by Remi Michaud
“Metana?”
Metana whirled at the sound of Gaven's voice. He gazed at her with a hang-dog expression from a few paces away. He knew the outcome of her meeting with Jurel. She could see it in his eyes and she wilted.
“You tried Metana. We know you tried.”
She had. But had she tried hard enough? She played back her moments with Jurel in her mind. She had sensed his pain, so powerful it was like a heavy chain dragging him down. He had failed. She would not argue that. He had made a terrible mistake and a lot of good men and women had paid the price. But it had not been entirely his fault. How could he have known that the Gaorlans had anticipated the ambush? Even Mikal, with all his years of experience, with all his incomparable skills, had continued to endorse their plan though there had been enough signs of something being amiss. They had all missed it. They were all responsible.
Had she tried hard enough? Jurel had failed but he was young, new to his position and responsibilities. No one could expect him to be perfect. Why, barely more than a year ago, he had been a farmboy with nothing more important to worry about than an occasional drought.
But that was not the point, now was it? Or, on second thought, maybe it was exactly the point. He had never had to make a decision which caused over a thousand soldiers to die until now. God of War he may be, but he was still Jurel Histane, farmboy, as well. Reconciling one with the other was a monumental task that Metana would not have wished on anyone. Her heart went out to him.
But she had seen something else in those few minutes with Jurel, especially near the end, before he sent her back—and how it irked that he had handled her with all the ease one might have handled a kitten! There had been a hardness to him, a darkness that had frightened her. The glitter in his eyes, the hollow echo of his voice; she did not know what it meant but she was afraid nonetheless.
She closed her eyes, remembering what he had been like when she had first met him. He had been shy, unassuming. He had been ready to smile, earnest in a sweet way, ready to please. There had been pain in his eyes, a natural tightness at the corners which had added to his sweetness, a vulnerability which had drawn her to him as though he was a lost puppy. The man he had considered a father had been brutally murdered a short time before, after all, and he had discovered some very dangerous things about himself in the process.
But now...
Now he was a different person, a different entity. Over the last few months, she had begun to notice a weight to him. Power seemed to ooze from him; no one at the Abbey had been immune. Anyone who came near him began to almost unconsciously defer to him. Those who opposed him, like that bloody idiot Andrus, had begun to avoid him; his very presence caused them to question themselves and no one who is so full of pride likes to doubt their own beliefs. Even Goromand had started having difficulty meeting his eyes.
This effect had been more pronounced in the last few weeks, since the army had marched from the Abbey. Jurel had, at times, seemed a mighty creature, a giant among midgets; at times, she had barely recognized him.
And then he had made an error that had killed a large fraction of the forces the Salosians had to tap. She knew he felt his failure keenly; each one was a thorn in his heart.
And now he was in his place, isolated, alone, surrounded by devastation, as darkness blanketed him like a pall. She stared mournfully at Gaven and shook her head slowly.
“Oh, Jurel,” she sighed quietly. “What's happening to you?”
* * *
In a cave so black that even the memory of light did not exist, a cave that echoed with distant sounds of torment and torture, the creature sat at its ease, reclining as best it could in its confinement. It did not feel the heat of its cave for it had chosen the temperature itself. It was as comfortable as it could be, all things considered. In fact, it was more than comfortable. Even with Gixen's failures, it was as close to happy as it had been in...how long had it been here?
It smiled.
It alone saw the image that played before it. It alone watched events unfold upon the square of light that was not light but was more the impression of it, like an unspoken thought. And it liked what it saw.
In the square, almost like a window pane, a tall and young man, splendidly dressed, stood near a body of water, perhaps a small lake or a pond. In the square, the man raked his surroundings with a glare as devastating as a lightning storm. Oh it was wonderful.
The creature stared, enraptured by the fortuitous turn events had taken. For a time, it had been concerned. It had been in its prison for longer than any mere mortal could comprehend, weakened and pathetic after the war that had nearly destroyed it, and its subsequent incarceration. It had lain almost dormant for centuries, millenia perhaps, but even in its torpor it had begun to plot. Over time, patiently, little by little, it had worked out its plans, attempted to consider every eventuality, every twist and turn—and why not? It had the time after all.
Everything had been going to plan until that fool Xandru had failed so miserably. Though it had worked out contingencies for that as well, it knew it would be a more desperate bid to gain its victory. If the creature had wanted to be fair, had had the inclination for it, it would not have completely blamed Xandru. Admittedly, the boy had grown in strength much more quickly than expected. But leniency was not in its nature. It did not think twice about Xandru.
Things were happening apace. The young man was past his endurance; even from the vast distance, the creature felt the darkening of his spirit, the cracks in his facade, the slow dismantling of everything he was, the doubt enshrouded by denial. It would not take more than a hint, a slight shove (something involving the young lady with the raven hair seemed a good place to start, it thought with malicious glee) and the young man would belong to it. As long as Gixen held his path, it would have what it needed before the end of the next season. It saw no reason for Gixen to fail. It had set forth the plan step by step—allowing Xandru to choose his own way, to have given him the leeway to make any decisions on his own, had been a mistake. One it had suffered for. One it would not repeat.
