Ravenwild: Book 01 - Ravenwild

by Peter Plasse

  This same strip of land had originally been a trade route, but that was so long ago that almost none of the Humans, Dwarves, and Elves of Ravenwild even knew this. It took its name from those times, however, because in those days a large gate had been erected so that border inspectors could halt the advancing caravans of merchants in order to inspect the goods. Some of the elders might remember this, but to most it had become a long forgotten historical fact.

  The Gate was of vital strategic importance because it overlooked the original trade route, through which ran a well-developed cobblestone road that led straight into the land of the Humans, Elves, and Dwarves, on which a Troll army could march right in. So, long before anyone decided that keeping written records of historical details mattered, soldiers had built the fortification from great blocks of stone that they had hauled on wagons down from the quarries of Logan, named after their discoverer. It was the most beautiful stone imaginable, basically pure white, flecked with splotches of pink.

  The splendor of the remote stone citadel stood in sharp contrast to the solemnity of its mission as protectorate of the southern reaches of Ravenwild.

  It had taken centuries to construct. It consisted of a large fortress that was capable of housing several battalions of soldiers and their families, and a wall, easily 60 feet high that completely surrounded it. The outpost had been subjected to every manner of assault and had never been conquered solely because of this wall, which was over four feet thick and perfectly smooth, every stone in its construction having been hand carved and polished to interlock perfectly with the next, so there was no possibility of handholds for attacking troops attempting to scale it.

  The immediate problem for Rolan and his commanders was that about a thousand troops of the Slovan army had worked their way around it by fighting their way through the Agden Forest to the south. They had started out with an attack force of ten times that, but their already decimated numbers, after their arduous trek from the north, had been further whittled down by the large packs of Agden Wolves. Many called them border Wolves, given that their territory was the vast forest to the south of the border of the two lands. Agden Wolves were about three times the size of an ordinary wolf, and allowed absolutely no living thing to enter their woods without devouring it. And they were always hungry.

  But the Trolls had succeeded, if the loss of ninety percent of an invasion force can be called a success, and now they had The Gate flanked.

  Still, Leopold Malance Venomisis, Emperor of the Troll nation, considered it an undeniable success. The loss of thousands of his troops meant nothing to him. He had the fortress flanked. That was what mattered. Nobody could get in, nobody could get out. So he ordered brigade after brigade away from the conflict in the north with explicit instructions to his commanders to find a way to breach the walls. He had told his messengers to inform them that they had three weeks to get there, a journey that would normally take twice that long making good time. Every Troll knew that if they failed to arrive in this amount of time they would be tortured to death in front of the rest of the army. And it was the worst conceivable torture. Slow. Brutal. Such was the Slovan way. So they had marched like no other army before them had ever marched, through the sweltering heat of midsummer, and torrential rains that turned the footing into so much slop. With precious little for food, other than their fallen comrades, hundreds perished early on in the journey from simple causes: dehydration, starvation, and exhaustion. Then, in their weakened condition, hundreds more died from the infectious diseases that always prey upon the weak: pneumonia, blood poisoning, and mysterious stomach ailments causing diarrhea and vomiting.

  One would think that these Troll soldiers might have considered rebelling against their own leadership, such was the hardship they were forced to endure to please the chain of command. Not so. A Slovan warrior was exactly that, a warrior, born to follow orders, no matter how harsh, no matter how irrational, no matter the consequences fostered upon his body.

  What the Trolls did not know was that not two weeks before they had prevailed in their flanking maneuver, while so many of their forces were being torn to shreds by the Agden Wolves, Rolan had been forced to order most of his troops occupying the fortress dispatched to the north to deal with the military situations around Salem and in the Silver River valley. So the station was even weaker than the Slovans knew.

