An eerie calm settled over the battlefield. Nervous coughs or muttered oaths or prayers were the only sounds. A couple hundred paces away, the lines of the Nebarans waited patiently. Their black pennant with a golden lion fluttered in the breeze.
After an agonizing half hour or so, a trumpet call carried over the open field, startling many with its loud peal. The Nebaran forces began to advance.
“That’s our call—move out!” someone bellowed from somewhere behind Creel, a sergeant among the veterans.
A drum began to beat, and the Ketanian army lurched into motion. Some eager soul prodded Creel in the back, and he began walking, sword in hand. The ground was soft and muddy from days of rain, ankle deep in places, the long grass slick with dew.
“Loose!” a voice barked from behind.
A dark swarm of arrows arced over the Ketanian lines, seeming to hang a moment in the air before descending among the Nebarans. The disciplined troops raised shields and slowed their approach. The rain of arrows thunked into shields and speared the soft ground. Cries rang out, and a dozen or so men fell, wounded or dead, though the formation held.
The Nebaran front rank split apart, and a line of crossbowmen stepped forward and loosed. Creel hit the ground as did many around him, for none had shields in the front ranks. Men screamed and fell, including a man to Creel’s left, who was too slow to get down and ended up with a bolt through an eye. Quarrels thudded into shields among the veteran troops. Another volley of arrows fell from the friendly archers as the crossbowmen fell back to reload.
“Keep moving, men! Attack now while they’re reloading!”
Creel scrambled back to his feet to avoid getting trampled as the men regained some semblance of order and surged forward although they left a couple score of dead and wounded behind. The second volley had whittled the enemy down slightly more, but all knew the battle would hinge on melee combat.
Once the two armies were within fifty paces of each other, men began screaming battle cries, and the opposing forces broke into a charge. Use of the archers became a liability, with the possibility of hitting their own troops at such close range. Creel ran along with the others, for he could do nothing else but get swept along in the tide.
The forces came together in a thunder of colliding bodies and clashing weapons, screams and grunts and curses filling the air. A Nebaran soldier rushed at Creel, mouth wide in a battle cry, sword raised. Creel parried aside the man’s downward stroke and ran him through. The swordsman staggered and fell. Another foe took his place, then another. Creel slashed and stabbed at his opponents, dodging and parrying as much as he was able within the crush of combatants. The scarred Ketanian criminal near him died, his head split apart. Two more Nebarans fell to Creel’s blade, then he was surrounded by a knot of foes as the majority of his fellow conscripts were slaughtered around him, the enemy pushing forward and leaving Creel an isolated island amid the sea of black and gold.
The clash wasn’t a total rout as the veteran Ketanian soldiers fought determinedly, striving to close the gaps in the decimated conscript lines.
Four Nebarans fighters slashed and stabbed at Creel, surrounding him. He took minor wounds, cuts on his arms and back, but through his economical swordsmanship managed to drop two more of his opponents, only to find them instantly replaced. His lack of armor aided him, as he could maneuver much more easily in the soggy ground than the men weighed down by armor. Yet each wound was taking its toll, and he wondered if he would truly meet his end once someone took his head.
“The peasant hero! Look at that bastard fight!”
Creel was dimly aware of someone crowing in glee at his plight—one of the officers, likely Palam or one of his lieutenants safely ensconced out of the fighting at the rear. He was too busy trying to stay alive to pay much heed. A Nebaran fighter lost his footing and stumbled. Creel stabbed him in the chest. He ducked another slash, but a deep gash to his thigh pained him. A trio of soldiers yet surrounded him, but the majority had moved past, leaving a bubble of space.
If I can get the better of these three, I just may have a slight chance—
An arrow slammed into Creel’s back, launched from the rear of the Ketanian force. He grunted and staggered, slipping in the mud and falling forward—right onto a blade that slid into his belly. His guts were rent, and he cried out in agony. Another blade hacked into his back and another into his sword arm, laying it open to the bone. Swords plunged into him over and over, and the last thing he knew was his face slamming into the mud and then darkness.
