by James Abbott
Birgitta glanced to Elysia and then to Xavir, an uncertain look about her. ‘I struggled with just this one battle tonight. I cannot take on the might of these altered sisters.’
‘Join us,’ Elysia said to Marilla. ‘We are about to build a force. If we can reach out to other sisters, then that will help. There will be all of those affiliated with the people who came here tonight, if they decided to spare their clan forces. We have come this far. And this is Xavir Argentum – he used to serve King Cedius. He’s going to slay Mardonius.’
Marilla appeared amused at the comment. ‘I know him.’ She turned to face Xavir. ‘You expect to walk into the king’s palace, do you?’
‘The battle will offer a significant distraction. I can handle anything else on my way there.’
‘Except magic,’ Marilla declared.
‘Indeed.’
‘Will you join us?’ Elysia repeated.
‘With my masters dead, what little choice do I have in the matter? The world is no longer a safe place for a sister who wishes to dwell alone.’
‘Together we have more strength,’ Elysia concluded.
‘And we will need all of it to have a chance against those who stand against us,’ Marilla replied.
Forging
Valderon’s horse could not maintain the pace of Lupara’s wolf, Vukos. The creature’s paws thundered into the damp earth as the queen of Dacianara sped up ahead, back towards the manse.
The day was muggy and overcast. A storm was due to clear the air, but it never materialized. They rode along paths that cut through oak and elm, through thick areas of overgrown landscape. Leaves were changing. Flashes of orange and ochre passed their eyes. There was a heady scent of jasmine here, and a thicket of old white roses had overgrown and sprawled far. Lupara guessed that the estate had not been maintained properly for at least four years, despite it being lived in. Priorities had changed at some point.
The wolf queen commanded her great steed to a halt. Valderon’s horse galloped until it was alongside her, and he smiled knowingly at his lack of pace. Together they waited, glancing back along the path. Eventually another sound became more obvious, although she had heard it faintly for some time. The ground shuddered. Minutes later, bursting through the undergrowth came fifty-five soldiers on horseback, men and women, carrying swords and lances. Some wore a mixture of military colours, but most had no specific uniform at all: they were clan exiles who had been gathered from the surrounding villages.
A tall, dark-haired man had been leading them and been their spokesman since Valderon and Lupara had established contact. With a handsome profile and hints of nobility that he seemed to shun in his capacity as an exile, his name was Grauden, and he had fought in the Second Legion as a captain for five years. A dedicated follower of the Goddess, Grauden had abandoned the legion with several others when they had been forced to clear a town of civilians under orders from Mardonius. Grauden refused to enact those orders, but pretended to have accepted them. Carefully selecting warriors who shared his disgust, he marched them to the limits of the town, issued the townsfolk with supplies of food and arms, and then fled with his soldiers into the wilderness of Burgassia.
Once they had rearmed themselves, they re-entered Stravimon and began offering aid and protection to refugees. Valderon, through a network of local villagers, had reached out to contact this famous band of rebels. Valderon and Lupara had met with Grauden in an abandoned farmstead five days ago, where they had offered him a chance to join their own force.
Grauden had known of the both of them and was especially interested in fighting alongside Xavir Argentum. He accepted the offer. He said that he knew of more forces, of Goddess strongholds where ardent followers had begun forming something of a resistance. These bands of rebels would, of course, not stand up to the full onslaught of the legions, and so Grauden had since sent out messengers in order to bring these units together as one greater force. Several hundred men in all would be headed towards the manse. The Black Clan would become a reality sooner than everyone had hoped.
Grauden signalled for his own fifty-strong force to halt, and he nudged his horse alongside Lupara’s wolf, peering across her towards Valderon. ‘I see not even you can keep up with her animal.’
The big wolf, Vukos, grunted, as if acknowledging the compliment, then turned its head away towards the undergrowth.
