a beautifully embroidered letter B in one corner. Derek paused, furrowing his brow in confusion. “This isn’t yours,” he said, “It’s too... feminine.” He looked again at Gregory, whose face was contorted in fury. “Whose is this?” he asked, “Why is it so important to you?”
Gregory did not answer, but continued to glare angrily. Derek stood and held the kerchief aloft, proclaiming, “Someone tell me whose this is, or I will have ten of you killed on the spot!” He pointed at Affet, who was tied up in the row behind Gregory. “Starting with you.”
Sharian, formerly of Captain Brosne’s troop, had been promoted in the power vacuum that had followed the prisoners’ escape eight days earlier. Drawing his sword, he stepped among the Alkimite captives and placed the blade on the boy’s shoulder. Affet’s eyes widened with terror. As Sharian drew back the blade, he cried out, “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! Just please don’t kill me!”
Derek smiled at Gregory as if proving his victory. He waved Sharian off, and the captain stepped away, resheathing his sword. Derek looked at Affet and held up his hands in impatience. The boy said through gasping breaths, “It belongs to the girl he was betrothed to, Bronwyn. She left the valley over a month ago.”
Gregory tried to kick the whelp, but he only succeeded in losing his balance. He fell on his face, pulling his row of prisoners down with him. Derek knelt over him, filling his voice with mock pity. “I see,” the warlord said, “It’s his last memento, is it? Belonging to the girl who left him for the brat I’m looking for.” He looked back at Affet, who nodded. Examining the kerchief one last time, Derek wiped away Gregory’s spittle, then gripped the cloth by its edges and tore it apart. He tore it again and again, until there were only shreds remaining. “That is a shame,” he taunted the fallen general.
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