But Gixen would not fail. He had no choice. He would walk the path laid out for him. When he reached the end, well, then his usefulness would be at an end. Depending on the creature's mood, Gixen's reward fluctuated between being given a place of honor at his master's feet and being disposed of. But regardless, when Gixen had completed his tasks, then the creature would exact its retribution. Then it would rule all as it was meant to from the beginning of time. Oh, how the world would tremble at its every footstep. Oh, how they would bow.
In the background, voices moaned. Terror, sorrow, rage, a thousand shades of the same emotion roiled and pulsed in the blackness that held no memory of light.
Chapter 29
“You understand your orders?”
“Yes sir.”
“I expect you to get as many men through this and south to meet me on my way back.”
“Yes sir.”
He surveyed the terrain one last time. Ahead of him, through the trees, Killhern City sprawled, austere gray battlements and spires glowing blood red in the dawn light, the rest still lost in the shadows of mother night as though the sun was a kind of mid-wife, bringing forth the day from the contracting, convulsing darkness.
Behind him, arrayed within and obscured by the trees, half his army, nearly twenty five thousand strong, stood anxiously waiting. The air seemed to crackle with tense excitement.
“Now,” whispered Gixen, stifling a giggle.
* * *
Colonel Heris Dench sat at his desk, in his small, spartan office, brow furrowed, eyes squinted, as he read through report after report. On days like this, he wished fervently that he had not accepted this posting. Unfortunately, most days were days like this. At least since his promotion.
Tossing aside another request for a leave of absence, he sighed and rubbed his aching eyes. When Tomis had retired to his country estate nearly three years before, he had recommended Heris for
the job. It was expected of course. Ever since he had made captain (one of Ferril's last acts as colonel before he had been relieved of his duties and...well before...God rest his soul), he had been marked for his unswerving loyalty and ability. It had been a short step from there to major and second in command of Killhern's forces under Tomis. Somehow, he had missed what the post had done to Tomis. The old man had once been open in his days as major, as quick to laugh as he was to lash, but by the end, he had the tired, worn out look of a man carrying the weight of the world on his stooping back. Heris had missed it and so he had looked forward to the day when he would take the reins.
His dreamy-eyed visions of life as colonel were quickly shattered as reality set in. Gone was the field work, gone was the honest command, gone were the days spent in the clean air under the sky and the feeling that he was truly accomplishing something useful. In fact, these days, he was more a clerk and courtier than a soldier. His days were spent poring over ridiculous reports that his subordinates should have been able to handle (and in truth he had delegated several times only to have it come down on his head), or visiting with the duke and his advisors where he was often stuck in the petty maneuvering and plotting of the court to keep his place and to keep his men properly equipped and provisioned while the nobles whispered in the duke's ears, casting derisive glances side-long at him.
And that was the worst of it. As colonel, it was not proper for him to mix with his men. As colonel, he had to keep an air of aloofness, a distance; he was above them and he could not for an instant let them think otherwise. He had to keep that line firmly drawn. But as an unlanded man, little more than a peasant—and a man with strong opinions that often ran contrary to ideas in the duke's court—he had never found acceptance with the nobility. He had been awarded a title upon his rise to command, but it was an empty one; simply viscount, no more. He had no estate, no lands, no income beyond the standard military pay (a colonel, he found, made decent coin but he certainly was not on the market for his own palace), no peasants. They viewed him as an upstart, and a thorn in their sides. Too far above his men, and too far below his peers: it was a lonely place to be.
He often found himself wishing for something to happen, some excitement. An accident, or a band of raiders, or...something. All he had was the steady stream of reports from the watch towers along the northern road that kept mentioning Dakariin movement. Lots of movement, though as yet, nothing had come of it. Was it a show of force? Was it a bit of chest thumping? Perhaps they were engaging in some sort of training exercise. He had never heard of the Dakariin engaging in that kind of thing, but times change. If only something would just happen.
Later, as he lay on polished marble in a growing pool of his own blood, he would remember the old idiom, the one that warned sensible folks to be careful what they wished for.
* * *
Gixen watched at the head of the small cadre he planned to take with him on his expedition as his men flowed from the trees silent as ghosts, led by a young but fiery lieutenant Prax—he had wanted to send Herkan but his master had been adamant: Herkan would go with him. He smiled as they drew weapons and broke into a run. He laughed as their cries and shouts turned into an overarching roar of battle-lust and rage. As the first of his men disappeared into the streets of the outer city, he turned his mount south and spurred his horse to a gallop.
* * *
When the first alarm bells began to clang, Heris's head snapped up from the comfort of his crossed arms. He bolted to his feet just as his door flew open and his second in command, Jarun, poked his very ashen face in. That did not bode well. Jarun was a stalwart man, broad and powerful and stoic, not prone to visible bouts of emotion.