Valderon smiled. ‘He’s a swift beast, but I know this terrain well now. I have less of an excuse. We’ve been holed up here for ten days.’
‘You did well to get it.’ Grauden replied, indicating the manse. The roof of the building could be seen above the tops of the trees nearby. ‘Were there none of the foreigners here – the Voldirik warriors?’
‘Not enough to concern us,’ Lupara said. ‘We dealt with them on the way.’
‘I haven’t fought too many of them. They have struck in small numbers, rather than actual brute force. Yet the Stravir army has become eroded with every passing week and replaced by these creatures.’
‘I do not believe they are skilled at combat,’ Valderon agreed. ‘It is their numbers and their magic that concern me.’
‘They prey on the weak,’ Grauden said. ‘Unarmed villagers for the most part. We have heard many sinister tales.’
‘There is nothing in them that a blade cannot fix,’ Lupara announced, ‘and this is a message we need to deliver to many of the communities in Stravimon.’
‘What communications have the villages and towns had from the king?’
‘Once in a while Mardonius has notices nailed to tavern doors and the likes,’ Grauden said. He gave a bitter grin. ‘It’s been his way of telling the people how wonderful he is.’
‘And do the people believe him?’ Lupara asked.
‘The people are not that stupid. They do not like to be told how wonderful a king is when they can see their nation falling apart. When they can see a fall in trade and know that people disappear, they know not to believe a piece of parchment with a nail through it.’
‘What have these messages said?’
‘Nothing of note. Mainly that all’s well. That their king’s well. That he’s looking after his people. It’s shit, really. And they know it.’
Valderon nodded. ‘Nothing like Cedius. In his younger days, Cedius was known to go undercover to taverns up and down Stravimon after campaigns and tell people himself how things went and what he could have done better.’
Grauden lowered his head and shook it. ‘Now there was a king.’
‘Come,’ Lupara announced, ‘we are close.’
Lupara led the entourage at a more sedate pace through the undergrowth until they came to a clearing before the manse’s east wing.
Here the grass had recently been scythed, and the former prisoners were labouring – hammer-blows to metal, sharpening blade edges, hanging up meat that had been caught from the forest. Over the past few days they had transformed the run-down manse into a hive of activity. The place had been cleaned, aired and turned into a suitable headquarters. A sense of military order had been established.
Grauden was agog. ‘You’ve been busy here,’ he called across to Valderon. ‘By the Goddess, I can remember a year ago, when we surveyed these lands, that the manse was in disrepair. We all thought Havinir mad at the time, but you’ve rescued the old place.’
‘We’ve rooms inside for your comrades to sleep in. You’ll have to use your own bedding.’
‘Rooms?’ Grauden asked mockingly. He turned to some of his own soldiers behind him. ‘Do you hear that? Rooms. A roof over our heads. This is luxury! I don’t want anyone growing soft.’
Valderon remained impassive. ‘I have spent many years in a remote mountaintop gaol. In my time here, spending my evenings on feathered mattresses, any signs of softness have not yet revealed themselves to me.’
Grauden altered his manner, and gave a slight bow of respect before straightening his back. Overhead a crow called out across the treetops. ‘I’m sure we will not ei
ther. My soldiers are now your soldiers.’
‘They will trust you more than me,’ Valderon said, ‘so I’ll count your friendship and guidance here as valuable. You know much about life on the roads around here, and much about the terrain. I’ll consider us equals.’
Valderon had done almost all of the organizing at Havinir’s manse, to the extent that Lupara was beginning to feel like some ruler who did nothing and merely let her staff arrange matters. In Xavir’s absence, she began teaching some of the others the ways of the sword – good old-fashioned Dacianaran techniques – but it only went some way to satisfy her. She had begun to thirst and crave the business of war again.
