by Dan Bilodeau
They’d made it all the way to the outskirts of town when a large band of Andal soldiers formed a two-deep flank in front of them. The servant was with them, and when he saw Dal his eyes bulged as if they were going to fall out of his head. The man said something to one of the Andals, and they charged.
Hadrian wove fire and sent a blast of flame toward the troops. It engulfed the first row of soldiers, but the rest kept coming. Deidre was firing her bow as fast as she could, and several Andals fell and lay still while others writhed on the ground. Dal could only stand and wait as the soldiers closed in, nothing happening as he summoned help from the stone. Curran got into a boxing stance while Pad managed to plant himself on his healthy leg while sticking his wounded leg in front. He tried to look formidable, but his face was etched in pain and he wasn’t going to fool anyone.
Dal glanced from friend to friend, and didn’t like what he was seeing. Hadrian was sending weaves at the rushing soldiers, but his magic was now weak as he was on the verge of exhaustion and beads of perspiration were streaming down his face like tears. Deidre had only four arrows left in her quiver, and several soldiers were almost on top of her. Dal’s heart pounded hard against his chest, and he screamed, “Why can’t you bastards go back where you came from and leave us alone!”
Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard a voice calling Surrender to me, surrender to me. Dal didn’t see how surrendering to anything at this point could help. All he could think of was his friends and their impending deaths--along with his own. He couldn’t take it anymore.
He ran forward, his vision turning red. “For Soren!” he yelled. The soldiers raced to meet him. Time stopped, and with a flash of red light he ascended high above the Andals. With the armor and with fire coursing within his veins, he was the embodiment of vengeance. The Andals looked up in horror and began hurling pikes and spears aloft at him.
Dal laughed. Why had he been afraid? The soldiers looked like ants to him, mere playthings. Dal wove fire and created a wall between the soldiers and his friends. Then he dived toward the Andals. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but as he sped downward, extreme heat was streaming from his sides.
He landed amidst the soldiers, sending flames in every direction. For that moment, he was death itself. Soldiers screamed as the blood in their veins boiled, while others ran to try to escape Dal’s wrath. He wove fire and sent waves of flames at them and they were incinerated, but some braver soldiers stood their ground and rushed forward with pikes in hand.
A spear went zooming past Dal’s head. He raised his hand and sent a weave into the man who’d thrown it. He imploded, his charred remains showering the ground and the men standing around him.
Dal turned to the few remaining Andals. Confident, he raised his hand to weave fire. Nothing happened! However, he willed himself to fly and ascended over the battle site, but he soon felt a searing pain in his side and began to fall. Luckily, his armor protected him as he crashed to the ground. What it hadn’t saved him from was the spear stuck in his ribs.
He looked on weakly as Hadrian wove a large boulder above the remaining soldiers. He released it and it crushed all of them but one. That soldier lost his courage, threw down his weapon, and ran. Before he made it too far, Curran was on him.
“Not so tough now, are you?” Curran said as he pinned the terrified Andal to the ground. He rained blows upon the man’s face, breaking his nose with a crack. Dal saw teeth fly as Curran continued pounding the man and ranting. “Torture my buddy, will you? You damned fools just can’t leave us alone. I’ll teach you, you bloody bastard.”
Hadrian made his way to Curran and pulled him off the Andal, just as the man’s facial muscles twitched the last of his life from him. Dal breathed a sigh of relief. They had won somehow. He gritted his teeth and pulled out the spear. A moment later his armor vanished in a crimson flash, and the world around him began spinning slowly as he staggered to his feet to survey the aftermath of the fight.
His landing had created a crater, and its singed edges smoldered. Bodies were strewn everywhere. The wind shifted and the smell of the burned flesh made him sick. He turned to his side and vomited, but a lot of what came up was blood. He was hurting bad. He closed his eyes and the pain eased up. He thought he might be dying. He was so tired, and wanted to experience one of his flying dreams. Or maybe a dream with just his mother and Soren. It would be nice to pretend that none of this had happened, and he that was back on the farm.
