by Emery, Ben
At his side, the behemoth seemed to be enjoying himself. He continued his rampage as though unopposed, swatting aside all that rose against him with ease, knocking men to the ground with a single punch, but even he was becoming steadily outnumbered as he moved forward.
Beyond the Ironhand, Coran and Attais fought side by side, doing their best to defend themselves against the onslaught. Coran was knocked to the ground, scrabbling back up to his feet and swinging blindly at the men in front of him as his vision swam. Beside them, Jaxon deftly dodged and parried, countering when he could, but without the force of the behemoth he was unable to make much headway. Marrew stood over a floored and bloodied Placatas, attempting to protect both himself and the lieutenant at the same time.
From behind the Vahc mob, there came an almighty explosion, followed by cries of pain and surprise. The door to the tavern burst outward, along with a good portion of the wall. The fighting ceased. Black scorch marks scarred the stone floor, and tendrils of smoke curled into the air from smouldering furniture and burnt clothes. Several bodies lay unmoving, their breathing ragged. At the bar, Isella stood, panting, looking just as shocked as everyone else, her hands still glowing from the heat. The Vahc began to back away from her, having just seen firsthand what a Flameweaver was capable of. She walked toward the soldiers, each of them bloodied and tiring, and the patrons of the Bloody Splinter warily cleared a path for her. Marrew dragged Placatas to his feet, the lieutenant groaning and holding his head, blood seeping through his fingers.
‘Let’s go,’ Isella said quietly, and headed for the now wider doorway.
From the back of the tavern, a tankard was thrown, and connected with the Wandeer’s head. She toppled sideways, her feet giving way beneath her narrow frame. The behemoth swooped in and caught her before she could hit the ground, lifting her with ease.
‘Run!’ he bellowed at his allies, and threw himself toward the exit.
The rest of the group followed suit, Marrew half dragging Placatas to a decent pace. The Vahc roared and launched themselves forward once more, the threat of the Wandeer girl now eliminated. The soldiers poured outside into the blue night, and ran as fast as their legs would carry them downhill, toward the harbour. The hordes were on their heels, and spectators who had witnessed a fireball tear through the front of the Bloody Splinter joined the chase.
‘Vedeon!’ Galarus called, gasping for air. ‘Tuugan!’
As they neared the seafront, the figures of the two Wandeer became visible on the pier beside the Farewind idling in the shallow waters. From this distance, the General could see Tuugan moving his arms, and thought at first he was waving, but he moved too slowly. The soldiers thundered down the street, the behemoth cradling the limp form of Isella close to his body, and the Vahc mob gaining on them.
All of them watched in utter disbelief as, beyond the reaches of the stone jetty, the sea began to broil. Tuugan raised his arms higher and the churning sea rose up into a wave; enormous and unmoving, taller than every building in the harbour. Vedeon stood in front of the Farewind’s captain, his hands glowing brightly in the shadows of the night, as flames began to lick out from his palms. The soldiers slowed their run, and the Vahc stopped altogether.
‘Get on the ship,’ Tuugan commanded, glaring past them at the horde, whose attention was entirely focused on the wall of water looming precariously only hundreds of yards from them, as though the slightest movement would bring it all crashing down.
The group hurried onto the boat, gulping down deep breaths. Vedeon followed them on, and lastly Tuugan. The tidal wave sank slowly back into the sea, as though nothing had happened, and the Farewind sped away from the dock, the Vahc crowds staring after them in complete silence.
The group sat, bloody and bruised upon the deck, as Tuugan glided his ship toward Wan’Dring. Isella had been laid down, her head propped up off of the hard wood by a bundled cloak, Vedeon hovering by her side.
‘That was a brave thing you did,’ the captain said, striding up toward the General from his usual spot at the stern of the Farewind. ‘There are very few in this world that would risk their lives for a Wandeer against such odds.’
‘She saved our lives as much as we did hers,’ Galarus replied.
