Banner Lord

by Jason L. McWhirter

  “Keep looking.”

  Tanya nodded. Their spy network had been working tirelessly since the Saricons had taken Cythera. Some of the Order’s spies had been killed during the attack, but enough of them had survived to keep the Order intact, and the information they provided, now more than ever, was of great importance. They had learned and witnessed much the past month. They had seen the brutal execution of all the soldiers and dissenters in the main square. And they had learned of others who had, over time, been rounded up, and forced to pledge their allegiance to Heln and the foreign invaders. To do anything else meant death.

  So far Angel and her women had been ignored. Perhaps it was due to their profession, one in which even the Saricons participated. She had to hand it to the Saricons, they were efficient. Within a mere month after the city had been conquered things were already running smoothly. For the people who had survived and forsaken Argon and Felina, their lives had returned to their normal rhythm. Commerce had been reestablished and the city's gates were opened again.

  “Our spy in the palace has reported that the torg assassins sent to find Prince Jarak have been found.”

  “And?” Angel asked, pouring two glasses of wine from a crystal decanter on her desk. Sliding one over to Tanya she leaned back in her chair and took a healthy drink.

  “They were slaughtered. Every last one killed.”

  Angel nearly choked. “You’re kidding. Who could possibly defeat the Shadow Riders?” Angel had seen the great beasts only once but she would not likely forget them. Four more of the beasts had arrived days ago on one of the large Saricon ships. Her spies reported that the creatures and their riders were occasionally seen patrolling the streets, accompanied by columns of Saricon warriors.

  Tanya shook her head. “I don’t know. But whoever they are, they must be Aurits and that means that Prince Jarak might be alive.”

  “Perhaps. But there are other lords with the ability to do that kind of damage.”

  Tanya was shaking her head. “Maybe, but by all accounts some had been killed with a blade. Killing four torgs and their riders would be no easy feat. I can think of only a few warriors who would have the skill to kill four torgs and their riders, the Prince being one of them.” Tanya was reaching perhaps in her assessment, but she was not wrong. There were very few who would have a chance to defeat the Shadow Riders. She liked Prince Jarak. Having spent time with him on several occasions she had grown fond of the young lord, and despite the obvious reasons why they hoped he was alive, she personally held onto the idea that he had survived the attack.

  Angel took another sip of her wine. “Keep reaching out to our spies. If he lives we need to know.”

  Suddenly there was another knock at the door. This was not expected but she wasn’t too concerned. She knew it was likely one of her personal guards, who occasionally brought her messages or checked to see if she needed anything. “Yes?”

  “Madame Angel, I’m sorry to interrupt you. A messenger is here to see you and says it is most urgent.”

  It was Vorn, her chief personal guard. “Bring him in please.”

  Angel and Tanya both stood as the door was opened. A large guard in well-made plate armor and carrying a short sword stepped through followed by a smaller man wearing a well-worn traveling cloak over simple woolen breeches and tunic. His dark unkempt hair grew down into his bushy beard and mustache. Shutting the door behind him the thick-necked guard blocked the entrance as the messenger approached Angel.

  “Fain, I’m happy to see you are well,” Angel said as she poured a third cup of wine. “You look as if you’ve ridden all night. Would you like some wine?”

  “That would be wonderful, Madame, thank you. I’m sorry to interrupt at such a late hour but I have urgent news.”

  Fain was one of Angel's many spies that formed an intricate and secretive network all across Dy’ain and Kael. “Here,” she said, handing him the glass. “Please sit and tell me this news.”

  “Thank you,” he said, drinking from the cup. “If it pleases you, Madame, I’d rather stand, I am too dirty to sit in your beautiful chair.”

  “Very well. Now what is this news?”

  Fain had met Tanya on numerous occasions and knew that she had earned Angel’s utmost confidence and trust, but he did not know the guard behind him and she caught his wary expression. “It is delicate information.”

  “You can trust Vorn, he is the head of my security,” Angel reassured him.