He took a few steps with his eyes closed and then opened them. He wished he hadn’t. Deidre was on the ground in front of him, not moving. Dal’s insides twisted, giving him even greater pain than what the spear had inflicted. He looked at her in horror. She had burn marks from her neck to her thighs. Dal pleaded, “Please, Dio, not this too.” A voice whispered What do you mean Dalziel, you did this yourself. The last thing he saw was Hadrian rushing in his direction as he slammed his head into the ground again and again until he passed out.
THIRTEEN
In the town of Quork, there was nothing but death. Andal death. Mulbar walked around shaking his head. How could one Druid do all this? He bent down next to the rim of a crater and traced his hand along the very edge of it. Still warm, it would take a Druid with unimaginable power to do this. One Druid had destroyed ten Andal soldiers earlier at the farm, but that was nothing like what had happened here. Almost an entire company of Andal troops had been obliterated in mere minutes. No single Druid could have done this by himself. He coughed, the unmistakable stench of charred flesh still ripe in the air.
Something else didn’t seem right, but Mulbar couldn’t put his finger on it. The crater had been caused by impact. That meant, from his experience, that something large had fallen from the sky. Or a smaller object moving at a blinding speed. This crater, however, had been the result of the magical use of fire. That much was clear to him. But every time he had seen the Druids use fire, they had never left behind anything like this. Plus, Druids couldn’t fly. At least he hoped not. Yet who knows what powers the dark magic gave to these heathens. If they could fly…no, he refused to complete that thought. This “Fire Angel” he’d heard about was the result of chaos, not reality.
Mulbar focused on the good news. However powerful this Druid was, his wings had apparently been clipped. A good deal of blood had been located away from all the dead Andals. He hoped that it meant the Druid was dead, but he doubted that he’d be that lucky. He spotted indications the Druid had gone to the north, and Mulbar blessed Jethru for his gift as a tracker. He had a clear trail to them now.
He thought of the Druid as "them" because he had made up his mind that no one man could do all this, however powerful. He would follow the tracks with his remaining men and ride the rebels down. That is, once the rebels revealed where their companions were hiding. The scum looked to be heading to the woods, to then remain deep inside them, no doubt. He cringed. He hated the thought of going into the forest. But he had no choice. Lord Wulf would be furious about what had taken place, and only this Druid’s head on a spike would please him--nothing less.
The man worshiped results more than anything. He was a great man, but too much of a thinker for Mulbar. Action was the only way to please Jethru. Decisive action. Lord Wulf was a schemer, and Jethru had created schemers to help men like Mulbar. Everything had its place--and its time.
He stopped to ponder. Would more of this powerful Druid’s brethren be gathering with him? They couldn’t have arrived yet. A group of Druids traveling this far south would surely be noticed. A prideful bunch, they didn’t hide themselves well. They also somehow shone like the sun. Mulbar wouldn’t believe such tales, except that he had seen it for himself. He had witnessed the light leave a Druid’s body when he had pulled his sword from it. Mulbar spit. They still bled and died like any other man.
The market was a shell of its normal business atmosphere. Most Ibernians wanted nothing to do with the recent events, and only a few bold vendors and locals desperate for food remaine
d in the area. Mulbar hoped that at least one of these vendors was selling out, in a manner of speaking.
He strode toward the town hall. The sparse townsfolk in the market cringed as he went by. As well they should. Most of the vendor windows were closed, and those that remained open had the scent of fear coming from inside. Or so Mulbar imagined.
He approached the granite steps of the town hall and came to a farmer his men had been trying to beat information out of for quite a while. Both this old man’s eyes were swollen shut and most of his teeth knocked out. All Mulbar cared about was that he could still speak. The man spit out a glob of blood. He was skinny but muscular for his age, and his own blood was matted in his already red beard.
“I don’t know nothing. An’ if I did, I wouldn’t tell you lot,” he growled, more blood flying from his mouth. Brave, but stupid. Farmers usually weren’t the former, but this one had some spirit left. Good. Mulbar enjoyed a challenge.
