The Shadow King

by Alec Hutson

  She was having trouble putting her finger on the source of this unease. The Skein did not greatly outnumber the Dymorians – the chaos of the barbarian encampment made it difficult to get an accurate count of the host, but she would have guessed that the two armies were of roughly equal size. She saw no siege weapons like those used in the Gilded Cities, no ballistae or catapults that might weaken the Dymorian position from afar, and she was certain that the bows of the Skein paled in strength to the famed ebonwood bows of the Crimson Queen’s archers. By every tenet of modern warfare, the coming battle should be a massacre – and yet she could not shake her nagging sense that the barbarians were not at as great a disadvantage as they appeared.

  “Can you see the different tribes?” Telion asked, shielding his gaze from the red dawn as he studied the Skein.

  Willa squinted at the enemy camp. Damn her eyes; from this distance it looked like a kicked-over anthill, the barbarians scurrying about as they attended to their morning duties. “They all appear equally primitive to me.”

  Telion gestured at the left flank of the Skein horde. “Each of the tribes has their own standard. I was talking to a few soldiers last night, and they told me the Skein across from us are the Stag, Crow, and White Worm. See that one there?”

  Willa looked to where he was pointing. Rising above the chaos was a tattered black banner, snapping in the wind. “Yes.”

  “And there,” Telion continued, indicating a flap of what looked like red-brown hide topped with several great pairs of tines. “Each of the Skein clans takes an animal as their symbol. They would be the Stag, I assume. The first must be the Crow.”

  “Can you see what’s on the last?” Willa asked, peering at the third and final standard. “Is that a skull?”

  “Wyvern, I would say,” Telion agreed. It perched on top of a long pole, long strips of fabric or leather dangling from its lower jaw. “In the north, ‘worm’ is an old name for dragons and wyverns.” Telion cleared his throat and spat. “They must be the Skein of the White Worm. They’re from much farther north. A harsher people, is what I heard. They worship crueler gods than their southern cousins.”

  “And the thane of this tribe is the new king.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Hm,” Willa murmured, drumming her fingers on the ebony sphere atop her cane.

  Telion glanced at her when he heard the clack of her rings striking the stone. “Something is bothering you.” It was a statement, not a question – Telion knew her too well.

  Willa frowned. “I’m worried, but as you know, I’ve always been a worrier. I probably wouldn’t have lasted this long if I wasn’t. I trust my instincts . . . and right now, they are telling me that we are not ready for this fight.”

  “The Dymorians know what they’re doing,” Telion assured her, though his confidence sounded slightly forced. “I’ve been down in the camp wandering about.”

  Drinking and dicing, Willa thought, but she kept this to herself.

  “These soldiers are professionals. Not like the armies of the Cities, commanded by the fourth sons of archons and dukes. They know how to fight and how to win wars. The queen is clever, and then there’s this lot,” he waved his hand, indicating the magisters on the ridge, “who everyone seems to think they’ll end up being the dragon on the tzalik board.”

  Just at that moment, a spindly magister with tonsured hair tripped over his own feet and went sprawling. Most of the cup of wine he had been carrying ended up on the robes of other magisters, eliciting angry cries.

  Telion raised his eyebrows at this, shaking his head. “Let’s pray to the Silver Lady they’re a bit more impressive when it comes to throwing lightning bolts.”

  “Do you think the battle will be today?” Willa asked, returning her attention to the armies on the snowy plain.

  “The battle will start very soon,” Telion rumbled. “Too much activity on the Skein side. They’re getting ready.”

  Willa’s heart skipped a beat at this. “Should we tell the magisters to prepare themselves?”

  “That Lyrish thief will get them in line when the time comes,” Telion said, then spat again. “I hope.”

  Telion’s assessment proved correct. The Skein spent the early part of the morning girding themselves for war; sunlight glittered on countless spears and axes as the barbarians took up their weapons and arrayed themselves across from the waiting Dymorians. They seemed to have little discipline to their ranks, with most of the warriors milling about in no formation, but at the very least the army had been separated into three prongs, each with one of the clan standards at its front.