Chapter 16
Nesnys dove from the night sky and landed atop one of the craggy boulders in the foothills north of Helmsfield pass. A myriad of campfires glittered in the darkness of the plains below, where her troops occupied the southernmost reaches of Ketania. After the victory at Helmsfield Keep, they had proceeded to the lowlands unmolested and were pushing northward toward the crossing of the Black Channel at the ancient city of Ammon Nor. She had sent General Leodegar ahead in a rapid advance with the army’s vanguard to surprise the Ammon Nor defenders and attempt to establish a foothold at the ford. Scouts were ranging far and wide, and she had patrols of soldiers and inquisitors sweeping both west and east, poised to capture or herd any promising young mages into her grasp. She was frustrated that, thus far, no mages fitting the description had been discovered and captured although a handful had been executed.
She turned her attention to the corpulent priest making his preparations nearby on the flat-topped hill amid the boulders. He’d been reluctant to leave his haven in Orialan, but she had insisted on his presence and teleported the two of them to the foothills. Zegrath had inscribed a large summoning circle on the ground, the edges of which were illuminated by flickering human tallow candles, as evinced by their pungent odor. Nesnys could have summoned her Triad herself, of course, but she didn’t wish to expend unnecessary power of her own when she had perfectly capable henchman to do the same. Also, the preparations required great attention to detail to avoid unforeseen difficulties, and she grew impatient with the minutiae of such things.
“Are you ready to summon forth my lieutenants, Zegrath?” She needed more powerful minions than the humans already in her service. She felt herself being pulled in too many directions at once, and the much-needed aid of these demons would allow her to focus on more important matters.
Zegrath bobbed his head respectfully. “I am nearly ready, Lady Nesnys. Allow me but another moment.” He studied a scrap of parchment where he had written the three names she had given him, then he folded his hands as if in meditation for a couple minutes.
He took a deep breath and began chanting in the fell speech, the language of the Abyss, to summon the denizens of that black pit. The dark void of a portal opened within the summoning circle, the stony ground becoming rimed with frost from the void’s bitter chill. “I summon thee, servants of Almighty Shaol. Cast off your shackles of imprisonment in the Abyss and traverse the planes to the Prime plane of Easilon. Taananzu, I summon thee!”
A heavy silence weighed down upon them, and the candles flickered as a breeze stirred. Nesnys could sense the arriving presence. Soon, a figure in an inky, voluminous cloak stepped forth from the portal as if the void itself were taking shape. The fiend Taananzu appeared to be an empty set of black robes in the shape of a man, for neither hands nor feet were visible. The only feature discernible within the blackness of the cowl were a pair of eyes glowing a sickly hue of green.
“Bliezahr, I summon thee!” Zegrath cried.
After a few moments, a huge monstrosity lumbered from the portal. Bliezahr towered over Taananzu, a furry batlike head atop a chitin-covered body with four jointed legs and a pair of thick arms ending in massive pincers.
“Scaixal, I summon thee!”
More swiftly than the others, a winged shape streaked through the portal within seconds. It soared upward then struck the cylinder of warding from the summoning circle, bouncing off it in a shower of red sparks. Scaixal shrieked i
n anger but swiftly recovered his composure, hovering on a pair of broad, leathery wings. The fiend had a cadaverous avian body with leathery skin, a hooked serrated beak, and baleful red eyes.
Nesnys stood tall atop the boulder to address her lieutenants. “Greetings, fellow servants of Lord Shaol. I require your service for this campaign, to sow fire and chaos across this plane of Easilon. In addition to making war, we seek a human child, spawn of Neratiri, the crafty bitch who has assumed control of the Nexus of the Plains. He or she will be around the age of twenty summers and have powerful magic. This child must be brought to me and in turn delivered to Lord Shaol. All other magic users are to be slain.” She would give them the details of her search for the Tellurian Engine later. “Our lord has granted me command, and you shall serve as my lieutenants, my Triad. Each of you knows me as I know you from past campaigns. Your skills are mighty and varied, and such is the reason you’ve been selected. Do not think to cross me, for I have our dark lord’s favor and won’t hesitate to banish you once more. You shall have all the mortal flesh to consume that you could ever desire, provided you obey your commands and perform your assigned duties. All mortals are fair prey save those of my Nebaran army in the black-and-gold colors.”