Mulbar motioned for the two soldiers who were guarding him to step back. He drew his knife and smiled. This would be fun. “Let’s try a new tactic,” he said as he grabbed and cut off the small finger on the farmer’s left hand. The man howled in pain. “Now, where are they headed?” he asked.
“Up your arse, you bloody Andal. I spent the night with your mother, you ugly sod. Dal didn’t tell me nothin.”
So. One of their company was named Dal. That might prove useful.
“This can be as painful as you want to make it, sheepherder.” Mulbar swiped quickly with his blade, and a red gash appeared on the man’s cheek. “Who is this Dal? And where can I find him?”
“You killed that poor boy’s brother. Where I come from, we call this justice. You got what was comin’ to ya, and there’s more where that come from. We’re done takin’ crap from you lot.”
Mulbar grew red. This farmer was going to be a tough nut to crack. He backhanded him with a gauntleted fist. What few teeth he had left exploded from his mouth, and he involuntarily spit blood on Mulbar’s coat. He hit the farmer again, laughing. Mulbar forgot how much he missed the power over a man’s life.
“Some of my men saw you helping a girl with a bow. She killed some of our troops. That makes you an accomplice. What is her name?”
“O‘ly name 'ou’ll get from me is mine, ya sod. It’s Slaig.”
The farmer bowed his head, as if in prayer. Mulbar was certain this Slaig was defeated. Not as tough as he thought he was. Then Slaig lifted his head and grinned at Mulbar.
Mulbar saw red. He stabbed the man in the stomach, and began dragging his blade along his belly, cutting deeply. “Let’s see you laugh now.” Mulbar sneered. “If I’m so damned funny, let’s see how you enjoy this joke.” The farmer gurgled and died. The soldiers looked on impassively. They had seen worse from Mulbar.
Mulbar caught his breath and stared at his work. He cursed. He had let the man rile him. He had lost control. No matter. Mulbar had a name, and knew that there were at least three in this party of rebels: a Druid, a boy named Dal, and a girl, all headed north. Today was not such a bad day after all.
“We’re going hunting,” he said to the soldiers standing around him. “Let’s get some horses.” And as the men walked away, leaving Slaig’s body where it lay, Mulbar yelled out so that everyone still in the square could hear him loud and clear, “I killed your friend, Dal, wherever you are. He died laughing. Let’s see if I can’t give you the same reason to smile as well.” Mulbar chortled. Not a bad day at all.
Later that day, Wulf crushed a glass in his hand. How had it come to this? How could so many of my soldiers be killed? If the story was correct, they were done in by a couple of teenagers and a Druid. One Druid! This will look horrible in my report. Enraged, Wulf slammed his desk. This didn’t happen, not to him.
The leader of the Weepers stood calmly in front of Wulf. Weepers obeyed the Emperor and answered only to him. Wulf envied such devotion. One day he would have his own Weepers to control, just not today. Wulf took a deep breath and centered himself. Control, it was all about control.
“Go over it one more time. How many were there?” Wulf asked the Weeper, who had been coordinating all the reports from the soldiers and couriers that had been pouring in from Quork anytime something new was learned about the massacre of the soldiers.
“Lord Wulf, everything tells us it is a Druid and a boy, the one called Dal from the market,” he replied in a monotone, “and the farm girl known as Deidre. Mulbar is on their trail but has lost them. They went north, then east, then doubled back west. Mulbar is requesting more troops and insists he can find them quickly and destroy them if he has a few more patrols. Lord Wulf, perhaps a dozen Weepers would be all that’s necessary.”
“I don’t want Mulbar destroying them,” Wulf said. “If they travel north, they might well lead us to the Brotherhood of Druids, as they call themselves. Then we’d have them in one place and be done with this once and for all. If you must know, this is why I haven’t asked the Emperor for permission to use more Weepers yet. I want you at full force if we come upon this Brotherhood.”
“Very well. But my men are eager for battle.”
“If they attack a Druid stronghold, they’ll get one. For now, send Mulbar 30 more regular mounted cavalry, which by my count is about all we have available right now. If things continue as they have begun, we might actually have to use Ibernian conscripts as soldiers.” He let out a sinister laugh. “I will send a letter to the Emperor, asking him to deploy all 100 Weepers once my men determine the location of the Druid headquarters. If that’s okay with you?”