  Four mounted Skein trotted forward towards the Dymorian line. As they neared, Willa could see that one of them wore a helm that sprouted a huge set of antlers, while another wore a headdress of midnight-black feathers and carried a longbow of pale white wood. The thanes of the Stag and Crow, she assumed. The other two riders were much less impressive: one was a thin young man in ragged black robes, while the other was dark haired, clad in gray leather armor and a cloak of many different-colored patches. The new king, Willa thought, though he did not dress like one.

  “Do they wish to parley?” Willa asked. Beside her, Telion shrugged.

  The Skein king had wheeled his horse around so that he faced the massed ranks of his countrymen. He seemed to be exhorting them, punctuating whatever he was yelling by thrusting his fist into the air. Then he reached back to something tied to his horse’s barding and raised it into the air: it looked to Willa like a man’s head, but its face shone red and wet, as if the skin had been cut away. The king brandished the grisly trophy by its hair, shaking it in front of the other Skein, and they bellowed back their support and raised their weapons in unison. With a mighty heave, the king sent the head flying towards the Dymorian lines, but before it landed, the thane of the Crow nocked his bow and fired. The arrow pierced the head, sending a spray of gore across the snow.

  “It appears he does not wish to parley,” Telion said flatly. His hand had drifted to one of the silver hilts protruding over his shoulder, as if he wanted to draw his sword.

  Willa expected that this performance by the Skein king and his thanes would end with the barbarians surging across the snowy plain, but instead an eerie calm settled over the battlefield, as if both sides were holding their breath in anticipation of something that had yet to arrive.

  “What are those?” Telion asked, and a moment later she saw what had drawn his eye.

  A half-dozen great sleds were slowly being hauled through the massed Skein, pulled by shaggy oxen with long curving horns. The sleds carried something box-shaped, but the true nature of the objects were hidden beneath black tarps. These had been nailed down so that nothing of what they covered could be seen.

  Willa’s uneasiness deepened. The magisters on the ridge with her and Telion muttered and shifted.

  “Should we strike at those things?” someone asked, but Vhelan shook his head vigorously.

  “The queen said to wait until the battle is joined. She doesn’t want us to give away that we are here.”

  “What’s under there?” Telion murmured. “Weapons?”

  “Animals,” Willa replied, and when she said this, she knew it to be true. It was not a box the black tarp covered, but a cage. For the same reason a falconer kept his bird hooded, the darkness would keep whatever was inside calm.

  Until it was time to hunt.

  “Animals?” Telion repeated dubiously. “What beast could trouble an entire Dymorian legion?”

  The sleds had stopped well in front of the Skein lines, farther even than where the king and his thanes lingered, but still beyond the reach of the Dymorian archers. Handlers unhooked the oxen and led them plodding away, while other Skein swung axes at the taut ropes lashing the tarps to the sleds. The black cloth fell away, revealing huge cages with bars of iron as thick around as a man’s w
aist. Inside each of these prisons was curled something strange, creatures unlike anything Willa had seen before. They resembled white-scaled snakes at first, with the way they were coiled, but then she noticed the many small, stunted legs running the length of their looped bodies. One of the serpents raised its wedge-shaped head, its slitted orange eyes blinking like it had just been awoken from a very long sleep, and opened its mouth wide to reveal rows of curving fangs. The screech it made was like a raptor’s cry, but many times louder, and Willa winced as some primal fear shivered through her at the sound.

  “Garazon’s black balls,” Telion breathed.

  The ax-wielding Skein struck next at the chains fastened to the front of the sleds, and after a few strong blows, the links shattered. As the barbarians scrambled back to their waiting countrymen, the doors on the cages slowly swung wide.

