Devil's Dominion (The Anarian Chronicles Book 2)

by Stephen Trolly

“What is it, Verdrick?”

  “I know, on good authority, that Guinira’s army is marching on Ra-Diavere. It seems that she intends to deal with Makret Druoth.”

  “Why would she take so many? Makret can’t have more than five thousand soldiers in the city.”

  “Does it matter, Comni? She’s not coming here. That’s what matters.”

  “It matters to me, Ren. She was marching north, now she’s marching east. She doesn’t know where she’s going, so how do we know she’s marching on Caladea. Ra-Diavere is almost as deep into the Seven’s territory as it’s possible to get. Makret, though I’ve said the opposite, is not so large a threat that she needs over two hundred thousand Deshika to deal with him. She has too big of an army with her to bother about regrouping, not that she’s lost whatever battle she was going to start yet. There has to be another reason. And I want to know what it is.” Comni’s face hardened noticeably with her last statement, and her eyes cut into Verdrick.

  “What makes you think that I know why she’s marching east?”

  “Because you know that she’s marching east. Now tell me, or I start my own war. The Tribes are eager for blood. It’s high time they had it.”

  “Who would the Tribes march on?”

  “Who says they would be the ones marching?”

  Garva spoke, but quietly, trying to diffuse the tension in the room. “You did, Comni.”

  “If the Tribes rise, Garva, all the Deshika in Anaria will be running, either towards Morieden or away from it. The Whip Crackers have gone north to hunt down King Dalrey, Vorteez is pulling what’s left of his armies together along the coast, and now Guinira is marching on Ra-Diavere. Now is the perfect time for the Tribes to raise the Mordak Banner.”

  “You mean the Warship.”

  “The Tribes used to be the only ones allowed to tame and ride the Mordak. The Warship is Drogoda’s symbol. The Tribes are older than the Morschcoda. The Morschcoda are gone, and the Tribes are still here. I am loyal to the throne of Taren Garrenin the Second, for reasons that no one here is old enough to understand, but not to the vacant Flowing Throne of Drogoda. If Edya Reeshnar were here, I would wait for her to say fight or hold. She is not, so someone must for her. I choose to fight. But I need to know why Guinira is marching east, and not north, so that I know the Tribes can be gathered before she turns around.”

  It was Ren who answered. “Druoth has decided that he has finished playing every side and is now on his own. I believe that he intends for the Deshika and the Burning Sun to become an army, and for Ra-Diavere to be his own throne. Vorteez will be coming for him. So will Guinira. Possibly, Nasheem will send his armies after Druoth as well.”

  “I have time, then.”

  “Druoth has a few thousand men. Guinira has a few hundred thousand, not to mention Vorteez’s army. The battle will last days, if not less.”

  “Guinira still has to march there. That’s three hundred leagues, and then back is further. And then she will still have to siege the city, enter the city, and take the city. In all three stages, she has to beat Makret Druoth, the man who hasn’t lost a real battle in six hundred years. If she wins, it will be because she has the men to lose and Druoth doesn’t.”

  “Are you saying that you trust Makret Druoth?” Garva sounded scandalized.

  Comni had no such repugnance to Makret. “I respect him. I reluctantly fear him. And yes Garva, in my way, I trust Makret Druoth.”

  “He killed Taren Garrenin!”

  “You hated Taren, Verdrick.”

  “That has nothing to do with this, Elshay.”

  “If Taren has nothing to do with this, why did you bring him up?” Elshay was confused.

  “Who is your source, Verdrick?” Comni turned on him. This time, she seemed angry.

  Verdrick snarled and bared his teeth. His hand inched closer to the sword on his belt. “A very reliable and informed young woman. That is all you need to know.”

  “By the gods. You spoke to Guinira …” Elshay’s voice was low.

  “Traitor!”

  “Now, Comni, be reasonable—”

  There was no reason left for Comni to find. She was a True-Born Drog, like the Garrenins, and like the Garrenins, her bloodlust was disturbed quickly. She had stood and drawn her sword before Verdrick had even said her name. She had removed his head before any of the others had realized she was standing up.

  “I am going to Morieden. If Makret Druoth comes to Alquendiro, tell him he still has friends in the Halls of Chaos. You won’t need to say more.”

  The Last Free Dragon

  Daken had decided to return to Meclarya almost as soon as Makret had smuggled him into Dothoro. His conversation with Xari concerning the fate of her brother Egrin had only hardened his resolve to go. He felt so useless in the forest, especially when the other Morschcoda had talked about Erygan’s rampage through the north, or Gelida’s fortification of the Garuthen Mountains. He felt that even Norrin was doing more to help the Remnant just by sitting in Dishmo Kornara than he was in Dothoro. But when he talked to Gelinia Eshtarin and found out that Marrdin had returned to Rista, and was attempting to rebuild his army under the nose of Vorteez, he could not sit still any longer. He knew that Vorteez had been hunting the wild Dragons, but now, he truly felt that it was time to take the fight to the Seven. Now, Daken thought back to his argument with Xari, who Daliana had left in charge while she was gone.