  Fain nodded. “Madame, I bring word from Banrigar.” Angel’s face lit up and she looked at Tanya, who seemed equally pleased. “He lives and as of five days ago was in Tanwen.”

  “That is wonderful news. Do you know why he is there?”

  “That is not all.” Fain smiled and seemed about to burst with the excitement of his news. “Prince Jarak is alive. Banrigar is with him as well as Serix Rilonan and Endler Ral.”

  Angel sat down, stunned at the news, and Tanya’s hand went to her mouth in astonishment. “That is indeed wonderful news,” Angel said.

  “Why are they in Tanwen?” Tanya asked. Her smile disappeared and turned to a look of dread. “Do they not know a Saricon army left for Tanwen eight days ago?”

  Fain’s smile also disappeared. “They do, Miss. The day I left they were evacuating the city and preparing to burn it.”

  “What? Did you say burn it?” Tanya asked incredulously.

  “Yes, Miss. Prince…I mean King Jarak plans to burn both Tanwen and Kreb and take the remaining Legionnaires with him.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?” Tanya asked, dropping down in one of the chairs.

  Angel was silent, her mind reeling at the news. Then she smiled. “They will have no place to winter…no shelter, no food, nothing. They will not be able to survive there. It’s brilliant.”

  “You mean the Saricons?” Tanya asked, thinking she may have meant Jarak and the Legion.

  “Yes.”

  “But King Jarak will be in the same predicament,” Tanya reasoned.

  Fain was shaking his head. “They took all the food, livestock, and supplies, as well as hundreds of workers and servants and are headed to the Ruins of Tyvis. They plan to winter there.”

  Tanya looked at Angel. “Can those old ruins shelter thousands?”

  “I’m not sure,” Angel replied. “But they seem to believe so.”

  “Madame,” Fain interjected. “There is one more thing. King Jarak is being advised by Kivalla Der’une.”

  “The scholar lives?”

  “He does.”

  “Well if anyone were to know about the Ruins of Tyvis, it would be him. You've done well, Fain,” Angel said as she opened a drawer and brought out five gold dracks. She slid them to the front of the desk. “Take this as reward and payment of service.”

  Fain’s eyes lit up but he did not move. It was more gold than he had ever had at one time. “You are most kind, but that is too much.”

  “Nonsense, take it. Besides I have further need of you.”

  Fain took the gold and slid the coins into his pocket. “Anything, Madame, I am at your service.”

  “Use the network and spread the word that our liege lives. But keep that knowledge within the Order only. At least for now. And that goes for you all,” Angel added, speaking to everyone.

  “Yes Madame,” they said in unison.

  “Good, now leave me, I have much to do.”

  ***

  Night came earlier in Kreb than other surrounding cities, the sun’s rays blocked by the tall peaks of the Devlin Mountains that surrounded it. Kreb was a construct of massive stone, built into the side of the mountain overlooking a picturesque valley now covered with the winter’s first snows. Kreb was the gateway to the west, built near the mountain pass that snaked through the Devlin Range and into Rygar. The walls of the city wrapped around it, melding directly into the cliffs of the great mountain. Beyond the walls thousands of small homes and farms spread out before the keep.

  It had taken the
m two long weeks to reach the city, their march slowed by the hundreds of servants and workers unaccustomed to the strenuous journey and the freezing embrace of the winter snows. When they finally arrived they immediately began the preparations. King Jarak’s plan was initially met with the expected trepidation, but after much discussion the Chamberlain, a young lord who had been appointed by his father ten years ago, came to understand, and even support, albeit reluctantly, the desperate plan. Food stores, weapons, and supplies were quickly collected from the homes and city and packed into hundreds of additional wagons. Most Dy’ainians had already fled the city, refugees in their own land. King Jarak had to hope they would survive, and that someday, in the years to come, he could rebuild the cities and they could return home. But hundreds of valuable artisans and workers had stayed, willing to travel with the ever-growing army to the Ruins of Tyvis.

