Echo of the High Kings (The Eoriel Saga Book 1)

by Kal Spriggs

  The other men scowled at that. He even heard a couple behind him mutter.

  Grel turned his mount around so that he could face them. He pitched his rough voice to reach to the others. “Look, you lot. I don't want to hear it. You took Lord Hector's pay, you abide by his orders. His orders come from me, his Hound. If you don't do what I say...” Grel gave a vicious smile, “Well then, you become a traitor... and while we don't have the facilities to give you a proper Traitor's Death, I can improvise pretty well.”

  Henderson spat, “We'll follow Lord Hector's commands, Grel. We don't have to like taking orders from some limp-wristed wizard, that's all. He nodded at Xavien. “You have any orders, my Lord?”

  Xavien smiled slightly, “A few. We will meet some allies of mine deeper in the mountains. Your quarry has a wizard of their own, as you've probably heard. I am here for that reason. You have trackers of your own, so unless they have problems tracking them, I will work to hide our presence from his perceptions.”

  Grel frowned at that, “You mean they might know we followed them?”

  Xavien stared at him, “Of course. They must expect such. If anything, I am surprised they didn't set up an ambush to slow you down. Then again, with your slow pursuit, they might think they have little to fear.” Grel winced at the bite in the wizard's tone. Yet Xavien didn't seem inclined to act on his irritation... yet at least.

  Grel bit back a question on why the wizard didn't warn him about the likelihood of ambushes. He didn't want to further irritate the wizard, not when Xavien so easily held his life in his hands. “Right you lot, get moving,” Grel snapped. He gestured at the others to ride on, then rode up next to Xavien. “Sorry my Lord about how they–”

  “Do not apologize. I can see that you chose... expendable men for the job. I approve of such foresight, Grel,” Xavien said softly. “With the allies I gathered, we should be able to bring our quarry to bay... and I want prisoners. I have some questions for this wizard and I want the heir alive. She's dangerous with her mind intact, but her body will be very useful once I put something more compliant inside.”

  Grel gave a smile, “Yes, my Lord.” The two spurred their mounts into movement and quickly caught up to where Henderson's men had drawn up. “What's the problem?” Grel snapped.

  “We followed them just fine, not much traffic on this old road,” Henderson answered. “But they turned off here, up onto the slope of the mountain. Trackers followed the horses tracks up until they lost them. But they'd already seen another set of tracks leading back down and those tracks lead north again.”

  “What's the problem, then?” Grel snapped.

  “Sir, I don't think they're the same tracks,” one of the scouts said. “These are a few weeks more recent, at least. I'd go as far as to say we're only a few days behind them, now. Some of the horses are the same, but some of them are different, maybe different riders or not carrying as much weight. And there's more of them, I'm not sure how many, but I think some are pack horses.”

  Grel shrugged, “So what, they camped a couple weeks, buried some wounded who died, ditched equipment they couldn't carry?” That seemed more likely than that they had conjured up reinforcements. The straggling mass they had followed had left a clear enough trail until now. For that matter, Grel had depopulated the one village this side of Watkowa Pass, which meant there couldn't be anyone of consequence in these mountains... or at least, no one besides Noric savages and whoever Xavien's allies were.

  “But that doesn't explain where they went for at least three weeks, sir,” the scout said. “And I don't think it's the same riders. Some of them... well, from before you could tell they didn't know how to ride a horse. These though, they stay in column, they don't wander.”

  Grel leaned forward in his saddle, “What's your name, scout?”

  “He's Jaffry, one of my best,” Henderson said.

  “Well, Jaffry,” Grel said, “When we catch up to them, we will see if you're right or if you just don't have the guts for a fight and hope they slipped away.” He gave a chuckle as the scout flushed and his hand went to his sword, “Try it, boy. I'll gut you before you get it out. And I'll fuck the hole while you scream and die.”

  The entire troop had gone silent, and Grel sent his level gaze around them. He tasted their hate and their fear. It made him feel strong. “Ride on. And ten Solari to the man who spots them first.”

