by Emery, Ben
After several days under the watchful eyes of Caldoa’s busy medicine men and women, Draiden was released from their care. Deemed unfit for further service in the Legions, he had decided to leave the city altogether, and head east, for the sake of exploration, he said, and to try his luck at finding work in the Free Cities. The night before his departure saw him, Attais and Coran take a rather circuitous tour of the city’s inns and taverns, talking of little and drinking much, until, with heavy eyes and heavier heads, they conceded defeat and retreated to their beds. The following morning, few words were spoken as Draiden joined a merchant convoy travelling east, gingerly waving farewell, through the midsts of a colossal hangover.
Following their granted leave, the young legionaries returned to the grueling monotony of guard duty; the highlights of which were breaking up bar fights and separating quibbling traders in the Merchant District. A fresh wave of recruits had taken up residence on the training ground to replace the losses of battle; young men, mostly, eager to prove themselves against an enemy, thirsting for the next military campaign: the expected return to the Tribal Territories.
Attais wondered if he had looked the same when he had first joined; foolish dreams of glory and victory so obvious in his eyes. The massacre at the Ridge had taught him differently, and he no longer relished the thought of combat. After all the stories his father had told him of the Incursions, not once had he considered the possibility of suffering a defeat. Barely two months had passed since he and Coran had joined the Legions, and already he felt years older, looking down at the new recruits with the wisdom of experience.
The pair had attended a ceremony dedicated to the memory of General Galarus, for which most of the city turned out to pay respects to their fallen military idol. For years he had been a symbol of Caldoan strength and bravery; the vanquisher of the Vahc invaders and protector of the people. Without a body to burn or bury, the lieutenants had staked out a plot in the cemetery reserved for legionaries, to the south of the city, alongside Galarus’ ancestors. A sword was driven into the ground, and a helmet placed upon it to serve as a marker. Many were there to observe a moment of silence, not only for the General, but for the hundreds of other vacant plots that now surrounded him. The evening after was filled with toasts to the dead, recalling fond memories and stories of heroism that lasted well into the night.
Not a fortnight later, the topic of the population’s conversations had shifted from Gamga Ridge to who would replace Galarus as General. Rumours abounded, particularly within the Military District, as to which lieutenant would receive the promotion. Placatas had seniority, and, as a veteran of the Incursions, had the support of the legionaries he had served with, but it was well known that he did not want the title; Galarus had almost had to force the position of lieutenant on him years before. Va Haedering, lieutenant of the First Legion, was another favourite, as was Renas Lindea of the Fifth, both of which were younger than Placatas and willing to take the job. There were some, however, whose skepticism of the new king’s adherence to tradition argued that Galarus’ replacement would be filled by one of Rural’s men, rather than an officer of the Legions. Such talk was openly disregarded, but more than a few allowed the idea to worm itself into the backs of their minds, which only heightened apprehension as the day of the announcement neared.
The shadow wiped blood-stained hands upon a discarded cloak. Its owner, far from requiring it now, hung from the damp rafters of his own home, legs swinging gently some feet off the ground, his belly cut open and a wet noose of intestines around his neck. There had been others with him; eight to be precise, and each lay dead on the floor about their gruesome pendulum of a leader. The shadow had expected more resistance, or at least more of a challenge given the distance travelled. It had been a painfully dull journey from the Tribal Territories, though not entirely fruitless. The target still lived, frustratingly refusing to die, and even better protected now than he had been. Yet allies had been made that would make the shadow’s master’s campaign in the west easier, assuming their incompetence in battle did not hinder them entirely.
The shadow stole a quick glance out of the grubby window set into the front of the house. Staaburd was an ugly place, full of squalid buildings, rotting timbers and a fecal stench that permeated everything, and in every respect differed little from the other Vahc settlements in the Wastes; Stronghold, Vahc capital in the centre, and Pawt, located on the Bladed Coast in the south west. The Inner Sea was barely visible, a sprawling plain of black and grey water, broken only by the muddy green bursts of spray and scum that coated the low waves. The docks were a hive of activity, and had been for weeks now, as workers and shipwrights hurried to expand the small semblance of a fleet already possessed by the Vahc. The order had come from Alarum the Bastard; self-proclaimed warlord, and son of the invader, Desturum, and there could be only one reason for it: the Vahc were going to war.