  “We cannot just sit here and let the Trolls starve them out!” Luke shouted. He pounded his fist on the huge polished table in the Great Hall for emphasis. “We must attack. At once. Before Malance Venomisis has a chance to bring in the reinforcements. And it is not just the saving of our own soldiers that concerns me. We all know the consequences of losing The Gate. We would then be flanked to the north and to the south. War over. See you in the next world.”

  Rolan returned his attention to the matters at hand.

  What was causing his mind to drift away from the here and now was the fact that he had not seen Erik for days. This was not like his son. Not like him at all.

  There was a loud knock on the door. This was an unprecedented event. All in the castle knew that it was strictly forbidden to interrupt the King and his commanders when they were in session. The only sound that followed in the next few moments was that of every Man, Dwarf, and Elf in the room baring his blade. All took up positions to protect the King, who called, “Come.”

  The door swung open. It was Baird, a lieutenant of the House Guard and well known to all present. He immediately went to his knees. “My Lord, Commanders, please forgive me, but I bring you news I knew you would want to get without delay. Erik, and the entire North-Gate scout patrol, was attacked by a Troll squad, hours ago. The details are sketchy, but what we do know is the following …”

  The face of Rolan turned ashen. Still, he managed, “Please, Lieutenant. Get up. There is no reason for you to be on your knees. There is never a reason for you to be on your knees before anyone in this kingdom, including me.”

  Baird stood and continued. “My Lord, I surveyed the scene myself. The trail starts out at the tool shack by the north gardens. There were fourteen horses, which is odd because the North-Gate scout patrol, as you know, has only twelve in it. I did inquire with the stablemaster before I came here, and he tells me he saddled both of the Prince’s horses earlier this morning, and that he rode Cloud, leading Spirit behind him. He did not ask the young Prince directly why he needed the two but, from the way Erik was talking, he thought it might be to meet a girl. He is getting to the age … At any rate, the patrol made it as far as the edge of the gardens when they were intercepted by a band of Trolls. There were about twenty of them, all riding Lizardrulls. They were chased to Running Wolf Cliffs where they took flight using the underwings, and all of the Trolls went over. All were accounted for at the bottom. All were dead. We then trailed them to the Hagemore Woods. There were still fourteen of them. I am sure they were planning to use the tunnel. The trail ended in what was most surely a fight with a much larger squad of Trolls and Gnomes combined. Our lead tracker says there were seventy to seventy-five Trolls and half that again in Gnomes. These were all on foot. No Lizardrulls. There was a lot of blood. Still, he feels that the Prince survived because Cloud was one of the two horses that were led away. He could identify the hoof prints from the royal seal that is carved into the hoof, and the Trolls would never bother to let a captured plain soldier ride away, and he was clearly being ridden, most likely by someone unconscious and strapped over the saddle. We followed the trail to this side of the Silver River, where they met up with an even larger band of Trolls and Gnomes, more than one hundred strong. All of these were riding Lizardrulls, with extras for the captors of the Prince. From there they all crossed at Salmon Shallows, and they are presently headed east towards the border.”

  He stopped talking, but looked like he had more to say. Rolan noticed this and asked, “Is there anything else, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, My Lord. There are two more things I think you need to know. The first i
s, Spirit was also led away with Cloud. She, too, had someone on her, again, most likely strapped across the saddle. Someone light, lighter than the Prince. I had our two best trackers make these assessments. Perhaps the girl he went to meet by the north gardens? Second,” he paused to bite his lower lip, upon which he chewed for several seconds. Nobody spoke. It was clear there was some bad news that was going to follow which officer Baird was preparing himself to deliver. “Second, the entire scout patrol was hacked to death.” His voice broke, and he collapsed. Borok stood quickly and bolted to his side to prevent him from striking the floor. He knew, as did all the others in the room, that Lieutenant Baird’s brother had been a member of the North-Gate scout patrol. He composed himself and finished with, “Their heads were mounted on stakes. All twelve of them.”

  There was an uneasy silence. Rolan broke it by saying, “Thank you for your report, Lieutenant. Kudos on a job well done. All here are sorry for your loss. Is there anything else?”