  ***

  Aerion Swordbreaker

  Ryft Peaks, Duchy of Masov

  Twenty-Sixth of Tremarn, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Aerion looked back down the column of riders, and he felt something like shock at how only a short time to recuperate and a few replacements had transformed the group. Bulmor had selected the healthiest and best trained for the journey, both from among the survivors from Aerion's village and the original recruits. Many wore leather armor, much of it sewn together during their stop at the hidden valley. Some carried the spears he had helped to craft.

  “What do you think, Aerion?” Quinn asked. “Think we'll scare off the Norics?”

  “I suppose,” Aerion said. He couldn't help a glance behind them to the south. For some reason, he worried that they had given Hector's men too long to prepare. What if they became caught between the Norics and some force of Hectors?

  Walker said, “They'll run and hide if they know what's good for them, eh, Josef?” Walker slapped the big man on the shoulder.

  “I've never seen a Noric,” Josef answered. “Don't much care to. If they run and hide, all the better for us too.” His voice was as calm as ever, but Aerion heard a tone of distraction in it as well.

  “Why, you can't be a hero without fighting,” Walker said. “And we all want to be heroes, right?” He looked around as if under the expectation that the others would cheer.

  Aerion shrugged, “I just want to get rid of Hector.”

  “I just want my farm,” Josef said.

  Quinn looked at the other two, “Well, I'd like to learn a bit more about magic.”

  Walker grimaced, “You lot take the fun out of this, sometimes, you know?”

  Aerion sighed. He looked to the west, where the sun had already begun to sink behind the mountains. “Been meaning to talk to you about that magic thing, Quinn.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Josef said, his deep voice solemn.

  “What?” Quinn said. “I didn't say I wanted to be a wizard... I just wanted to learn more. I mean, Arren knows a bit, maybe I could get him to teach me.”

  “Come on, Quinn,” Aerion said. “Look, you've heard stories about that stuff, right? Men driven insane by power, would-be wizards who blew themselves up or turned themselves inside out.”

  “Wouldn't like that,” Josef said somberly, “Getting turned inside out, that is. Think of the mess.” He frowned, “Getting blown up would be pretty bad too.”

  “Why don't you leave off him?” Walker said. “If he wants to meddle about in that stuff, all the better for him. At least he's got dreams!”

  Aerion sighed, “I just don't want to hear about something bad happening to him, after all this is over, alright?”

  “Thanks,” Quinn said, his voice harsh with sarcasm. “But I've looked after myself for ten cycles just fine. I don't need minders, especially not a pair younger than I am!” Quinn shook his head, “And as far as after this is all over... why we could all be killed before sunrise. So who's to care if I get interested in some things that are a little dangerous?”

  “I just...” Aerion took a moment to find the right words. “I never had any real friends, not before. I don't want to lose any of you.”

  They rode in silence for a moment. Finally Quinn spoke, his voice softer, but still determined, “Aerion, I'm honored you consider me a friend. But I'll do whatever I damned well please. You don't tell me to stop being interested in magic, and I won't tell you to stop staring at Lady Katarina when you think no one else is watching.”

  “What?!” Aerion said. He looked around, but it didn't appear that anyone
besides his friends had overheard. “Don't say something like that, it's not funny.” He felt his cheeks heat and he hoped that they wouldn't notice it.

  Walker glanced over at him, “Actually, it's hilarious. You both stare at each other like a pair of moonstruck children.” His high pitched voice actually sounded serious. “Everyone else can't help but notice, you know that right?

  “That's not true,” Aerion said. “She's not even my friend, besides... she's a noble. I'm a peasant. That would never work.” The very idea sounded absurd. Yes, he found her attractive, but no more so than any other woman his age...

  “Yeah, and just like the stories are full of tales of bad ends coming to those who meddle in magic,” Quinn said, “There's plenty more stories about peasants who fall in love with noblewomen and come to terrible ends. Gruesomely terrible ends, like the one about the hero Syvan, who tried to marry High King Osric's daughter...”

  Aerion shook his head, “Look, I'll admit, she's beautiful, and smart, and kind and...” he trailed off. He felt his palms begin to sweat and his stomach did a somersault. He felt panic set in. When he found his voice again, he spoke in a rush, “Oh, this can't be happening.”