She was also glad to see that Valderon and Grauden had quickly formed a respectful relationship during their short time on the road. Warriors from Stravimon always followed and appreciated structure. That Valderon had yielded without words to Xavir was respectful of their former difference in authority. The same had happened with Grauden and Valderon, and the newcomer was quick to appreciate the chance to fight alongside a former officer of the First Legion.
Lupara led Vukos back towards Rafe, whereupon she dismounted and let the beasts roam free together. Then, amidst a strong wind that rippled the surrounding trees, she strode towards the manse.
Before she and Valderon had left some days ago to establish contact with Grauden, she had sent the swift Faolo to Dacianara with a message. Things had been complicated back in her home nation when she left for exile. Most of all there was the sense of shame that she had brought upon her people – a shame she shared with Xavir, in many respects. Her punishment for it, though not as severe, was not exactly of her own making. Courtiers had circled like carrion seeing a wounded beast, and there were mutterings of challenges. She would happily have fought anyone to defend the Blood Crown, but instead she merely yielded to the nation rather than to a challenger. Exile meant that no one could sit comfortably underneath the Blood Crown if they decided to, but it also left things in a messy state, and she was not entirely aware what power structures there now were in Dacianara.
The message tied to Faolo would now be the key to her future. She had requested not for the temporary rulers and administrators to hear her case in light of the evidence. The wolf was heading straight to those she could trust: the warrior cadres who had so often accompanied her into war. Tribal leaders would instinctively ignore any formal legalities and come straight to her aid. She had old friends – Jumaha of the Vrigantines and Katollon the Soul-Stealer, who would not waste any time mustering their tribes to come to her aid. Their families had allegiances going back centuries. Their trust, she could rely upon. Numbering in their hundreds, they would flock to her side.
But the army to march upon Stravimon and reclaim it from the influence of the Voldirik people would be barely a thousand strong. Was that enough? No. Not yet. And she was impatient to get the job done; they all were. Every week they waited would result in more chance for the Voldiriks to entrench themselves. On the road, Grauden had told her of people fleeing the capital to the mountains, forests and coastline. Not merely followers of the Goddess, but people who were said not to have accepted the presence of the Voldirik people within the city.
According to reports, Mardonius had, many months earlier, made a show of them. Sitting upon the balcony of his palace with his red-clad bodyguard to one side, he presented senior Voldirik officials to his people. It was declared as the ‘alliance beyond the shores’, but the people needed much convincing. When citizens began to jeer at the newcomers, the king took it personally. When the people began to organize protests, he became furious.
In perhaps his greatest show of madness, Mardonius sent squads of his own soldiers in the night to root out the worst dissenters. Soldiers knocked on the doors of those who had organized the protests. Men and women were dragged from their beds into the streets, where they were put to the sword in front of their families. Within days any formal grievances at the presence of an alien race within the walls of the capital were sent underground. No one voiced their concern. No one made eye contact with the city soldiers. No one said a word any more.
That was, according to Grauden, some time ago. What could have happened since then? All they had seen of the Voldirik people were the rangers and wayseers patrolling the woodlands and the old, forgotten paths. The legions seemed to be vanishing.
So who and what would they face when they came to reclaim the city?
The Arrival
Lupara held the scroll tube in her hand once again. It had come via a young man on a fine horse, who had ridden forth in resplendent red clothing, and who only shrugged when questioned, and winced when shouted at. He had ridden back in the morning mist through the trees and quickly vanished. That had been twenty days ago. Standing in the morning rain, Lupara opened the leather tube and emptied the scroll out into her hand. The note was written as if spoken by Xavir – to the point, just the essential details.
Have no concern. All are safe. Forces are building. We will return well before thirty days have passed. XA.
Twenty days now, and Lupara’s concern was beginning to grow. What exactly did he mean by ‘Forces are building’?
‘Reading it again will do no good.’ The voice was Valderon’s.