  “No, My Lord. That is all I know. Thank you, My Lord.”

  “You are then ordered to take one week of leave and bury your brother’s remains. Was he married?”

  “No, My Lord.”

  “How much of a head start do they have on us?”

  “Too much. They will be in Slova before we could possibly catch them. The few troops we were able to muster took the quicker trail along the western border of the Slova River valley, while the Trolls slipped by them along the eastern aspect. They never saw them. I am sure they will travel straight away through Scorched Earth, where they will split into two groups. The one will acquire fresh mounts and travel from there as rapidly as possible with the … prisoners … to Ghasten, the capital city of course. They will want to present them … to Malance Venomisis as soon as possible to gain his favor, and hopefully some scrap of a reward.”

  Again there was a brief silence.

  “Very good, Lieutenant. Dismissed. Let me say again how sorry I am for your loss.”

  Baird clasped his fist over his heart, whispered, “My Lord,” and left.

  The agony he felt at the thought of his only son in the clutches of the Trolls was almost more than he could bear. In spite of this, he had a country to run.

  “Trolls on Lizardrulls within a mile of the Great Wall,” he thought. This was unthinkable. How had they managed it?

  After Lieutenant Baird left the room, Rolan took his seat at the Great Table for the first time since their meeting had started. He tapped on the armrest of his chair.

  All present shared his fright of what horrors might befall the Prince at the hands of the enemy as they waited for him to speak.

  “First things first,” he began. “How are we going to deal with the situation at The Gate?”

  It was Dorin who spoke first. “The scouts tell us that there are Trolls a thousand strong amassed on our side of the fort. What they don’t know is that we have nowhere near enough troops left there to assault them directly from the inside. Maybe they do know. By my count, we have two hundred to two hundred and twenty, barely enough, but probably sufficient, to defend it, but nowhere near enough to fight their way out. Now that the situation on the northern front is more stable, we could deploy troops to attack them directly, but our losses would be huge because they are camped in the narrows, and the only way to get at them is straight on via the road itself. They would cut us to pieces with their archers and crossbows while we were getting close enough for sword and mace. Yes, we would win, but the price would be too high and Malance Venomisis knows this.”

  “Well surely we cannot let the Troll scum sit there and starve us out,” snorted Luke. “We need to show these Trolls that they cannot even think of invading our land from the south. We need to teach them a lesson. We need a show of strength, that’s what we need.”

  “No,” thought Dorin, “What we need is a miracle …”

  Chapter 6

  “We will annihilate them to a man,” thought Malance. Mere moments before, he had gotten the news of the flanking of the troops at The Gate. He rubbed his hands together in glee as he happily chewed on the large chunk of meat that he had crammed into his mouth. It was from the thigh of one of the slain warriors in the encounter with Erik and his small company. Slovans did not bury their vanquished enemies. They ate them. It was one solution to the problem of food for the troops waging war. Simple, really, the more you killed, the more you got to eat.

  They hadn’t had the time to carry all of the corpses back home with them, speed being of the essence to outrun those pursuing them, but one of the Troll commanders had hacked off one good thighbone and strapped it to his saddle as a prize for the Emperor, anything to gain favor with his supreme commander.

  He wiped the fat that dribbled down his chin with a greasy sleeve, smacked his lips, and grunted, “Take me to him.”

  The order was given to no one in particular, but several of the Emperor’s personal attendants jumped up nervously and scrambled to assemble and lead him down to the dungeons of the fortress of Ghasten, capital city of Slova, where the Prince of Ravenwild was being kept. Lanterns and candles were hastily gathered and they proceeded out the door and into a long corridor. Nobody spoke. Nobody ever dared to speak in the presence of the Emperor. One wrong word and you could suddenly find yourself without a tongue, or worse.