  *

  “I have to go Xari.”

  “We need you here Daken. You’re a Morschcoda. You should stay with the rest of us.”

  “Gelida, Daliana, Edya, and Kallin are in the mountains. Norrin holds Dishmo Kornara. Erygan is waging a ground war in the north. Even Marrdin is gathering his armies. You, Ranny, and I are the only ones not doing anything, and we, or I at least, have the most cause to fight. Vorteez is sitting on my throne, in my castle, torturing my people for his amusement. It is time to fight, Xari. I can’t do anything in the forest. I can’t even make myself a martyr. If I go home, then the Deshika and their Devil masters will remember that they once feared the roar of the Dragon Hearted, and I can make them fear it again.”

  Xari shook her head, amazed at his reckless stupidity. “If you walk into Meclarya and declare yourself, you will die.”

  “If I went alone, yes, I would die. But I’m not that stupid Xari. Any Meclaryan who wishes to march with me can, though I won’t blame any who choose not to.”

  “Even if they all go, you’ll be leading a pitiful army.”

  Daken wasted no time in thought. He knew how Xari would try to stop him. He knew all of the arguments for why he shouldn’t go. So he had planned his answers. “I’ll stop at Dishmo Kornara. If any of the Dragon Hearted survived, they will be in the city.”

  Xari sighed. “I can’t stop you then … I suppose you know what you’re doing, Daken. You always used to keep a clearer head than the rest of us.”

  Daken shook his head at Xari’s compliment, and half a smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “I don’t think that this is wisdom, but I know that I need to do it. I need my people to know that I haven’t abandoned them to the Seven, especially to Vorteez.”

  *

  That conversation had been three weeks before, and Daken was just now a day away from Dishmo Kornara. There had been one hundred Meclaryan Morschledu in Dothoro, and they had all chosen to come with him. Not all of them had made it. Crossing the Morieden Plains had cost them. Fifteen had died in battle with Deshik patrols, and another seven had died of their wounds, but the slaughtered patrols were a message to both sides. The Deshika were aware that there was someone loose in their bounds who would fight them, and who would win. Clansmen of the Morieden Tribes had also seen the dead Deshika and the Meclaryans across northern Drogoda. The effect on them had been measurable. The raging blood of the Tribes, almost pacified under Vorteez, had begun to flow again. The warrior clans were becoming more reckless and harder to control. From single warriors crossing the plains, Daken had heard stori
es of Deshik raids, and that the patrols were becoming larger, more frequent, and more heavily armed. They were also leaving less frequently. Daken had heard of the march of the Whip Crackers, and without Vorteez’s elite First Battalion, the Deshika could no longer control the Tribes. And with Vorteez’s mind and eye turned towards the coast, all the War Chiefs could do was throw more soldiers against the raging Morieden. When Daken left the plains, he had absorbed almost an entire clan of Morieden warriors into his small army. The men sought glory in battle, and the women, no less dangerous, sought vengeance. Though he had lost Morschledu, he had gained an army, and now, he was about to make sure that it had the weapons it needed for a determined war that he had not planned on waging. Daken, two Morieden clansmen, and a Meclaryan General sat around a campfire late into the night.

  “We know that the Whip Crackers have marched north. Erygan will have to deal with them. But Guinira is marching north as well. Erygan can’t fight both Guinira and Vorteez.”

  “Guinira would not have named a boy General if she meant to march to the same fight. She is not marching to join with the Whip Crackers.”

  “And Vorteez himself, if reports can be trusted, is not with the Whip Crackers. He is terrorizing the Caladean coast, trying to build a navy for himself.”

  “My lords, I have a message.” The boy handed his scroll to Daken and bowed himself away from the fire.

  “What is it?”

  “Guinira isn’t marching north. She’s attacking Ra-Diavere. The Plains of Moredo are empty of Deshika. The Whip Crackers went north, Vorteez took the rest southeast.” Another piece of paper slipped out from behind the one Daken was reading. “And Comni Hargd has returned to Morieden City. She’s rallying the Tribes while the plains are still free.”

  The two elders looked at each other. “We should go back.”

  “What?”

  “Lady Comni is one of the greatest warriors from the Tribes in many long centuries. She will want all of the Tribes. We have to go back.”

  “But, I’m marching on Meclarya. I need an army to march behind me.”

  “The Tribesmen can make their own choice. But any elder must return to the city.”

  *

  The Tribesmen had chosen to follow Daken, for the moment, and now, Daken’s small army of Morieden warriors and the relatively few Meclaryan soldiers he had gleaned from Dishmo Kornara was camped in the shadow of the Emin-Tal Plateau’s southern face. Drogoda’s silver mines were a close enough retreat in case Vorteez or any of his lesser commanders react with more force than Daken believed he was ready for, but he hoped that the confusion of the Morieden uprising had covered his army’s movements well enough, at least for the moment. What exactly his army could handle remained an uncertainty to him. Like his own Meclaryans, Daken knew that the Morieden were among the most decimated of the various Anarian peoples, but he knew well the legends about them. Legends that only made younger warriors like him scoff, but older soldiers, veterans either of Taren’s Imperial Expansion or other wars, older and bloodier, paid more heed to the reputation of the Tribal warriors of the Plains of Moredo.