  Willa was expecting the coiled serpents to explode from their prisons, but the beasts remained within, seemingly paralyzed by the brightness of the day and the masses of men. A few more Skein crept forward brandishing lit torches, thrusting the flames through the bars at the back of the wagons. Now more shrieking hisses erupted from the beasts, and grudgingly they slipped from the sleds and onto the snow.

  The size of the creatures surprised Willa – while coiled, it had been difficult to tell just how long the serpents were, but now she could see that each was the length of a dozen men laid head to foot. It didn’t seem like they would make very effective war beasts, though, as they appeared frozen by the noise and the sight of the gleaming armies. One burrowed its head in the shallow snow and frantically tried to dig deeper with its stunted front legs, while another started to slither off towards the nearby forest.

  “Well, let’s hope that was the Skein’s secret weapon,” Telion said, the relief in his voice evident.

  Willa was just about to reply when every one of the serpents suddenly stopped what they were doing and twisted their heads around to stare at the Skein king.

  No; not the king.

  The thin man in the black robes, barely a shadow beside the massive thanes, kicked his horse forward. As he rode out among the beasts every slitted orange eye tracked him closely.

  “Do you feel that?” said one of the magisters near Willa, a ragged edge to his words.

  “Aye,” another replied. “It’s like the queen.”

  “He’s a sorcerer,” murmured Vhelan, running a shaking hand through his silver-streaked hair.

  The magisters on the ridge turned to stare at Vhelan, like a parody of what was happening down on the snowy plain. He blinked, as if surprised by their attentions.

  “What do we do?” asked the same fat magister whose chair Willa had stolen the first day on the ridge.

  Vhelan swallowed. “What can we do? You all feel that power, yes? Only Queen Cein could hope to—”

  A cascade of shrieking cries came from below and Willa turned just as all of the serpents lurched into motion, scuttling with tremendous speed towards the lines of Dymorian pike men. Their legs churned the snow, sending up sprays of white.

  For a moment the Dymorians seemed stunned by what was approaching, but then the archers behind the first rows of soldiers bent their bows and sent a volley of arrows arcing into the sky. Most of the shafts landed in the snow, but a fair number fell upon the onrushing serpents, speckling their white scales. If the arrows pained them, they did not show it, and to Willa’s eye they didn’t slow in the slightest as they crossed the snowy plain. This was unnatural – no simple beast would ignore such wounds and charge a waiting army. Her gaze found the thin man, the sorcerer of these people. Was he the only one? No matter how powerful he might be, there were dozens of magisters on the ridge with her, and somewhere down below waited the Crimson Queen.

  The serpents struck the first layer of Dymorian fortifications, tearing great holes in that barrier of sharpened stakes like it was made of silk. The pits and earthen bulwarks beyond these defenses proved no more effective, as the beasts scuttled over them easily. The distance between the front ranks of the Dymorian pike-men and the monsters was vanishing quickly, but the line did not waver in the slightest, much to Willa’s surprise. Hundreds of pikes were lowered to meet the charge, and Willa found that her hands were squeezed so tight that her nails were cutting into her palms.

  The sound of the great serpents smashing into the Dymorians drifted all the way up to the ridge, metal rending and steel striking scales as hard as iron. Overlaying these clashes were the screams of men and the monsters’ roaring. Huge jaws snapped, biting men in half, and stunted legs tipped with curving talons raked indiscriminately, slicing open bellies and scattering limbs. Many of the pikes skittered off the monsters, but more than a few found gaps between the scales, lodging there and causing black blood to spray forth. Within moments, each of the serpents was spined with pikes and arrows like a sea urchin, but still they thrashed deeper into the Dymorian ranks, driven on, Willa assumed, by the will of the Skein sorcerer.

  They were faltering, though, their movements slowing as more and more swords and pikes pierced their hides. The first one to die was slain by a brave contingent of Dymorian cavalry that peeled away from the main host and rode directly at the serpent, lances lowered. Some of the horses shied away when they caught the monsters’ scent, but one officer with a bright red plume streaming from his helmet managed to control his mount and urge it on, then plunged his lance directly into the serpent’s eye, killing it instantly.