  The Emperor’s breathing was labored as he moved his massive bulk slowly along. The noise of their heavy boots reverberated off the stone floor on which they marched. Trolls had no use for carpets - a waste of energy to make them, and clean them, and maintain them. A utilitarian race, they nevertheless did keep the Emperor’s quarters spotless.

  Their motivation: fear.

  At the end of the corridor they turned right and continued down another of about the same length. The air was heavy from the smell of the burning pine pitch used on the torches, nothing more than slender pieces of wood covered with the stuff at the ends. They were simply inserted into the wrought iron holders and set to flame. About midway down this second corridor it became ever so slightly darker. Two of the torches had burned out. The Emperor paused. Not a good sign.

  In a saccharine voice, he asked, “Who is in charge of maintaining the torches in the halls tonight?”

  The Troll nearest to him spoke. “That would be Sergeant Rolla, Your Excellency.” All looked deathly afraid. There was never a way to predict how the Emperor was going to act in situations such as this.

  “And where might the sergeant be right now?” he asked. Again his voice was sickly sweet.

  The Troll who had spoken first looked all around the group. This might be a disaster. “He needed to go home for a short while. His wife is with child and the delivery is not going well. He wanted to be with her during this difficult time … Your Excellency.” His voice trailed away.

  “Well, isn’t that lovely. Please have him brought to me the moment he decides to return and grace us with his presence. Meanwhile, to whom did he delegate his work responsibilities?”

  This time nobody spoke. All were too afraid.

  The Emperor cleared his throat. Again, the only Troll who had spoken answered him. “That would be Olfgar.” His voice was hushed, barely a whisper.

  The Emperor looked around. “And where might he be?”

  Again there was silence.

  Once again the only Troll with the bravado to speak answered. “Your Excellency, I believe he is with the sergeant, assisting him in his efforts at home.”

  “I see,” was the response in the same syrupy voice. “I understand. The birth of a child is such a wondrous event, isn’t it? Oh well, if one of you fellows would be so kind as to take over the sergeant’s duties in his absence, I would be ever so grateful. Now let us proceed.”

  There was a collective sigh as they started out again towards the dungeons. All knew that this episode might as well have ended with a mass execution by slow torture. All knew it still might, but perhaps the Emperor would forget. Hopefully.

  At the end of this hall th
e group again turned right, where a much shorter passage blind-ended in a set of substantial solid oak doors that were guarded by two Troll soldiers in full battle dress. They snapped to attention when they saw who was approaching. One fumbled nervously at the keys. His hand was clearly trembling as he inserted one into the lock. The tumblers clicked audibly and, without a word, the group made their way down the stairs. Darker and darker it became. It was obvious that Olfgar had completely ignored this part of the fortress. Fortunately, they had remembered the lanterns. Other than that it would have been pitch-black.

  The Troll leading them opened the doors to the dungeons. Inside, it was lighter. Apparently the lower level guards had been tending the torches.

  In front of them stretched a hallway about a hundred feet long at the end of which was a table. Three Trolls sat there. Like the ones on the level above them, they were fully armed. They were presently engaged in a board game. They too jumped to attention at once when they saw the Emperor and his entourage.

  On either side of the hall were the cells; tiny things, no more than eight feet by eight feet square, some stuffed with up to ten prisoners. The stench of filth and waste was horrible.

  The prisoners, upon seeing their visitors, began stirring, crowding towards the bars at the fronts of the cells. Fights broke out as they jockeyed for position to be able to be nearest the Emperor and beg for their release as he passed by. It was pandemonium.

  The Emperor paid the cries and begging of the inmates not the slightest heed of course, as he walked straight down the middle of the hallway, his gaze fixed upon the three Trolls at the end. Before he got there, at the last pair of cells, he stopped. He turned to the one on the right in which there were only two prisoners. By their appearance, they were the new arrivals. They looked like they had been through an ordeal, but were far too clean to have been there as long as the rest. He knew the one to be Erik Elijah Fairman, Prince of Ravenwild. As for the other, he knew not, but he would soon enough.