How are they moving the cannons up so quickly?
Sitrell’s country used lighter alloys and rubber encased wheels to move their cannons faster across the battlefield. The intelligence Sitrell’s father brought with him suggested that their enemy was ten years behind in cannon design. How had they made such a sudden technological leap? Did Amigus have a traitor placed among the leading ranks of the army? Sitrell couldn’t believe that; the enmity between the Amigus and Aukasian nations ran too deep for such collusion to be a serious possibility.
The first squad of cavalry reached the bridge, but his father wasn’t with them. Creator, send that he hasn’t fallen, Sitrell prayed silently. As soon as the first squadron was across the bridge, he found their captain.
“Where is the general?” he demanded, but the soldier didn’t know.
Sitrell went back to staring across the river. Four more squadrons crossed, and there was still no sign of his father. His heart beat faster and his praying intensified, I know you’re here, Kyen. Protect him, please. Mother nearly broke when we lost you, and she will break for certain if we lose father! He left out that Kyen’s death had broken him too, and that it was only by his father’s persistant ministrations that he’d been put back together.
Finally, the last squadron rode their horses onto the bridge. Sitrell’s stomach twisted and his mouth dried when he realized that their number was half of what it originally had been. This time Sitrell couldn’t restrain himself. He leapt onto his horse and galloped onto the bridge, determined to press his way through the retreating cavalry and ride back across the river. That’s when he saw his father riding his white stallion at the rear of the squadron.
The relief in his chest unleashed a shout from deep within his throat. “Father!” Praise the Creator, and thank you Kyen!
Enot Trauel spotted him and slashed the empty air in front of him with his elegant sword. “BACK!” he commanded.
Sitrell dutifully obeyed, but stayed on his horse near the front of the bridge as the last squadron poured onto the riverbank. “Tribere, status!” he shouted over his shoulder to the engineer.
The man was uncoiling a long spool of copper wire as he hurriedly backed away from the bridge. Fifty feet away, one of Tribere’s assistants held a black box topped with a T-shaped plunger. As soon as Tribere reached his assistant, the two would connect the box to the copper wire, and they would be ready to blow the bridge.
“Two minutes, Commander!” Tribere shouted back.
Sitrell nodded to himself and was about to reprimand the man for not being quicker when he heard a loud whistling sound. He looked back over the river and saw a shell falling out of the sky―toward the bridge.
“FATHER!” Sitrell screamed.
Enot Trauel didn’t glance up, but Sitrell knew he must’ve heard the incoming mortar, for his father furiously spurred his already galloping mount, impelling it to even greater speed. The shell crashed into the center of the bridge, directly in front of his father. Sitrell braced himself for an explosion, but none came; the round, black ball rolled to its side in the small depression it made.
Providence.
“Thank you, Kyen,” he whispered before casting a glance back at Tribere and shouting, “On my command!” Whether the man responded, Sitrell couldn’t hear, not over the pounding of the blood in his ears, but he knew Tribere would be ready.
Enot Trauel’s horse leapt over the cannon ball, its hooves sliding to the side as it landed on the wet stone. Increasingly stronger waves of relief washed over Sitrell in time with the approaching gallops of his father’s horse.
The mortar exploded.
Sitrell saw everything as if time slowed. The cannon ball erupted in a flash of fire and smoke, sending chunks of the bridge into the air. A heartbeat later, the dynamite stuffed into holes drilled into the stone all along the bridge reacted. A blast of heat assaulted Sitrell along with sharp bits of stone. One grazed his cheek, the pain bringing him back into real time. Rapid, overlapping explosions tore through the bridge, sending up smoke and debris so thick that Sitrell was blinded. When the dynamite under the bridge’s first foot went off, Sitrell was thrown from his horse.
Sound faded to a distant thing, and Sitrell fought to stay conscious. He’d hit his head hard, and the concussion muddled his thinking. Thought became slippery, and for a moment he wondered where he was. Then, as if in deliberate metaphorical timing, Sitrell’s wits returned in tandem with the clearing smoke.