‘Is she alright?’ Coran asked her father tentatively, trying to stem the bleeding from his own broken nose.
Vedeon looked up at the young legionary and nodded. ‘She is resting, but she will be fine.’ He half turned back to his daughter before adding, ‘thank you.’
‘How did the Vahc even get hold of her?’ Placatas asked openly, mopping blood from the gash on the side of his head where a tankard had split the skin.
‘I do not know,’ Vedeon replied, and said nothing more on the matter.
In the silence, Galarus clapped the behemoth on his huge shoulder. After all, had it not been for the enormous warrior, they would probably all be dead. The Ironhand nodded once at the unspoken sentiment, and returned his attention to a wound in his side where one of his attackers had pulled a knife on him.
‘You alright?’ Attais asked the giant.
‘I will live,’ was the response.
Each continued to tend to their own injuries; there were numerous split lips and bruised bodies and faces, though it seemed Placatas and Coran had had the worst of it. The latter, after much persuasion, allowed Marrew to reset his broken nose; a task he was not gentle about. A crunch and a yelp of pain, and it was done.
Barely another word was spoken the rest of the way back to the island. When they did arrive, the behemoth silently scooped up Isella again, and carried her back through the village, to the astonishment of the few other Wandeer outside to witness it. No explanation was given. The acquired cargo of their visit to Pawt was left within the bowels of the Farewind without a second thought, and Tuugan returned to his own home. Exhausted and physically battered, the soldiers crashed out on the floor of Vedeon’s house, where sleep quickly overtook them.
Lieutenant Yallik Remolan, proudly of the Eighth Legion, had had many regrets in his forty-three years. The first he recalled to mind between the thundering pulses of blood in his ears was that he had not been at his father’s side when the old man had taken his last breath. The second, that forced itself into the forefront of his thoughts, was that he had not stepped forward to defend Galarus in the throne room alongside Jaxon and Placatas. He had done his best to rectify his…what had it been? Cowardice? No matter. Since the General’s arrest and escape he had protested Galarus’ innocence, extolling the man’s virtues and bravery to all that would listen. The veterans of the old Ninth were forever loyal to the General but many others chose not to hear. Now, chiefly among his regrets, great and small, the lieutenant regretted not sending his family away from the city sooner.
The pounding of the palace guards on the door of his home merged with his own furious heartbeat as the wood began to splinter and the locking bar loosen from its brackets. He tightened his grip on his sword and slid his helmet over his head. He had apologized to his wife as he kissed her, and held his sons close to him as the guards called out his name from the street below, an unfamiliar voice echoing over the sound of axes on timber. They were both still boys, the pair of them, though his eldest, also named Yallik, had wanted to fight at his father’s side. Tears began to cloud his vision and he shook them away. He had donned his Legion armour as quickly as he could in the dark, and he could feel how loose it was in places. He struck his shield once with his sword; a challenge barely heard by the men outside. The lieutenant was a confident swordsman, but he would need more luck than confidence against the dozen guards outside.
The door was battered inward and Remolan glimpsed his assassins in the flicker of the torches they held. His first thought had been of surrender, on the condition that his family be allowed to live, but it was a slight hope, and likely an agreement that would not be honoured upon his death. With a last scrape of metal and timber the door gave in, and the first of the guards was inside.
> ‘Galarus!’ Remolan bellowed, as loud as his voice would allow, as he drove himself forward. ‘Galarus! Galarus!’
To his death he charged, but worth it, he thought, for a man to whom he owed his life.
Chapter Thirteen
The soldiers awoke as Vedeon and Isella descended the stairs together.
‘Thank you,’ Isella said simply. She placed a hand on the behemoth’s arm as he stood. ‘Thank you all for what you did.’
‘My daughter has conveyed to me the full account of the events of last night. At least, as much as she could recall before being knocked out. It would seem the both of us are entirely within your debt.’
‘That isn’t necessary,’ Galarus began, but the Flameweaver shook his head.