  Walker gave a laugh, “Well, Quinn here dreams to be a wizard, Josef wants his farm and now you've finally admitted you're following your dream woman. Aren't we just a merry band of dreamers?” He stroked his lace cuffs, “Except me of course, someone needs to rein you all in.”

  “I...” Aerion shook his head. “What do I do?”

  “You could tell her,” Josef said. “That's what my brothers did and they're all happily married.” He frowned, “Well, first they asked the bride's fathers and then some other details. But her father is dead, so that simplifies things.”

  “But, I'm a common born...” Aerion trailed off. “No, I'm a bastard, common born, blacksmith. I suppose you can say I'm a soldier now, but I'm still not very good at it.” He looked over at his friends. “In what way could I ever appeal to her? How would I be good enough for any woman?”

  “Look, Aerion,” Walker said, “As... someone who knows the nobility, you're a damned sight better than most of them. Most of them aren't worth a sack of steaming pig-shit. You're brave and honest– painfully so, really. You're strong, you have a certain bit of wit to you and I suppose, in a certain light, I might find you handsome...” Walker pretended to swoon in his saddle. “As poor as Josef's advice might seem, it's honest, and it gets to the point.” Walker's high pitched voice was, for once, not mocking.

  Aerion nodded slowly, yet his stomach roiled at the thought of saying any of this to Lady Katarina. How could I even begin to find the words, he wondered.

  Then he remembered his conversation with his mother, where he had assured her... “Oh, ancestors...” Aerion shook his head, “My mother is going to kill me.”

  His friends seemed to find this uproariously funny.

  ***

  Lord Hector the Usurper

  The Lonely Keep, The Lonely Isle, Duchy of Masov

  Twenty-Sixth of Tremarn, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Lord Hector looked out at his cavalry battalion with a deep frown. He had ordered them to the north of the Keep, closest to the shallow areas of the river that the Armen might be able to force a crossing if unopposed.

  The Vendakar commander had positioned his own two companies of light cavalry where Hector had ordered. But the other four companies of cavalry, all of them heavy cavalry, to include Kerrel's Firebrands, had formed up almost at the center of his force.

  Also, some of the local companies under Commander Nasrat had formed up in a way that made no sense to him. He could see the four of their reserve companies positioned to the north, in between Commander Abrupbnet's two companies and the rest of his command. The majority of his force sat positioned at the northern ford, but their formation seemed in disarray.

  He wondered, suddenly, if the locals had decided to betray him. Zabilla has never shown any signs of it, he thought, and it would be foolish, the Armen would ravage their lands, even if they made some agreement. No, he felt certain the locals had not betrayed him, but he didn't know what could have thrown them into such a mess of a deployment.

  He peered to the north, again. His gaze settled on the banner of House Rajdahar, the black flag which bore the eight daggers of Shivenkaru. Abrupbnet would be close to his House banner, Hector knew. Which meant that he had positioned himself in the southern-most company of his cavalry, almost as if he felt more concern about what the local battalion intended than about an Armen crossing...

  Hector's eyes narrowed and he turned to face to the south, where the Vendakar infantry stood at the southern ford. They stood ready, their ranks formed up and their weapons drawn. Yet now that he thought to look, they seemed too relaxed. Where his own personal guard showed signs of strain and tension and the local battalions stood in silent, nervous ranks, the Vendakar mercenaries stood at their ease. In fact, many of them looked almost bored.

  Hector bit back a curse. Surely he must be mistaken. The Vendakar had supported him for over a decade! The Great Houses of Rajdahar and Rajpakopol would not throw away their arrangement, not for any bribe the Armen could afford.

  Even as he thought that, he heard the Armen war drums. A moment later, his dark gaze swept to the hills across the river. The southern road darkened suddenly with Armen. They came in a vast wave, a mass of over five thousand of the enemy.

  Hector's eyes narrowed as the entire force headed for the southern ford. It might be a feint, Hector acknowledged, but they came in too fast for that, I think.