“Father!” he shouted as he scrambled up. Why was it so difficult to stand?
Sound returned and Sitrell froze as he caught sight of the bridge, or rather the absence of it. Only leaning stone arches peeked out from under the broken ice of the river’s surface. Nothing of the actual bridge, not even the abutments, remained.
Hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him away from the river as another shell fell somewhere nearby. He was numb. He couldn’t think. Sitrell closed his eyes and let himself be carried away, the pain in his head and leg was nothing to him. Blood ran into his right eye, but even that didn’t bother him. There would be no pain if he could just stay like this–numb.
Yaokken was renowned in his country for his brilliance, and so it was no surprise when a rich man brought to him a collection of artifacts for identification, among which was a most curious thing—a black metal crown set with a large red jewel.
Chapter 2
The Broken Soldier
Three Months Later
Early spring wind-chill bit at Sitrell’s face as he rode his black stallion at a near-gallop. He had wrapped a scarf around his nose and mouth, but portions of his face―the bridge of his nose, eyes, and forehead―remained unprotected and would be severely chapped by the time he reached his destination. He rode at the head of three hundred cavalry, an advance force of the fifteen hundred infantrymen that were following from several miles back. Their destination: Lisidra, a frontier mining town on the outskirts of the kingdom of Amigus.
Snuggled against a majestic backdrop of snow-frosted mountains called Tuchian―a name that meant “the stone sentinels”―Lisidra was situated just outside a narrow mountain pass. It was walled by thick granite hewn from Tuchian, the only means of entrance to the town being an east and west gate. In the center of Lisidra, a four-story citadel loomed over a mass of simple wood cottages capped by gable roofs.
The town with its comparatively small population of ten thousand would have dwindled and been abandoned long ago like most Amigus mining towns, save for two reasons: the near inexhaustible source of ore found in the mountains and that on the other side of Tuchian was the border of Amigus’ enemy nation, the Aukasian Empire. Consequently, Lisidra doubled as a watchpost charged with raising the alarm in the event of attack.
Sitrell scoffed at that fact. Perhaps fifteen years ago the town would’ve been a strategic necessity, but since the building of a massive metal gate to seal the only pass through Tuchian, there was virtually no chance the enemy would strike here. His regiment, mostly made up of the army’s incompetent and disobedient dross, were being swept under the rug in a way that let everyone pretend they were doing something to help the war effort.
Sitrell felt bile rise in his throat. He was not like the skivers General Ostek had given him. He didn’t deserve to share in their disgrace. He was a dedicated and capable soldier, one of the army’s elite. At twenty-three, he was one of the youngest men in decades to hold the rank of Commander, had been one of the academy’s top graduates, and was as skilled with a blade as his famous father had been. Father. An exploding bridge flashed in his mind’s eye, but he quickly suppressed the unwanted memory.
Numb, stay numb.
Enot Trauel had been gone for three months now, killed in “glorious” battle with the enemy. Sitrell suspected the decision to send him to this far flung corner of the kingdom had been made because of that. That’s the real reason he’d been given command over a host of problem-soldiers, that’s why he’d been charged with defending a strategically worthless targ
et. That’s why he would be exiled and forgotten until the end of the war.
They think I want revenge, Sitrell ground his teeth. They think that contact with the enemy will interfere with my judgment. Vengeance had been a temptation at first, but truth be told, Sitrell really didn’t care to strike back at his enemy, not so much that he would endanger his men―however worthless they might be. No, Sitrell, like his father, was a member of the church of the Istra, a word from the old tongue that meant believers.
Adherents of the Istran religion expressed their devotion to the Creator by obedience to a strict moral code that prescribed frequent attendance of priest-hosted worship services and proscribed a litany of behaviors classed as sins, among which was the seeking of revenge. Even though he didn’t believe in a Creator anymore―that part of him died with his father―the years of religious observance still shaped his thinking. So no, he wouldn’t seek revenge. He didn’t care about it anyway. He wasn’t sure if he cared about anything anymore.
