“What’s wrong?” Mina asked in shock.
“There’s a sorcerer running around your palace in a red robe.” He blurted.
“So?” She asked.
Tristan looked at her in shock. “What do you mean?” He asked in a measured tone.
“We have many sorcerers visiting here from Deus.” She informed him.
We have a problem. Tristan sent to Drake as he grabbed Mina by the arm and led her out to the courtyard.
“What’s wrong?” He answered out loud.
“Nothing, just got light headed.” Tristan lied out loud while he pushed the images of his attack into his grandfather’s mind.
One of them ran away from me moments ago. He explained.
This is a problem. Drake replied as he walked over and felt Tristan’s head for show. “Probably just the heat with your armor on.” He commented out loud.
What’s going on? Lesa asked.
Tristan sent the images of his attack to her, Otis, Beth and Euri. Each of them hid it with stony silence as their true discussion took place between their thoughts.
I don’t trust them. Otis commented.
Neither do I. Admitted Eurydice.
This can’t distract us all. Drake warned. Socolis, you and Lesariu must go with Bethia to Terum. He ordered. She’s going to need your help.
Drake turned to Euri and offered his arm as Mina relieved her mother of Jonathan’s squirming. He turned to Peria and asked; “Milady, if it’s agreeable with you, my granddaughter and I would like to stay a while longer and visit.”
The old woman smiled warmly as she bowed. “Of course my Lord. Our home is yours.”
Eurydice and I will stay behind to guard the child. He advised them.
Otis and Lesa stepped forward and placed their hands on Beth’s shoulder and closed their eyes. The air around her became foggy and heat began to rise off her human shape in a fine mist. Slowly the human shape coalesced into a small dragon form, and then it grew at an alarming rate until finally the fog lifted and the large red dragon Bethia stood before them.
Peria and Mina watched, rapt and almost certainly alarmed as Jonathan clapped and cheered with his young enthusiasm. Tristan was forced to admit that while her transformation was slower than the elders, he was fascinated by it nonetheless. Otis walked over with Tristan’s saddle and with the Prince’s help had it in place in no time. Then the old man and golden-gowned woman transformed themselves back into their true forms. With a small amount of fuss, Sergeant-Major Frose allowed himself to be picked up by the older dragon and placed on his white-scaled back.
Please lower yourself my large friend. He asked Bethia.
The large red dragon lay down, extending her neck out to flatten her shoulders as much as possible. Tristan held out his hand to Maggie who was still frozen in place, wide-eyed and petrified of the transformation she’d just witnessed. Not for the first time, Tristan wondered at the wisdom of including her in the circus that was his life. Outwardly, he chuckled as he grabbed a hold of her hand, instantly shaker her from her reverie as they walked forward.
Tristan leaped up into the saddle and strapped his legs into the sleeves along the stirrups. He extended his hand down to Maggie, whose hand rose shakily towards his. The Prince pulled her up in one fluid motion and held her between the horn and himself.
Please take off slowly, this one scares easily. He sent lightly to Bethia.
The enormous red dragon slowly beat her wings up and down before she lightly launched herself off the ground. Bethia laughed deeply as Maggie grasped the horn in fear. This one really doesn’t like heights does she? She asked.
It’s not the heights really; it’s the steady up and down of your flying. He chuckled.
“She said she’ll try and glide as much as possible.” Tristan said lightly as Maggie whimpered in reply.
Chapter 5
Tristan swore.
“Couldn’t have said it better m’self, sir.” Sergeant-Major Frose grunted from his side.
The Prince had returned to the fort a week before the snows had begun to melt. As he and his army prepared for the spring campaign, they were often serenaded by the cracking of ice and the roaring of bears waking up from hibernation. The alarming regularity of the volcano eruptions to the south and columns of smoke rising from their mouths was becoming more and more common. Tristan was anxious to see an end to this war so the elder dragons could continue Bethia’s training. She needed to get to the point where the impressive red dragon could exert some sort of control over the country’s more volatile landmarks.
With the snows finally melted, they found themselves constantly soaked by the heavy spring rains. At first they were so cold that the majority of the soldiers came down with spring flues, but last week they finally began to take on a warmer light drizzle which still soaked the battlefield below them where thousands of soldiers gathered.
Over the winter Colonel Yeris had proven himself to be an able commander. More out of boredom than anything else he had led a patrol north to check on the disposition of the men. He found their entire northern element decimated and the Great Gate in the center of the Wall of Terious thrown wide open. When Tristan returned he assigned command of the northern element to Yeris in the hopes that the Colonel would be able to keep the force up there from collapsing again.
Although now, seeing the force assembled outside, he was questioning the wisdom of sending twenty thousand men with him as reinforcements. Even with the levies from Vallius and Sutten as well as the special detachment that arrived two days ago from Guis, Tristan’s’ army numbered slightly more than fifty thousand soldiers. Arrayed in front of him was their match in human numbers, plus siege engines, orcs and trolls and various other creatures he couldn’t put a name to.
“At least they didn’t being any giants with them.” Tristan sighed.
“There it is.” Frose commented.
“There what is?” Tristan asked, casting his gaze among the defenders looking for what the Sergeant saw.