‘It is necessary,’ he corrected. ‘The Wandeer have few friends in this world, General, and none, it would seem, that we can trust as much as you. If you agree my debt to you will be settled with my craft; I will make for each of you a set of armour, and weapons, according to any specifications you may desire.’
‘We would be honoured to receive such a gift, Vedeon,’ Galarus conceded.
The smith bowed graciously, and both he and his daughter left to prepare the forge.
The pair of them spent the entire day crafting the masterpieces for which the Wandeer was known, and, in turn, the soldiers relayed to the craftsman descriptions of their desired new equipment; the behemoth being the only one of them to steadfastly decline either replacement armour or a weapon. While their hosts worked, Galarus and his lieutenants recalled the conversation they had overheard in Epi’s tent, for the benefit of the rest of the group.
‘The village…they…destroyed…’ Attais began hesitantly.
Galarus lowered his head. ‘It is almost certainly Legio, and the veterans of the Ninth that stood up to the king.’
‘My parents were there.’ The young soldier had lost all colour from his face as his mind raced over the facts he had just heard.
‘I know, lad.’ Placatas put a heavy arm around his shoulders. ‘They were good men, the Ninth; all of them. I bet they showed those Palace shits a thing or two about battle before they fell.’
‘Its possible some of them escaped,’ Galarus added. He knew it was a futile hope but if it comforted the legionary then so be it.
Attais withdrew into himself, and said nothing more.
‘So…what do we do now?’ Coran wondered out loud.
‘We head for the Free Cities. They are Rural’s next target. But we can’t land at Auprem,’ Galarus replied, ‘it’d take too long to walk inland, and if it is under attack, it would be a bad idea anyway. We head for Crimstone, on the eastern coast, and, once there, try to convince the Cities to send men to Valgaard and halt Rural’s advance.’
‘And if they don’t send men?’ Coran countered.
‘Then we go alone,’ the General said flatly.
‘We fight the Legions and the hordes by ourselves?’
‘Have you never seen the Great Gate?’ Placatas interrupted. ‘A tiny force can hold it against even the largest of armies.’
There was silence as each considered the prospect of a handful of men trying to stand against thousands.
Galarus, as quiet as the others, inwardly admired the brilliance of Rural’s plan. The military pact that had bound the Free Cities together for centuries meant that when Maeoraph’s forces struck first, their armies would be sent south, weeks away from Valgaard, allowing the Legions to march through without facing any resistance. The General was the first to speak again.
‘I’ll inform Vedeon of the plan. He can see about providing us with transport to Crimstone.’ He rose from his seat and headed toward the forge at the rear of the Wandeer’s home, hoping that the Cities would be easily convinced to oppose the invading king, and that they would react in time to prove of use.
It was dark when Vedeon left his home for a stroll through the moonlit village. His thoughts had been plaguing him since the events that had transpired in Pawt. He cared little that he could no longer return there; the business was not as lucrative as elsewhere and he had never enjoyed the company of the Vahc. What played on his mind the most was that he had begun to understand what Terran had seen months ago. Indeed, he must have been aware of it even before that. The General was the key, he could see that now, but his concern was that no one else would; Lanoan, above all, would take the most convincing. Without the backing of the Elder, he would face exile. A price, he admitted to himself, he was willing to pay.
‘You are fond of these night-time walks, are you not, Flameweaver?’ It was Lanoan, standing outside of the pillared entrance to the Homhall, seemingly waiting for him.
‘It is the stars, Elder,’ Vedeon replied, glancing upward at the blue-black canvas, pricked with a million lights above.
Lanoan followed his gaze into the sky. ‘How is your daughter? I understand she had quite the ordeal?’
‘She is well, thank you.’ Vedeon looked back down at the Elder. ‘Due entirely to the efforts of the General and his men.’
The Elder smiled weakly, the merest hint of his incredible age showing through. ‘I was wondering how long it would be before you brought them up.’