Two more hours of riding brought Sitrell’s cavalry to Lisidra’s west gate. He chuckled as the passing storm of three hundred sets of pounding hooves woke a watchtower guard. A small group of men armed with sabers, muskets, and flintlock pistols awaited them just outside the walls’ grated iron gate. They were a pathetic looking lot, dressed in drab civilian work clothes, the only sign of their uniformity being a blue and silver sash worn by each of the men. In stark contrast, the soldiers of Sitrell’s army wore short-tailed navy coats with silver cufflinks and matching colored buttons that fastened across their chests. Their trousers were the same color with silver trim, and their thick black boots extended to just below their knees.
A bearded Lisidrian guard of middle age, their captain as indicated by the stylized eagle embossed on the medallion pinning his sash, approached the cavalry. “Commander Trauel.” He bobbed a respectful bow to Sitrell. “My name is Ian Illusia. I am the captain of the Lisidrian guard.”
Sitrell unwrapped his face and drew down the hood of his cloak. He saw the surprise in Captain Illusia’s eyes at seeing his beardless youthful face; it was something he had become accustomed to on account of his high rank at such a young age.
“Welcome to Lisidra, Com―”
“Where is the governor?”
Illusia hesitated before replying, “His Excellency regrets that he wasn’t able to greet you personally, but he had urgent business that required his immediate attention.”
“And what could be so urgent that his Excellency would be so blatantly impolite?”
Illusia glanced nervously at his companions. “I am afraid I don’t know, Commander.”
Sitrell didn’t reply, letting his disapproving frown tell Illusia what he thought of the man’s ignorance.
Illusia whirled to the rest of the Amigus cavalry. “With your permission, I’ll have my deputies show your men where they may stable their horses. I’ve also been ordered to send a contingent of the Lisidrian guard to meet the rest of your army and escort them to a place outside the walls where they can set up camp.”
Sitrell stared at Illusia just long enough to make the man squirm before he turned to address his men. “After you tend to your horses, take two hours’ rest. Then rejoin the rest of the men and start setting up base camp.” After several assenting salutes, the Amigus cavalry began to dismount and the Lisidrian guards moved to aid the travel-worn soldiers in unburdening their horses.
Sitrell turned again to scowl down at Illusia. “Where can I find the governor?”
“The citadel,” Illusia blurted. “Attending a meeting, and he won’t be available for a few hours. He’s prepared a guest chamber for you and instructed that I take you there so that you may rest while you wait for him.”
Sitrell shook his head. “I will see him now.” With that, he spurred his horse, forcing Illusia to leap aside as he rode through the arched gate and into the town.
Life came to a halt as Sitrell trotted his stallion down the dirt streets. Children who were moments before happily playing fell silent, women spoke to one another in excited whispers, and the men suspiciously stared. He chuckled to himself as he thought about the countless rumors the arrival of his army would spawn, rumors that would no doubt be far more interesting than the real reason they’d come.
Sitrell casually rode his horse at a canter until reaching the citadel at the heart of town. He reined in, dismounted, and relinquished the bridle to a waiting servant who murmured a salutation before leading the beast away. Sitrell looked up to the stone building’s fourth story and the several blue and white flags draped above a row of narrow windows. After absorbing the sight, Sitrell smoothed the front of his coat, peeled off his black leather riding gloves, and strode up the wide stone steps that led to the building’s double door entrance. He was in a foul mood and eager to take it out on someone.
The governor would do.
Governor Hacik Leadren knew that he was not a good-looking man. He was short, fat, balding, and well into his mid-life years. However, he had learned long ago that one did not need good looks, youth, or charming wits to seduce a woman. Those helped, but even an ugly man could bed any woman he wanted with the right mixture of money, compliments, and copious amounts of alcohol.