“Sir, we're attacked,” his major said.
“Who?”
“Dakariin sir. A horde of them. Preliminary estimate puts their force at somewhere north of twenty thousand.”
It was a desperate struggle to keep his knees locked as he gaped. “Not possible. We would have received word from the towers.”
“We did sir. A man rode in no more than ten minutes ago. He barely had time to say that we were about to be overrun before he died of his wounds.”
“How bad is it?”
“The north west end of the outer city is already in flames. They're moving fast. The first Dakariin are going to be at the gates almost before we get out there. I've already called the alert and the men are forming up for the defense of the keep.”
How many times had he advised the duke to clear away the northern forests? How many times had he begged that even a few hundred paces might make the difference? Oh, but the duke's closest advisers waved away his concerns. Too pretty, they said. It was a conveniently short ride to find some prime hunting, they said. Those savages won't dare try again, they said, not after the drubbing we delivered to them that time.
Within weeks of the previous attack, they had forgotten. Or perhaps they had not forgotten; not a single noble had been lost in that attack. Only some few thousand peasants and soldiers and they were certainly not important enough to mitigate the inconvenience that would have been suffered by the duke when his hunting would have had to wait ten more minutes.
“Our stores?”
“The pitch is being heated, the mangonels and ballista are being loaded. We'll be as ready as we can be in twenty minutes.”
“Good. Line the walls, get the archers up there. Prepare the first and second cavalries in the main court. Get the third and fourth to the south gate. Throw half the infantry on the walls to back up the archers. Keep the other half in reserve. Let's hope the gates hold.”
* * *
When Heris reached his vantage on the western wall, he gasped. Billowing gray-black smoke covered the northern half of the city like a funeral shroud. Within the clouds, a hundred ruddy columns flickered hazily, sullenly. Even at that distance, Heris felt the heat on the breeze. Below, across the ducal square, just out of range of bow shot, a swelling sea of filthy Dakariin snarled and beat spears and swords on their cuirasses. Each one carried something strange on his back but from that distance, no matter how he squinted and stared, he could not quite make them out, seeing only a long tube-like thing, and he had to be satisfied with waiting until they closed the distance.
Behind him, and around, officers shouted frantic orders, and soldiers hurried back and forth as the first acrid stench of burning reached his position. He was not sure but he thought he could smell more than wood and tar burning out there. He shuddered. Along the lines, his archers were prepared, the front line with arrows nocked, the rear holding their arrows at the ready, all of them watching intently, listening for their captains's orders. Below in the courtyard, behind the gate that had been hastily closed, milled a mass of armored horses and men, their lances rising like a forest as each one gained their spots in the formation. More soldiers worked the great oak beams, that would effectively bar the gates, into their iron rings while others ran seemingly aimlessly carrying packs or stores, weapons or armor. The average person may have looked upon this milling mass of soldiers and thought that all was undisciplined chaos. To Heris, it was like a fine symphony. Every man had a job, every job had a man.
In a gratifyingly short amount of time, the ordered chaos of preparation diminished, the frenetic haste slowed. Soon everyone was at their post. Everyone waited. The silence that fell had an eerie quality as though the entire keep held its breath in anticipation.
Things were proceeding differently outside the keep. Across the square, more and more Dakariin gathered and instead of going quiet, the roar grew louder and louder. Now, the entire northern half of the keep was surrounded with the swelling mass of the filthy savages.
“This is not good,” muttered Jarun at his elbow.
Heris grunted. “No. It's not.”
“We're outnumbered four to one. At least.”
“We still have the walls. That evens things out.”
Aside from the idiom that warns sensible folks to be careful what th
ey wish for, there is another saying, very similar in fact, that warned sensible folks to be careful what they say. In unison, and in a surprising display of discipline, the Dakariin stepped forward and swung the strange things they carried off their backs until each held one end facing the keep. Each one make a quick jerky motion with their free hands across the back of the contraption that was no more than perhaps two feet long.
And every one of them fell silent. All became a breathless tableau for what Heris felt was a long, long time.
“What in hells are they doing?” whispered Jarun.
In answer, a hollow thud sounded, followed by a hissing noise, like fire eating damp wood but much, much louder. There was a flash of orange light and a few sparks sprinkled to the ground near the north end of the Dakariin lines. Before Heris could more than glance that way, more flashes appeared, more sparks. A dozen at first, then a hundred, a thousand accompanied by that hissing and hellish shrieks, faster and faster the flashes came from the ends of those tubes.
Below him, the rampart shuddered. Explosions, individually no more than the size of a man's torso, melded into one long-lasting blast that stretched the length of his walls, concentrating as one might expect on the more vulnerable gates. Shock waves rippled outward. Archers and infantrymen cried out, falling to the stoneworks as the wall shook with ever greater force. The already acrid smoke was compounded by bitter sulfur and other things he could not identify.
“What the hells kind of magic are they using?” Jarun cried.