“The silver lining; no giants.” He grunted dramatically.
Tristan was forced to laugh despite the grim situation. “Get the catapults loaded with caltrops Sergeant.” The Prince ordered.
The Sergeant smiled sadistically as he saluted and walked off to prepare his new toys. One of the benefits of spending a few months in Guis had been the Sergeants education at the hands of the Guisian generals. While drinking copious amounts of alcohol together they shared tactics and weapons of choice. One of the stories had involved an old general’s favorite siege tactic. He would bury large iron crosses in the sand surrounding the keep walls, when horses came to close they would impale themselves on the crosses.
Over time he minimized the size of the crosses down to the size of a large melon and instead of burring them in the sand, he would load them into catapults. Launching them into the path of oncoming soldiers created all kinds of problems for attackers. The caltrops as he called them; were sharpened three-dimensional crosses, infantry fell on them and horses tossed their riders as the sharp ends dug into the frogs of their hooves.
Tristan loved the idea and ever since their return to the front lines he had his blacksmiths working day and night to produce as many as possible for the spring campaign. With the new caltrops, the new spring mechanism for the catapults, and the permanent trebuchets mounted on the towers, Tristan felt confident that unless magic became involved the fight would go well for the Vallius forces. The new catapult springs allowed a single engineer to pull the firing arm back, their volleys could now be timed down to the second, maximizing damage to their enemies. Although magical means of warfare made him uncomfortable at best, should it become involved he need only send for the elder dragons. Even now they were continuing Bethia’s education in the hills south of Kenting, close enough to render aid but far enough away to be out of danger.
Further musing was interrupted as a man rode slowly through the ranks of the Terum army and came to a halt just outside of bows
hot. Even from here Tristan could clearly make out the silhouette of the bandit King, Boris. Behind him came the sorceress, walking off to the side of his horse. The Prince might have been imagining things, but he was sure the men assembled before him spread farther away for the mage than they did for their leader.
Hello my young friend. Socolis’ voice echoed in his mind.
What’s wrong? Tristan asked, suddenly nervous.
Oh nothing. He replied lightly. Bethia wanted to witness mortal war craft.
You’d better find a safe vantage point, there’s a sorceress with their army. Tristan warned.
I know. I was actually thinking of helping you even the playing field. He offered playfully.
What do you mean? Tristan asked uncertainly.
Still have that remarkable bow my grandson helped make? He asked humorously.
Yes. The Prince answered.
String it lad. He instructed.
The Prince sighed as he sent a page running for the bow he kept in his command tent. While the page was off on this errand King Boris led his horse forward a few paces. His voice filled the battlefield, magically amplified by the witch at his side.
“Quit the walls and pack up your belongings.” He said with clear malice. “If you’re not on the road back to Kenting in the next hour I’ll burn that fort down around you and slaughter you all down to the last cooks’ monkey.” He spat.
The page arrived moments after the pronouncement and Tristan once again felt slight pressure as Socolis spoke to him in his thoughts. Pull a hair from your head; tie it around one of the arrows and wait for the sign. He ordered.
What sign? Tristan asked.
The Prince was greeted by silence. Socolis! What sign? He asked again.
Again he was only greeted by silence. Cursing he used his leg and arms to string the massive longbow. He sighed as he pulled an arrow out of the quiver the page had brought with the bow, and yanked a hair out of his scalp. Methodically he tied it securely to the shaft of the arrow and sighed again as he pulled the arrow back and took aim.
Sergeant Frose returned to find his Prince aiming down at the self proclaimed King of Terum. While he was clearly confused, he’d long ago abandoned the need to doubt his commander; instead he merely pulled his pipe from his belt and leaned against the parapet as he packed it full of tobacco. Tristan couldn’t fathom what his target should be. If he could kill the witch, he would rob them of any surprises they might spring during the battle. If he shot the King he would break the spine of the force and maybe even turn the army to rout. Boris leaned over as he exchanged words with his sorceress, Tristan could clearly see that she was giving him instructions and orders and this more than anything else decided his aim.
A roar echoed across the battlefield and Tristan watched in morbid amusement as the sorceress immediately erected her defense around herself, leaving Boris outside and unprotected by it. Another roar carried across the field and soldiers began to slowly back away, obviously experienced in the hell the dragons could create at a whim. A third roar washed over them all and the majority of the army turned and fled to the pitiful protection of their breastworks along the ridge behind them.
When the first dragon, Lesariu, flew into sight many of Boris’ battle hardened murderers fled for cover. Soon all that remained of King Boris’ army was a handful of mercenaries, several legions of orcs and the last of the trolls who hadn’t been trampled by the fleeing humans. King Boris dismounted his horse and began pounding on the defensive dome surrounding the sorceress, desperately trying to get in.
The Prince chuckled as he took careful aim at the sorceress, adjusting his angle to compensate for the wind. He took a deep breath and released the arrow. One of the mercenaries needlessly grabbed the King and pulled him none too gently behind the protection of his large shield.