The three fiends all bowed respectfully. They were all ancient and used to being commanded and understood what was required of them.
“We have been advised of our roles, Nesnys, and we obey,” Taananzu replied in a hollow voice.
Nesnys smiled broadly. “Very well. Zegrath, remove the wards that my Triad might be freed. Feed well, and then tend to your tasks.” She knew well the overwhelming bloodlust they felt from millennia confined to the Abyss, and her small leniency would ensure their cooperation.
The priest complied, and the fiends scattered into the night, each relishing its freedom, eager to quench its thirst with blood. Once their immediate needs were satiated, they would prove formidable indeed.
Chapter 17
“What is it, Menard? You find those boys yet?” Lieutenant Riquier asked his second-in-command, who had called him over to see something.
Riquier was still angry at himself for underestimating the skill of the so-called farmer who had bought time for his sons to escape into the woods. His men had finally brought the warrior down, but only after squandering nearly half his remaining men. Riquier’s crossbow bolt through the big man’s chest had finally taken the fight out of him, and he was swiftly cut down after that. The man’s tremendous skill and ferocity of resistance made Riquier suspicious, and he’d ordered a thorough search of the property with the handful of men he’d held back from pursuing the two boys.
Menard knelt beside the big oak tree behind the farmhouse. He turned over a thick calfskin book in his hands that had been resting on a knot of exposed roots. The veteran shook his head at Riquier’s question. “Nay, but we’ve got a dozen men out there searching for them. They’ll shake loose afore long—a pair of foolish youths won’t be able to evade our scouts for long.” He held up the tome. “I reckon you’ll be interested in this.”
Riquier took the book, and his eyes widened. A History of Magic in Easilon it was titled.
“Mage! I knew that smaller boy didn’t seem right… It was the eyes.” A boy of around a score summers… That’s who we’re to be looking out for. Could very well be the one, especially with such a formidable protector. Finally, a good tip from the spies for once.
He considered for a minute, his excitement building, before issuing his next orders. “Torch the farmhouse, and get the rest of the men into the woods. I want those boys ere nightfall. I’ll drag them to the Inquisition by the stones if I have to.”
As Menard went to convey his orders, Riquier could already see his pleased commanders pinning the rank of captain on his chest at his discovery and capture of the young mage.
***
Taren leaned against the trunk of a big ash tree, chest heaving as he sought to catch his breath. Elyas was breathing heavily as well, but he didn’t look nearly as tired as Taren felt. They’d been running for an hour or more, judging by the sun, which had already passed its apex.
Just when Taren thought they’d gotten away, the sounds of pursuit would pick up again, and they’d have to flee once more.
“Did we lose them yet?” he asked, hopeful this time the answer would be yes. He’d listened but couldn’t hear any signs of their pursuers over their heavy breathing.
Elyas shook his head. “They’ve got a good tracker. It’s the only way they’ve kept up with us thus far. They seem to want us pretty badly, for all those men to keep after us.”
“What the Abyss do they want with us? Why attack the farm? Do they simply want to kill us because we’ve seen their presence here?” That made him wonder how the Nebarans had reached so far into Ketania from the distant empire. They likely landed on the coast and then came north or even, with the right boat, could’ve come up the Krik Run. Leestead was a few days to the south on the coast. He had been to market there on several occasions and knew, with the road and smooth terrain, the march would’ve been easy.
Elyas shrugged. He was more practical than Taren and didn’t care as much about the why as about what to do.
“Where can we go?” Taren continued. “Vonn and Erwan’s farm?” He wondered if Elyas’s friends would shelter them but then realized they’d just be bringing danger down on that family. “Never mind that thought—too dangerous for them. I say we get to Swanford. Gradnik will aid us. He’ll know what we should do.”
“We’ve been running west for over an hour. Swanford is northeast of here. We’d have to slip past their search lines to get there.” Elyas peered around the trunk of the ash tree, again looking for signs of pursuit.