In resplendent black armour recovered from inside the manse’s armoury, Valderon looked every bit the glorious leader. Such things were important. Lupara knew that such a visage would inspire others around him every bit as much as his technique in battle, and his skills were not in dispute. It wasn’t just his appearance, however. From his training regimen and prowess in practice fights, the others now listened to what he said. And from his ability to listen to the men’s daily concerns, no matter how trivial, they respected what he said too. Even Grauden’s soldiers, and the other fighters that had since been absorbed into their ‘Black Clan’ from surrounding settlements, had quickly taken to him. He was a soldier’s soldier.
‘Bahnnash! Time is running out,’ Lupara said. ‘If Xavir doesn’t return soon, even more people will die in Stravir City. News of the brutality there reaches us daily. A priest of Balax tells us of his congregation being slaughtered during prayer. A former guard of the city watch breaks down in the forest to tell Grauden of the sins he had to commit on the king’s orders. These are not exactly good times to be living in the city. We cannot wait much longer.’
Valderon crouched down beside her, sitting on the large stone that looked back across the gardens towards the manse. At first she had considered him a simple man, and perhaps he was. She had made advances towards him, which he did not even realize, and when he did he acted like no other man she had known. Others had either feared or enjoyed the honour of her attention, when she had been in Dacianara. But Valderon was already wounded, and to go there again simply made that wound raw again. That is all she could fathom from the matter, and she was done with trying.
They sat in companionable silence for a little while longer when Vukos and Rafe came to her side. One of them grunted and nuzzled her shoulder. Then the third wolf, Faolo, suddenly appeared and she rose to embrace the beast. His fur was damp and he seemed nonchalant at the fact that he had just completed a mission. The other two animals nosed him cautiously, before accepting his return and plodding off.
She examined Faolo for any signs of a message attached to him, but there was none.
‘There is no communication,’ she said. ‘Has my command been received?’
Moments later, her answer came soon enough.
‘Lupara!’ Tylos came running in great strides across the gardens. ‘Lupara, Valderon. You must come and see this.’
Tylos led the two of them to the fringes of the estate, and all three of Lupara’s wolves came to sit by her side.
Ahead of them, between the trunks and under the canopy, came the sound of thumping drums. There was her announcement of arrival. Lupara’s heart skipped a beat. She could hear the howling of wolves – other Dacianaran wolves – on the winds through the forest.
Moments later they appeared, dozens and dozens of her former countrymen, riding slowly and triumphantly before her.
Lupara stared in disbelief. It had been so long since she looked upon so many of her own people. She scrutinized their faces to see if she recognized anyone. Eventually she saw none other than Katollon the Soul-Stealer riding into the wide clearing upon his great black wolf. As Lupara and Valderon moved forwards, smaller wolves hurried up to her, leaping around in joy. The wolves began to circle her, drifting with her across the grass. The line of Dacianarans paused at the fringes of the gardens, as Katollon dismounted and strode towards her. Ever the savage-looking man, he was dressed in leather and furs, with feathers in his hair and black paint around his eyes, giving him the appearance of some cruel bird of prey. Across his shoulder was slung a double-headed axe – it was, he always explained, the real soul-stealer.
‘Our forgotten queen,’ he called out, using their old language. ‘Your wolf is good at finding his way home.’
‘Katollon.’ Lupara paused for a moment. Then the two embraced, almost with as much verve as grappling wrestlers. She stepped to arm’s length, and looked at the lines on his face. She had known him at some forty summers. Now he was closer to fifty. With that came wisdom, she hoped. He had always been a mentor of sorts to her and his presence not only excited her but gave her more confidence about the coming mission. ‘Time has been good to you.’
‘The Dacianaran plains will do that to a man,’ he replied. ‘We came as quickly as we could. We know of the trouble you face.’
As they spoke, she glanced across the line of savage warriors and wolves that had travelled all this way. More filed in behind the front row, their faces painted blue in the old ways, and banners bearing icons of blood, fang and claw that set her heart racing. Now, more than ever, she craved the assault on Stravir City.