‘You cannot deny that there is something about him. Terran gave his life for the General, and he risked his life to save my daughter. In all the years we have been here, has anyone done such a thing?’
Lanoan did not reply.
‘He must have the support of the Wandeer, Elder,’ Vedeon continued. ‘If he is to succeed, and this world spared the same fate as ours, he will need our help.’
Lanoan stared into the eyes of the smith. ‘He will not win at Valgaard, Vedeon. You know this.’
‘It is not Valgaard I speak of, Elder. But you know that.’
The Elder sighed, and began walking toward the olive groves on the slopes that surrounded the village. He motioned for Vedeon to follow him.
‘I cannot involve the Wandeer in the squabbles of mankind. These people, they breed conflict. It is not yet necessary for us to ally ourselves to one of them. If the General truly is who Terran and yourself believe him to be, he can do this part alone.’
‘When, then?’ Vedeon countered. ‘The Fog Banks are thinning, Vanneus is weakening. There is less time than we thought.’
‘There is time enough.’
They walked in silence for a little, until Vedeon spoke again. ‘I will tell him.’
‘You will be exiled,’ the Elder replied matter-of-factly.
‘I will fight alongside the General. He will need us. I will make the others see that.’
‘There is nothing I can say?’ Lanoan asked.
Vedeon shook his head. ‘Once we have passed the desert shores, I will leave with them for Crimstone.’
‘So be it, Flameweaver. I do hope you know what you are doing.’ With that, he turned away from the path and headed back toward the Homhall, leaving Vedeon alone, staring at the stars.
It took the smith and his daughter a week to make the seven sets of armour he had promised the soldiers, and a further two days to complete the weapons. Only when he had finished it all did he allow them into the forge to view his work.
‘Look at that!’ Placatas gasped, running his finger over his new breastplate. ‘I’ve never seen work like this.’
Each set of armour had been tailored to the requests of the individual. The legionaries, used to the full body protection of the standard Caldoan equipment, had asked for much the same design. A breastplate, carved to resemble the contours of a man’s body, protected the torso and shoulders, gauntlets for the forearms, a skirt of plate metal to shield the groin and thighs, and metal boots to cover the shins, with raised knee guards affixed to the top. All of this sat upon a long sleeved coat of chain mail, to be worn over the usual undergarments, which filled any gaps in the armour that a sword or spear might happen to find. The helmets were less rounded than those of the Legions, with angled tops and square jaws, with a full face guard, a
nd broad slits that allowed the wearer to see out.
Marrew had opted for much the same armour as the Caldoans, whereas the behemoth, not having asked for anything at all, was taken aback when Vedeon presented him with equipment of his own. The smith had fashioned for him a half-breastplate, which would be strapped across the left half of his chest, with descending layered plates that protected his left side, as well as a plate metal skirt and a helmet. The behemoth sincerely thanked the Wandeer, admiring the gift.
As for weapons, the legionaries, again, stuck to what they knew. Each received a new shield; the General and Placatas requesting rectangular ones, curved at the sides to offer greater protection to the defender, while Jaxon, Attais and Coran opted for circular shields, similar to those of a Caldoan swordsman. The younger lieutenant had also asked for twin swords, single-edged, though just as long as an Allorian blade. Each of the legionaries also requested a short stabbing spear, with a barbed head to inflict more damage, and most wanted a single sword like Jaxon’s. Placatas, however, preferred the weight and feel of a winged mace. Marrew had also desired a spear, though longer than that of the Caldoans’, as well as half a dozen throwing spears, which sat in a leather bag that could be worn across his back. Attais, confident after his practice sessions with the Torncloud warrior, had asked for the same.
But what struck the soldiers first about the armour, even before the obvious masterful craftsmanship, was the colour. Every item of armour and each of the weapons was jet black; from the breastplates and shields to the spearheads and sword blades, the metal was darker than the night itself.