“Yes, Lord Wulf.” Wulf couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a flicker of irritation on the Weeper’s face. Whether it was due to Wulf’s intentionally condescending tone or the Weeper’s being forced to operate in conjunction with regular Andal soldiers, Wulf didn’t know. But he didn’t care, either. What Wulf didn’t tell the Weeper was that he would send a full brigade of his troops to his northern barracks and keep them there in case Mulbar found the Druid lair. If he could take down the Druids by himself, he was certain he could convince the Emperor to place the Weepers under his command. And with the entire army under his control, it would be easy for him to overthrow the current regime and become the new ruler of Andlar.
The Weeper saluted, turned sharply, and exited Wulf’s office in one smooth motion. Wulf couldn’t help but admire their efficiency and devotion. What he wouldn’t give for five hundred Weepers under his command. He could rule the world.
The Weeper’s main force was currently busy in Wendlar, crushing rebels. Located to the south of Andlar, Wendlar had been conquered twenty years ago. A peaceful people, the Wendles had offered little initial resistance to the Andal forces. But pockets of resistance had sprung up in the past few years. Young Wendlar men, born after the country was invaded two decades earlier, were targeting Andal caravans, striking them fast, and then melding into the countryside. They had been effective, but what these rebels hadn’t counted on was the resiliency of the Weepers. The Weepers would never stop hunting them down as long as the Emperor commanded it.
There had been a time when Weepers had actually fought against the Andal Empire.This had occurred some three hundred years earlier, shortly after the current Emperor came into power. Weepers hailed from a backwater province in the now defunct country of Angolia, and Andals first encountered these fierce men on the Emperor’s Eastern Campaign.
During the Battle of the Yellow River, the Angol army was annihilated, save for their legendary cavalry unit. Known for their skill on horseback with the sword, lance, and bow, these warriors were the only Angol military to survive the slaughter that day. The Emperor was so impressed with their prowess that he offered them a place in his army.
To a man, they refused. The Emperor responded by massacring the Angolian civilian population until only a small cohort remained. The firstborn of each family was killed, and their lands were salted so that crops could never again grow on that ground. The riders finally co
nsented after the horrible sorrow of seeing their people and homeland destroyed. Legend said, as they rode away from the carnage to come under the Emperor’s dominion forever, their leader Urmstrang shed a single tear, hence the name for their unit. Now it was the opposition who did the weeping, with the rarest of exceptions.
But as Wulf stared at the shattered glass on his floor, he considered that perhaps his soldiers and even Weepers wouldn’t be the answer to combat a large band of organized Druids. He had another ace up his sleeve. He admired the gleaming suit of armor as he took it out of his office closet. It seemed that the time might be at hand to fight fire with fire. At least hypothetically. If the “Fire Angel” story was to be believed, the only edge the Ibernians had was about to be taken away. Soon Andals would be the masters of the old powerful magic and incorporate it into their military.
After all, reconstituting things for their own purposes was what Andals did best. Wulf had risen to the top of the Andal ranks by seizing opportunities presented to him that others had ignored. Now it was possible that the Weepers were no longer the Emperor’s greatest weapon. Wulf gazed at the armor. He ran his hand over the gleaming helmet. The suit was a marvel of Andlar technology. He’d tried it out and was elated with the results. Several trees and a few Ibernian citizens were now mute testimony to why he was so pleased.
Wulf wrote several letters, one of which was addressed to the Emperor. He called in a young courier who had just come on his staff. “Deliver this to Lothar in Dunkirk as fast you can. Take whatever provisions you need, but leave at once.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the boy said as he gathered in the parchment, fumbling it in obvious fear of being in Wulf’s presence. Wulf chuckled to himself. The lad would probably ride his horse to death on the way to Dunkirk and have to run the rest of the way on foot. All for the better. When the boy left, Wulf called in four other couriers, all seasoned men whom he trusted thoroughly. More important, they were competent.