Returning attention to the lifeless bodies strewn about the floor, the shadow drew a curved blade from a belt laden with weapons, lazily running a thumb over the contours of the bone-carved handle. The room was a mess; chairs and tables had been thrown aside and overturned in an attempt to attack the mysterious intruder, blood drenched the floor, and a smile crept onto the shadow’s face at the thought. They had been so slow, and arrogant, misled by a slender frame, and they had died easily.
The first to approach had had his throat slit open before he could say a word and the second and third had been gutted before they had risen from their seats. The others fell in much the same way. The room was a mess, but the message was not clear enough. Stooping low over the nearest body, the shadow drove the knife blade into the dead man’s fat gut. Blood oozed out and a deft kick spilled stinking innards to the floor. Another kick sent the entrails slapping into the wall, where they slid slowly down the grubby wooden boards. The shadow repeated this again and again, until every corpse lay eviscerated, and the inside of the house looked like a nightmareish scene of gory decoration. That should do it.
The hanging man, a raider captain that had sought to establish himself as a challenger to the Bastard, had stopped swinging, and the shadow gave him a gentle push to get him started again. There would be no more challengers to Alarum’s authority after this. In exchange for this act of barbarism and butchery, as well as a not inconsiderable amount of gold and the promise of fresh lands to plunder, the Vahc warlord would lead his men under the banners of the shadow’s master; no price was too steep for the service of the hordes of the Wastelands.
Bloodied hands were once more wiped upon an already bloodied cloak, and the shadow exited the house of slaughter through a door in the rear of the building, which emptied into a sidestreet quieter than that of the front. North was the direction to be travelled in once more, for more work, should it be needed. And the shadow’s kind of work was always needed.
Six weeks after the defeat at Gamga Ridge, King Rural summoned the ten lieutenants of the Legions to the main hall of the White Palace. Recruits had been pouring into the city from all over Alloria, supplies stockpiled, weapons and armour mended and spares forged, and all other preparations that are necessary for war were made. An army of eight thousand would march west this time, leaving only two Legions to guard Caldoa. The only question now was as to who would lead the campaign.
The king sat upon his Marble Throne, flanked on either side by the Kingmakers, as the lieutenants filed in, forming a semi-circle around Rural, waiting for him to speak.
‘I’m sure you are all aware of why you are here,’ he began, watching them closely.
Several of the lieutenants nodded.
‘The terrible loss of General Galarus has left the Legions without a commander for long enough,’ the king continued, ‘and I thank those of you who gave me your recommendations and advice on the matter. Still, there is no need for me to make a spectacle of this; I will simply announce him. Caeda!’ he called out, and the heavy doors at the other end of the room, through which the officers had just ent
ered, were flung open, revealing a tall, athletic figure striding toward them.
‘It can’t be,’ Placatas muttered under his breath.
The others looked around at each other, bewildered that the new General had not been one among their number. Only a few seemed to recognise the name, and none of them were happy about it.
Caeda strode through the assembled officers, a proud grin smeared across his young face. He bowed to his king, and went and stood, hand resting on the pommel of his sword, on the steps before the throne, facing his new subordinates.
‘Who is that?’ Jaxon leaned into Placatas to whisper the question.
‘Gentlemen,’ Rural said, smiling somewhat at the expressions upon the faces of the lieutenants, ‘this is Caeda Boreas, son of Paeran Kingmaker, and an exemplary soldier within the Palace Guard for many years now.’
Angry murmurs began to rise up from the other officers at the nerve of the king for having passed all of them over for promotion in favour of some unqualified brat of a Kingmaker.
‘I have the utmost faith in his ability to lead the Legions to many victories over many years. And, what is more, unlike his predecessor, General Boreas will fight with the strength of the Allseer in his heart,’ Rural continued.