He smiled as he amorously whispered to the blonde sitting next to him, almost in his lap. She was a shapely young thing, a little chubbier than he usually preferred, but she made up for that with creamy skin and a fabulously large bosom. The woman, the wife of one of his political allies, responded to his scandalous suggestion by playfully hitting him as she pretended to be shocked. He reacted by donning a mask of mock innocence while pouring her another glass of wine which, with his encouragement, she drank freely.
A scuffle from outside Leadren’s dining chamber silenced the blonde’s flirtatious laughter. He turned just as the chamber’s red double-doors banged open and a young Amigus soldier, with shoulder length brown hair and a beardless chin, stride boldly into the room, a flustered porter at his heels.
“Your Excellency,” the porter bowed, “I beg your pardon. He strong-armed his way past me.”
Leadren suppressed his rising anger and forced the appearance of an understanding smile. “It is alright.”
Relieved, the porter bobbed an acknowledgement before scurrying out of the room and closing the doors behind him. Leadren stood and bowed his head. “Welcome, Commander Trauel.”
Commander Trauel eyed the woman sitting at Leadren’s right. “Governor Leadren, I was instructed to meet with you promptly upon my arrival.”
The blonde shot him a questioning glance to which Leadren flashed an apologetic smile. “My dear, I’m afraid you must go. I have important business with the commander.”
The woman hesitantly rose before tottering toward the double-doors, shooting Trauel an indignant glare and hiccupping as she exited the chamber.
Leadren apologetically spread his hands. “She’s my wife’s niece and it was her birth―”
“I am here at the order of Alderman Kaiden Ekale himself!” Trauel snapped, “I have been assigned here to establish a military presence intended to last the duration of the war.”
Leadren fell silent, quietly appraising the young soldier before sitting with a nod. “I am ready to fully cooperate, Commander Trauel. Understand that I feel it a comfort to have your army present in Lisidra, in fact it was I that requested it. As you know, these are troubled times.” He slid his lost conquest’s chair to an appropriate distance and motioned to it. “Please sit, Commander.”
Trauel nodded and then took the chair, sliding it another foot away from him before sitting. Leadren motioned at a sumptuous array of dishes on the table before them. “Care for something to eat?”
Trauel shook his head, “I am not hungry.”
“Then won’t you take some drink?” Leadren made to grab the half empty bottle of wine he’d been using as an aphrodisiac.
“I don’t drink,” Trauel responded.
Leadren nodded, doing his best to look
understanding. He had known that the boy’s father, General Enot Trauel, had been an infamously pious man and should have guessed that Trauel would also be an adherent to the religion of the Istra. Perhaps he could use that.
“Just like your father.”
“You knew him?” The boy’s guard seeming to drop for a moment.
Good, Leadren thought as he stole a sip of wine from a goblet. The boy is still grieving, still vulnerable. “Not well, I’m afraid. I attended court and some social gatherings with him on occasion, but we were never more than acquaintances. However, even those few times I was in his company I observed that he was a faithful Istran, always abstaining from strong drink.” Leadren put on what he hoped was a sympathetic look. “I admired your father’s nobility and was truly grieved to hear of his passing.” Trauel frowned at that.
Perhaps that last bit had been too much.
“I’ve been ordered to receive a briefing from you on the state of affairs in Lisidra,” he said, walls going back up. “Now I am very tired and want to take some rest, so why don’t we dispense with the pleasantries and get this over with?”
“Very well,” Leadren made a show of thoughtfully inhaling as if working to remember something. “There’s been no contact with the enemy to report, and not much has changed since my last meeting with the Alderman. I trust you’ve looked over the transcript of our interview?”
Trauel nodded.
“However, I do have one concern of which I wish to make you aware.”
“And what’s that?” Trauel asked, not even doing Leadren the courtesy of hiding the impatience in his tone.
“Six days ago, the captain of the Lisidrian guard reported that a rockslide had impacted the gate to the mountain pass. After a superficial inspection, he believed the gate might be damaged.”
“Damaged?” Trauel asked sounding surprised. “Those would have had to have been large boulders to harm the Sentinel Gate.”
Heroes of the Crystal Star (Valcoria Book 1) Page 2