  The night before they were to leave, King Jarak was summoned to Lord Caleren Tandon’s smithy. He had wanted to meet the Scion Forger and he was glad for the summons. But his interest was definitely peeked as it was late in the evening. Three Legionnaires escorted him to the smithy, a large stone building erected next to the cliff face. Despite the late hour, hundreds of workers and soldiers were bustling about, preparing the city for their early departure. Equipment and stores had to be packed and the city had to be prepared to be burned, that task alone a daunting one.

  Four Legionnaires guarded the entrance and they stepped aside quickly. Entering the smithy Jarak was assaulted by the strong smell of wood, smoke, and something else unfamiliar, a mineral smell, like some sort of metal burning. The room was open and spacious with a high ceiling. On the far wall stood a huge furnace, built of giant stones, a fire burning bright inside. Several workers were milling about wearing soot stained trousers and shirts, their faces and skin marred with streaks of black. Long shelves stacked with various supplies and tools lined one of the walls, while the other two walls held various weapons racks, now empty.

  “My King, thank you for coming,” a short stocky middle aged man said as he entered the room from a side door. “My name is Celeren Tandon,” he added as he bowed deeply before Jarak.

  “Well met, Celeren. I have heard much about you. How goes the preparations?”

  Celeren sighed and shrugged. “It pains me to leave the forge and tools. This has been my life’s works, and my father's before me.” Celeren’s dark brown hair was streaked with gray and pulled back tightly into a tail by a leather thong. He was thick in the belly with big powerful arms that were covered by numerous scars from burns, results, no doubt, from his many years wielding the hammer and operating the bellows. Jarak noticed that his fingers were thick, like sausages, and wrinkled and worn from many years of working the forge. His skin, too, was nearly as wrinkled as his hands, making him appear older than his years. He resembled a smoked piece of tough meat.

  “I am deeply sorry that we must leave. But we will be back, have no doubt.”

  Celeren nodded, his piercing eyes reflecting that he understood. “I see your father gave you the sword,” he said as he glanced at the weapon at the king’s hip.

  Jarak smiled. “Yes, and it is magnificent. I would like to thank you.”

  Celeren waved the compliment away. “If you knew how much it cost your father you would not be thanking me.” Celeren was smiling, but it faded quickly. “I am sorry, my King, your father was a great man.”

  Jarak nodded. “Thank you.”

  Celeren’s smile returned and he clapped his hands together. “Now, you are probably wondering why I called you here.”

  “The thought did cross my mind.”

  “Follow me,” Celeren said eagerly. Jarak followed him to a nearby wall where they stopped before an object covered with a wool blanket. “I have another gift for you.”

  Jarak tilted his head. “A gift?”

  “Well it’s technically from your father. He commissioned it at the same time he asked for the blade. I’m not sure when he was going to give it to you, and I guess we’ll never know, but now that it’s complete, and you are here, it is yours.”

  “What is it?”

  Celeren smiled, reached up, and pulled the blanket away. Jarak stepped back in shock. Before him, shining brightly even in the dim light of the room, was a cuirass of Kul-brite steel with matching pauldrons and helm. The armor was exquisite, the edges lined in intricate, fluid, scroll work, all surrounding a chest piece of stunning design. Looking closely Jarak marveled at the design on the cuirass. The breastplate itself was formed to the musculature of a powerful man, the center design surrounded by fluid etching. Etched into the center of the cuirass were the heads of two wolves facing opposite of each other. Or perhaps they were nygs, who looked very similar to wolves. Beneath the necks of the animals was a very detailed depiction of House Dormath’s symbol, a single vertical sword positioned behind and between the wolves' heads. The design and craftsmanship were incredible. Jarak was speechless.

  “Your father figured you needed a banner of your own,” Celeren explained.

  “I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen anything so magnificent.”

  Celeren chuckled. “I should hope not. I’ve been working on this armor for a much longer period of time than I spent working on the sword you carry.”