Time seemed to slow down strangely as the sorceress turned to see the arrow in flight, aimed at her defenses. She smiled in contempt as she launched a fireball at it. Tristan watched in fascination as the fireball flew towards him, engulfing the arrow as it continued towards the Prince. He quickly drew his sword and focused his will, as he had when facing the leader of The Bane. The fireball connected with his sword and ricocheted off. It spiraled off into the distance and exploded harmlessly on the ground, leaving a small creator.
Tristan watched as the sorceresses’ defensive dome winked out of existence. She spun in place and fell face first into the dirt. The Prince cursed as she got up to her knees and pulled another arrow out of his quiver and took aim. He was spared having to shoot again though as King Boris stalked over to her and decapitated her.
Then the self-styled King of Terum pointed to the walls of his former command fort with his sword and yelled. Thousands of men and creatures reserved for the nightmares of the young and old alike stormed across the battlefield screaming incoherently as they closed in on the walls.
~
With the failure of the last offensive weeks behind them, Cyrisa had watched as Boris began preparations for the spring thaw. With fevered intensity he forged new contracts with his mercenaries, made new blood oaths with the orcs and sent envoys to the giants with gifts to soften their anger and seek more support.
The troll engineers were hard at work in the forges, preparing weapons and engines for the next round of fights. The town around Kumia had been gutted; all of the houses converted to smithies for the trolls to work in. All of the residents now either lived in tents surrounding the town or served in the army.
Boris had been forced to execute one in every hundred citizens to ensure that they would stay in line after the failure of the last battle. Now the orcs and mercenaries acted as overseers to the forced training camps. The King was obsessed with the coming campaign, convinced that the army needed to learn how to function as a cohesive unit in order to guarantee victory.
Cyrisa had begun to drug the King slowly over the last few weeks. A little Gerdium in his mead each night was all it took. The Gerdium was a mixture of her own kind; valerian root, ginger, nutmeg and yeast. A pinch in his mead and the King was fast asleep within the hour. Nothing short of a gong in his ear could wake him for the next five hours. Cyrisa used this time to weave her subtler and infinitely more effective magic.
She rubbed his temples lightly, whispering suggestions in his ear and directing his forces as she saw fit. Of course there were commanders, close to Boris, who saw the change occurring in their leader. They were the first executed to prove the King’s wrath extended to all of his army.
The orcs became the King’s creatures of choice, and it was much easier to influence them. Their base anger and resentment towards other races made them easy targets for her manipulation, as is often the case with the racially blind. They were unlike any other mortal races on this world though. Their women would pass a score of fifty eggs or more, and then the men would fertilize the eggs. The women would return and burry the eggs in the marches of the north where they came from. The eggs would hatch in weeks and under the right circumstances up to thirty orclings would survive.
With her brothers and sisters aid, the crèches they created could house thousands of eggs, be fertilized by hundreds of males and only three out of every thousand hatchling didn’t survive. Their numbers had swollen this winter, and now the orclings were being trained in war craft and being magically manipulated by her brethren. Their overall size had tripled, the hunchbacks no longer existed and they were all extremely powerful, able to lift and throw boulders only catapults could toss. Cyrisa was sure that this was the first true genetic manipulation this planet had ever experienced.
Where the orcs would more often than not fight and kill one another as they asserted their dominance, now the strongest became legionaries. The mightiest of the legionaries became captains, able to command units numbering in the thousands. The most gifted captains became generals and they answered to only one, the Orc Legate. Even now, they only gave their oldest and weakest to help the King of Terum. They kept thir
ty thousand of their best and most brutal warriors, swelling their nation’s population to five times its original size.
Under the direction of Cyrisa’s brothers and sisters, they waged their war of conquest in the Great Expanse. They obliterated villages, burning everything to ground. They murdered chieftains and massacred children in perverse and dark rites as they paid homage to their Gods. The orcs legions bathed in the blood of the other humanoid species as they gained control of the eastern half of the Expanse. Even now threw themselves at the armies of the western half, throwing old and established realms into chaos and panic as they fell before the host of orcs.
The war had gone on despite the snow. Treacherous footing, blizzards and the cold of the long nights and short days did little to slow down the conquest. With spring here they slowed their march only to mate in the crèches created by her brethren. The last contact she’d had with one of her brothers had revealed that they were mere months away from controlling the entire Expanse and then they undoubtedly would turn their attention on the Great Terious wall and the pathetic humans it guarded.
A detachment of orcs had arrived a week ago; at their head was an enormous captain. He spoke the human languages flawlessly and seemed less than impressed to be leading the rabble that followed him. His force consisted off the last of the old orcs, slack jawed and inbred as well as the weakest of the new generations, tossed out for their diminutive size. The trolls that came with him were the last of the northern tribes. Her contact had explained in private that his brethren no longer needed or wanted their scheming filth any longer.
They held quiet council while the King slept and Cyrisa was quite impressed at what their magic had accomplished. Merely a year ago an orc such as this would have been a drooling, nearly mindless thing hunched over as their inter-breeding created life spans easier to measure in months than decades. Now the orcs stood at a uniform seven feet tall, they were wide, being heavily muscled with thick arms and legs. They still reeked of the unclean, but such was their religion.
Deadly Intentions (Blood Feud - Volume 2) Page 8