  Hector turned to one of his couriers. “Orders to Commander Pradjahar, hold as long as he can, I will move additional forces to support him, go now.” He turned to the next, “Get orders to Commander Nasrat–”

  Hector broke off as someone shouted in shock and dismay behind him.

  He turned, and he felt his stomach sink. Commander Pradjahar's entire formation had pivoted as the first Armen raiders reached the ford. They swung back northwards, out of the way like a gate, and suddenly they screened the Armen crossing, rather than blocking them. Hector's army had no one and nothing in position to stop the Armen.

  In that moment, Hector froze. He could see his entire army crumble. Even his own personal guard gave shouts of shock and fear. I am beaten, he thought.

  Then he heard the sound of cavalry trumpets.

  Hector turned, and he felt his mouth drop in shock as four mercenary companies of heavy cavalry broke into a charge at the oncoming Armen force.

  ***

  Captain Kerrel Flamehair

  Kerrel felt a knot of tension in her stomach all morning. She normally felt nervous before a battle. But today she felt her stomach roil and she swallowed against the acid bite of bile in the back of her throat.

  Despite the information that Pargan had gathered on the Vendakar treason, Commander Pradjahar's force seemed to be in their assigned position. Her own company, along with the Pargan's cavalry force of Mongrels, Captain Cruz's Lancers, and Captain Correia's Harbringers had positioned themselves near the center of the army.

  If the battle went off as planned, she had little doubt that Lord Hector would have a great many questions for her, some of which might well lead to her execution for conspiracy. If it did not go as he planned, then she would lead four companies, a total of five hundred cavalry, against five thousand Armen and hope that the Luciel Order's influence with the locals would help to get them support before the Armen overwhelmed them.

  The Armen swept closer and she saw her people tense. Most of them had their eyes locked on the Vendakar mercenary battalion. Kerrel shot a glance to the north, at Commander Nasrat's battalion. He had ten companies under his command, and she wondered how many of those, if any, the Luciel Order had influenced.

  She looked south again as the first Armen hit the ford. Then, almost as if they had rehearsed their movement, Commander Pradjahar's seven companies pivoted to face the north.

  “Sound the attac
k,” Kerrel said.

  She felt a surge of confidence as Jonal sounded his trumpet. She gave a silent thanks to Attrimar for holding up his end of the bargain. The four companies of cavalry pivoted and then surged into motion.

  The main strength of cavalry, especially heavy cavalry, lay in mass and movement. Kerrel had judged the distance to the ford with care before she positioned her own and the other three companies. Her renegade force rolled into motion and Kerrel glanced down the line as five hundred cavalry formed into a perfect line.

  They advanced at a trot and Kerrel felt a grin broaden on her face as she stared down the line and saw the unit banners rise. She saw the Mongrel's dog pelt first, and then the cloth of gold banner for the Lancers to her right. To her left, down at the end of the line she saw the wolfhead banner of the Harbringers. Her own banner, red and gold and designed to shimmer as if aflame rose next to her.

  “Bastards look surprised, don't they?” Baran shouted over the noise of five hundred cavalry at a trot. That noise carried the sound of armor jingling, the clop of hooves on the dirt, the breath of five hundred men and horses, and the promise of death and mayhem. Kerrel looked out at the Vendakar formation ahead. Where before they had stood confident, secure in the knowledge that they could stand back and let the Armen do the fighting, now they stood silent, and she saw heads turn, now and then, to look back at their commander.

  “They thought we'd all be paralyzed with shock,” Kerrel said. “Let's show them differently.” She judged the distance, careful to ensure the enemy formation was far enough to give the cavalry time to build up speed, yet close enough that the horses would not tire. “Sound the charge.”

  Jonal blared out the call and a moment later the trumpets of the other cavalry took up the call. The formation broke into a gallop. Kerrel whipped out her sword. By memory, she triggered the runes on the hilt, and her blade ignited in orange flames. She raised her shield and guided Nightwhisper with the pressure of her knees. For a moment, just before the charge struck the enemy, she felt the rhythm of her horse and matched it with perfection that she could never meet under any other circumstances.