  One by one the other serpents perished, hacked to pieces or finally succumbing to countless wounds, their white scales streaked with red and black blood. A ragged cheer went up from the Dymorians as the last of the great beasts shuddered and went still, its orange eyes glazing over in death. But the relief was short lived, for with a mighty roar the left and right prongs of the Skein host surged forward, charging across the snowy plain, the sound of thousands of guttural screams raised as one great war cry chilling Willa’s blood.

  Willa held her breath as the Dymorian officers rallied their soldiers and tried to reform the lines. Again, she was impressed with the discipline of the queen’s army; despite having been shattered by the rampaging serpents only moments before, the wall of bristling steel was quickly made anew. The fortifications they had constructed over the last few days could not be repaired so easily, and the vanguard of the Skein horde poured through the huge gaps made by the serpents. More flights of arrows darkened the sky and fell upon the northerners, but the crush was so great that Willa could not see any appreciable thinning of their number.

  The leading edge of the Skein wave collided with the Dymorian line. Wild-bearded warriors swinging great battle-axes leapt to meet soldiers who had braced the butts of their pikes in the snow. In some parts of the long line the barbarians were thrown back; elsewhere, the shock of the Skein charge broke through the first line and crashed into the swordsmen who waited behind their fellows. Even from this distance Willa could see that the Dymorians fought with practiced efficiency, well-drilled cuts and thrusts that played to the strengths of their formation, while the Skein laid about with wild, sweeping blows, so caught up in the battle frenzy that they ignored any wounds they took unless they were grievous.

  “Magisters!” Vhelan cried, striding to the edge of the ridge. “It is time!”

  The dozens of robed men and women joined the sorcerer, looking down on the seething battle below. Willa’s skin prickled as they began chanting and fluttering their fingers, and the very air seemed to grow heavier, pregnant like before a thunderstorm.

  “This’ll be interesting,” Telion muttered, and Willa nodded. Interesting, but also terrifying. Only Cein d’Kara could call upon the might of a sorcerous school – now that she had shown herself willing to deploy them in war, the balance of power in Araen had shifted forever. How many cities and kingdoms would be driven into the arms of Menekar because they feared the might that was about to be unveiled here?

&n
bsp; A big, broad woman who looked like she would be more at home milking cows was the first to finish her incantation. Crackling light flashed from her outstretched fingers and flew down to strike among the Skein; snow and dirt exploded upwards, knocking several of the barbarians from their feet. Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned to the ridge just in time to witness havoc unleashed.

  Fire and lightning and glittering shards rained down from the gathered magisters, falling among the Skein like the wrath of the gods. Willa clutched at Telion’s arm, her breath stolen from her by the display.

  How could mere men and women master such forces? And more importantly, how could anyone be trusted to wield such power? Even if the queen defeated the Skein and destroyed the demon children before they could bring about the cataclysm she had glimpsed, the world had now changed forever. It frightened her. She was so old and tired, but Lyr would need someone wise to navigate these dangerous waters or her city would be dashed against the rocks.

  The magisters kept their sorcery away from where the Skein were already fighting the Dymorian soldiers, concentrating their assault on the barbarians still streaming across the plain towards the pitched battle. The snow was pocked by the barrage, scarred black by the scouring and littered with smoking corpses. Willa almost felt pity for the northerners trapped below, unable to escape from the devastation falling from above.

  Something caught Willa’s eye. One of the Skein was now sheathed in a smoky gray sphere, dark enough that he had been reduced to a hazy outline. Willa suspected it was the sorcerer who had compelled the serpents to attack the Dymorian lines. The magisters’ sorceries raged around him, and a bolt of silver lightning struck the barrier, crawling along its edges before dissipating. The figure lifted from the snow, rising smoothly into the sky until he hovered at the same elevation as the magisters on the ridge.