‘Bloody zealots,’ Placatas hissed; a similar sentiment to those felt by the men around him.
It was frequently observed by men of the Legion that the Palace Guard was little more than a religious rabble, dressed in fine armour that never saw battle, and at the beck and call of the Order. Or, now it would seem, the king. Boreas seemed no different. He looked physically fit, and young, not many years older than Jaxon, with shoulder length blonde hair combed back out of his face. He had dressed himself in the armour of an officer of the Legions, rather than the more decorative trappings of the guards, possibly in an attempt to be taken seriously by the lieutenants; a ploy that failed miserably.
Murmurings of discontent between the officers grew louder, until they were open protests. Some were angry that their years of service had been overlooked, having served much longer within Legions, and actually having seen combat. Others refused outright to be led by a soldier of the Palace.
‘Who the hell is he?’ Renas Lindea shouted.
‘Exactly!’ agreed Edean Naera, lieutenant of the Seventh legion. ‘Me and my men won’t be led into battle by some greasy Palace pup!’
‘Let him earn his promotion!’ Gell Manear of the Second argued.
‘What would Galarus say about this insult of a replacement?’ Haedering shouted, eliciting cheers of agreement from all, filling the throne room with their antipathy.
‘He’s not happy about it,’ a low voice interrupted the disputes from behind the lieutenants.
Everyone stopped talking, and stared at the newcomer. Rural practically threw himself out of his throne and onto his feet.
‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ Galarus said, cheerfully.
Chapter Seven
Tribal Territories
Five Weeks Earlier
The General awoke in a daze, completely unaware as to where he was. Disorientated, his eyes slowly began to adjust to the murky interior. His head throbbed, and his left shoulder ached. He could recall fleeting images to his mind; the battle in the canyon, the behemoth stood over him, towering pillars of stone and winds that whipped at his face. Any concept of time eluded him; he had no idea how long he had been here, let alone who had brought him to this place. He was in a small, circular room made entirely of wood and bare but for the low cot on which he lay, a chair, and the shutters that covered the windows on the opposite wall. His battered armour was laid against the wall by the door, but there was no sign of his weapons or shield.
He sat up and his head span slightly. He remained still until the world settled again. A bright doorway appeared, spilling sunlight onto the floor. An unfamiliar face peered in, spotted the General sat upright, and withdrew, closing the door behind it. Galarus could hear muttering on the other side, and footsteps on wooden planks grow fainter as someone left. He looked down at his body; he had been dressed in a clean white loincloth, definitely not an item of his own clothing. The minor wounds he had sustained during battle had been treated, and several larger ones stitched together and bandaged, all of them covered in an unpleasant smelling balm that filled his nostrils. He heard more voices outside of the door, and he scoured the dim room for anything that could be used as a weapon. There was nothing.
The door opened again, fully this time, allowing light to stream in. Galarus shielded his eyes as they became accustomed to the brightness, blinking away the spots that swam before him.
‘Ah! General! Good to see you awake at last.’ The voice was soft and oddly familiar. ‘Marr, open that window would you? Get some more light in here.’
A tall figure strode over to the far wall and flung back the wooden shutters, sunlight now flooding the small room.
‘Where am I?’ Galarus asked. ‘Who are you?’ His mouth was dry and the words rasped from his throat.
The speaker moved closer to the bed, pouring a glass of water from a large metal jug for the General as he did so.
‘I am Terran,’ he said, ‘leader of the Torncloud Tribe. We met a week ago, prior to the battle at Gamga Ridge. As for where you are, you are currently in a house on the outskirts of the forest in the shadow of Torncloud Mountain; my village,’ Terran added to clarify.
The tall, thin frame of the Wandeer remained by the General’s bedside, and beyond him, the one he had called Marr stood by the window, watching Galarus closely. At least two more waited outside the door.
‘Why am I here?’ the General asked, genuinely surprised that he had been taken alive rather than killed on the battlefield.