  Even the helm was crafted to resemble a wolf’s head, its ears protruding on either side like horns, and at the top of the helm, surrounded by more scroll work were the wolf’s eyes, with its open jaw stretching out the length of the front that covered the face. Jarak reached out to touch the cuirass, his eyes wide in wonder as he looked at Celeron. “Thank you,” he said, still too stunned to adequately express his gratitude.

  “You are most welcome. It is a suit of armor befitting the new king of Dy’ain. And you will find it much lighter than standard armor. And no weapon can pierce it.”

  “It is a masterpiece.”

  “I agree,” Celeren said with a smile. “But I fear you will need it too soon.”

  Jarak’s smile faded, the seriousness of their predicament weighing on them like a heavy blanket. “I suspect you are right.”

  “Are you ready for the trials that you face, young King? Are you sure you are doing the right thing?”

  Jarak held the lord’s gaze. “Being sure is not the luxury of kings. We often have very few choices, none of which are guaranteed or desired.”

  Celeren smiled and put his hand on Jarak’s shoulder. “You have changed, haven’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you know that your father and I were good friends?”

  Jarak shook his head. “I did not.”

  “He spoke of you often. He was worried about you, and the few times I saw him over the years he often brought it up. He loved you, but was not convinced that you would make a good king. He thought you rash, undisciplined, and selfish.” Celeren paused as if he were recalling words spoken in the past. “But the last words he spoke of you were words of pride. He said you had changed…that your time with Daricon at Lyone had molded you into a man fit for leadership.” Celeren removed his hand and shook his head with a smile. “The irony of that is almost amusing.”

  “Do you think I am making the right decision?” Jarak asked, his youthful uncertainty breaking through his façade of confidence, perhaps because of the man’s friendship with his father.

  “It is not for me to decide, for no matter what decision is made, you must be the one to carry its burden. But you are right, we have no good choices, and I am prepared to follow you with pride, my sword and honor yours to command.

  Jarak smiled. “Thank you, Celeren, for everything.”

  “You are welcome. Now, take the armor and get some sleep. I have a feeling that tomorrow will be quite a day.”

  ***

  Kahn Taruk held the heavy javelin in his calloused hand as he eyed the straw target fifty paces away. Stepping forward he lunged and brought his right arm back, heaving the weapon with all his strength. The stee
l tipped javelin zipped through the air before thudding dead center in the target. Normally at that distance one would have to arc the projectile to hit the target, but the Tongra was so strong that its trajectory was nearly straight.

  “Well done,” Lyra said as she entered the training ground behind him. The training grounds were located between the old Sentinels' barracks and the main palace. Now, however, the barracks were occupied by his own personal guard, one hundred of the finest Saricon warriors, ten of which stood around him now, ready to protect him with their life. They wore long red capes with black hoods, a symbol of their position. Experience had taught the Saricons that uprisings occurred more frequently during the onset of occupation. So far no attacks had occurred, but he would be ready if they did.

  Kahn Taruk turned to face the Aura Mage, his fixed expression glancing from Lyra to the other two warriors behind her. Kedrick stood to her right, one hand casually resting on the pommel of his sword at his hip, his own expression deadpan. Kahn Taruk looked him over, seeing in him what all men saw, a killer, a man accustomed to violence. There was something about him, a sense of foreboding, like the sound of a sword being drawn in a dark alley. To her left was Lonas, a thin sinewy man who carried a spear-like weapon with a long blade on one end about the length of a short sword. At the other end was a sharp spear point. He also carried a uniquely designed long sword at his side with a curved blade and a slightly curved wooden handle. It was obvious he was not Dy’ainian; his skin was very pale and his fiery red hair hung in waves to his neck. He was a Gyth, and although the Tongra had heard of these reclusive warriors he had yet to meet one. He knew it was not uncommon for them to become mercenaries, and in a sense that’s what an assassin was. The Tongra didn’t hold his gaze for long. It was eerie looking into the Gyth’s nearly white eyes, with their lightning bolts of blue.

  “I see you have re-created the Shadows,” he said as he approached them. Kedrick was considered tall compared to most of the men in Corvell or Belorth, but he was forced to look up at the Tongra.