“They’ll catch us before long. Can you take out their tracker?” Taren pointed at the old longbow they used for hunting.
Elyas thought a moment then nodded. “Aye, but it’ll be risky. We’ll have soldiers crawling all over our arses as soon as we do that.”
“It’s our only chance. We need to buy ourselves some time. Without a skilled tracker, we should be able to lose them or at least gain some distance. Once we make it to the road, they won’t know for sure where we went.”
Elyas strung the bow and tested its pull. “That’s a smart plan. Let’s find a good spot to set an ambush.”
“Just so we’re in agreement, once you drop the tracker, we run, right?”
Elyas’s face darkened. “Those whoresons killed my da… and burned our house down. No way they’re getting off without paying for that.”
They’d seen the smoke through breaks in the trees after running for a time and knew the Nebarans had torched the house. Taren was nearly overcome with sorrow as the memory came rushing back. While fleeing with terror hastening his feet, he’d been able to push the awful memory aside, but since they had stopped, he could imagine Wyat’s last stand, his final act of love to allow his sons to escape. He said he loved me like a son.
His tears started to flow although an ugly rage was stirring just below the anguish. He too wanted to make the Nebarans pay for killing Wyat, but he knew they had to be smart about it. As the situation was, they had no idea how many of their foes were swarming the woods and if additional patrols were nearby or not. Trained soldiers were chasing them, armored and well-armed, whereas the two boys were trained but untested and had only one bow and sword between them. Taren knew Elyas could give a good accounting of himself, but he himself felt useless as he often had since Wyat had begun their training several years earlier.
“We’ll see how many are with the tracker. If there’s more than a handful, we have to run.”
“I’m tired of running.” Elyas had the stubborn look on his face Taren knew well. He could be like an ox that refused to pull the cart no matter if you offered him a treat or the switch.
“Your father wouldn’t want us to die meaninglessly out here in the woods, Elyas.”
“Vengeance isn’t meaningless,” he snapped. “I
f you’re scared, then I’ll hold them off and you run to your scholarly friend in Swanford.”
“Of course I’m scared. But I won’t leave you to die out here. I just meant that he would want us to look at the greater picture. Would it be better to take out a couple single soldiers at the risk of our own lives or go spread the word, find help, so the Ketanian forces can be mobilized? It’s likely nobody knows that this happened. You can do much more, Elyas. You can join the army as you always wanted to. They need good men now more than ever.”
For a moment, Elyas seemed he might argue further, but then his shoulders slumped a bit. “Aye, there’s sense in that. We buy us some time, then on to Swanford. We can resupply there then head east to the garrison at Ammon Nor.”
Taren nodded, relieved. “All right, that’s good. We’d better find a spot for our ambush—they can’t be too far behind now.”
They continued through the woods, angling northwest as they traversed the bottom of a ravine. Taren didn’t recognize any landmarks in the area and suspected he’d never been this far west in the woods before. Except the time we tracked the wyvern to the Crags… I would think we are near to those.
He spotted a downed tree up near the top of the ridge above. “How about if we sneak up there? The ground is steep, and we can hide behind that fallen tree. They should keep following our tracks and pass right by.”
Elyas nodded. “Aye, that should work.”
They continued onward another few dozen paces until the ravine curved away. There, they made their way up the steep slope to the top of the ridge. They doubled back to the fallen tree and got into position. Elyas laid out three arrows on top of the log. He held a fourth in hand, ready to nock and loose as soon as the enemy tracker was in range.
Taren had a difficult time lying still behind the tree, his imagination running wild with all the ways their ambush might fail. He watched the ravine below through a small gap beneath the log, fidgeting nervously with the pommel of his remaining dagger. He nearly gasped aloud when a stealthy figure dressed in brown and green abruptly came into view in the ravine. The tracker wore leather armor so he could move more swiftly and quietly than the soldiers and carried a strung bow in hand. His eyes darted here and there, from the ground to the path ahead, scanning along the sides of the ravine. Taren held his breath when his gaze passed over their hiding place, but he didn’t spot them. A trickle of sweat ran down his back from nervous anticipation. He tapped Elyas on the leg, and the big man nodded.
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