‘That is another matter entirely,’ Terran continued. ‘You are here, and alive, because you are a man of great importance, more so than you or anyone else realises, and there is something I must show you, and you alone.’
‘Show me what?’ Galarus asked, his head beginning to pound against his skull again.
‘The truth, my dear boy, the truth,’ Terran said happily. ‘Had I thought you would have believed me, or even heard me out, at Gamga Ridge, there would have been no need for battle.’
‘My men died just for you to tell me something?’ Galarus replied angrily.
Terran shook his head. ‘Your men died because they were meant to die. As were you. But, again, it is not the time for details. All will be explained, General, but for now you need your rest; you took quite the knock to the head. Food will be brought to you shortly, and there will be guards outside of your door, for your own safety, of course, should you need anything further. I will return tomorrow and we can talk more then.’
The Wandeer smiled comfortingly at Galarus, as though he had known him for years, before striding back toward the door, his head nearly brushing the low wooden ceiling. Marr and the others followed him, the door closing behind them, leaving Galarus alone once more.
The General considered for some time the predicament he was in; he was, for all intents and purposes, a hostage of the tribesmen he had led an army against, yet he felt that he was in very little danger under the care of Terran. The Wandeer had an odd way of making him feel at ease, almost to the point that he became uneasy just thinking about it.
He swung his legs out of bed, pushed himself to his feet and headed for the still open window. He peered out, immediately stepping backward as he did so. The ground lay at least twenty feet below his prison, and he leant outward to properly observe his surroundings. Off to his left and right lay the perimeter of the forest Terran had mentioned, and in the tops of the trees there sat wooden huts, much like the one he was in, connected by a network of suspended bridges of wood and rope, with ladders and winding staircases leading down the tree trunks. Out in front of him lay the rest of the Torncloud village, with thousands of conical tents pitched on a flat, green plain, the settlement divided down the centre by a main thoroughfare. Beyond the tents lay a modest
band of farmland, currently being tended to by indistinguishable figures, and situated on an earthy floodplain. A broad river, sparkling and dappled with light, marked the outer limits of the village, and passed that he could see nothing but desert.
Galarus returned to the bed, helping himself to the water that Terran had left behind. Escape was a plan that would definitely have to wait for the time being.
Despite the situation he was in, sleep came to him quickly, and the General was only awoken the following morning by a brisk knocking on the door. It was opened slowly, and Terran entered, alone this time.
‘Good morning, General,’ he said cheerily. ‘I trust you slept well.’
Galarus nodded.
‘Excellent,’ the Wandeer continued. ‘Would you care to take a walk with me?’
Galarus agreed; eager to escape the confines of his small hut.
‘I am happy to hear that. Here; we’ve brought you some clean clothes.’
The one called Marr entered, carrying a rough shirt and trousers, as well as a pair of animal hide boots. They were dumped unceremoniously on the foot of the bed.
‘General,’ Terran said again, ‘this is Marrew.’ He indicated the tribesman. ‘He is my bodyguard, and the best warrior the Torncloud has. If you don’t mind, he and his spear will accompany you from now on.’
Galarus felt he had little choice in the matter, so said nothing.
Marrew left the hut, returning seconds later with a large bowl of water and a washcloth, which he placed on the floor next to the bed.
‘Excellent,’ Terran repeated. ‘Get washed and dressed and I shall await you outside.’
He turned and stooped out through the low doorway, allowing Galarus the privacy he needed to wash and change.
For the duration of his tour around Torncloud, Galarus had remained silent, as Terran idly discussed the Tribe’s inhabitants and aspects of the settlement, the flooding of the river each year and so forth. Marrew followed the pair closely the entire time, also saying nothing. Much of the village the General had observed from his window in his treetop hut, though once they reached the river and looked back on the way they had come, Galarus could, for the first time, see the mountain that towered over the surrounding landscape; its snowcapped peak obscured by banks of cloud. At its base, on the eastern side, two branches of stone stretched out onto the plain, forming two protective walls to the north and south. Terran informed him that the formation was known as the Giant’s Embrace.