  Another thing that gave Daken cause for uncertainty where his army was concerned was its fragmented nature. There were numerous Tribes represented within it, and while they were not hostile with each other, neither he nor his Meclaryan soldiers perceived any clear form of communication or even trust between them. He felt that his army was divided, and so, he waited, reluctant to push forward, and not daring to go back.

  The clearest example of the division was the manner in which the Tribes made their camp. Each Tribe formed a different shape with the arrangement of their tents. Daken had finally realized something though, after looking at the camp from his more elevated perch, alongside of an old map of Morieden Province. The camp was arranged in such a way that each Tribe’s tents formed the rough shape of their territories in the province. He briefly wondered whether the accuracy went all the way down to each family’s land within each Tribe, but decided that it was better to speculate than to ask, for risk of insulting some of the most battle-ready warriors in all of Anaria.

  One by one, the leaders of each of the Tribes began to gather together in a large grey tent, located where Morieden City would be. A few of the surviving Dragon Hearted climbed up to where Daken was to observe the proceedings with him.

  “They’re very strange, aren’t they Morschcoda?” A youngish man, not more than two hundred, asked his lord.

  “The Morieden Tribes are old, lad. Very, very old. I wouldn’t be surprised if what they’re doing right now is some tradition that stretches back all the way to the Eternal War, or even before.” Now that he was leading them into battle, Daken lamented his lack of knowledge about the Morieden Tribes, but in reality he knew as much as anyone. The Tribes’ history stretched back far longer than that of the Morschcoda Council, and they kept their traditions and secrets, as they always had, to themselves.

  “Are they preparing for war, do you think, my lord?”

  “I think they’ve been preparing for war for a long, long time. Possibly for many thousands of years. Something tells me that they’ve always known it was coming.” Daken felt his lips move, his vocal chords push the air out of his mouth to say the words, but the words belonged to someone else.

  A few more Meclaryans climbed up to be with their kin while they watched the Tribes do whatever it was they were doing. After what felt like hours, though, the only thing of note happened when, as suddenly as they had congregated, the various leaders began to disperse.

  One of those leaders came over to where the Meclaryans had congregated. Daken told his men to stay and went down to speak with the Tribesman.

  “Dragon King.” The man bowed. His face was painted in shades of blue and black, like Mordak scales.

  “I’m not a King.”

  The man bowed again. “Not yet. But that may change. The Tribes are decided. The Warriors of the Morieden are yours to command. We have also decided on a course we believe is wise. There is a city east of here. We think that it would make an excellent starting point.” The man left without waiting for Daken’s reply or acknowledging any of the Meclaryans that had followed their Morschcoda despite his order.

  “So now they’re telling us how to win a war?” Daken’s soldiers started laughing, expecting their lord to join them, but Daken was quietly annoyed with their behaviour.

  “The Morieden Tribes have survived for the last two years under the heel of Vorteez while we lay hidden in Dothoro, and they have fought the whole time harder than Meclarya ever managed.” He turned to face his now silent men. “The Tribes understand war, and always have. The Drogs seem to think it’s all the Tribes have ever been good for.”

  Daken’s men subdued themselves, understanding that Daken respected the Morieden. One of the older Dragon Hearted spoke. “The only city that they can mean is Criarr. And unless the Morieden know something about our lands that we don’t, possible enough I grant, that would be too great a risk. It’s the capital of Deshik Meclarya, and it’s rumoured that Vorteez spends almost as much time there as he does in Airachni.”

  Another soldier spoke. “Either they underestimate the Deshika or they overestimate themselves. We only have what, five thousand Morieden?” The other soldiers muttered, but Daken understood the choice.

  “We won’t get reinforcements. Five thousand could be the largest army we ever have. The time to strike hard is when you have the heaviest weapon. We might never get a chance at Airachni, but if we can take Criarr, that’s a massive bite taken out of Deshik controlled lands.” Daken looked at each of his men in turn. He felt their resolve strengthen as he painted the picture more hopefully. “Dealing that kind of damage is a risk I am willing to take. Now, send word through the Tribes. We march tonight.”

  *

  The city of Criarr rose abruptly out of the rocky plains of coastal Meclarya. It had been one of the first cities in Anaria to fall to the Deshika while they had been led by Makret Druo
th. It had been where The Kindler’s armies had massed before the Battle of Emin-Tal, and where they had retreated after Edya Reeshnar had wounded The Kindler. Criarr was the birthplace of the New Deshik Wars.

  Though Criarr was not a true port city, it was roughly where The Kindler’s reinforcements made landfall whenever they came to Anaria. It only had modest defenses, most of which had been destroyed with the Deshik occupation, and the Deshika had not felt it necessary to rebuild or replace much of the destroyed wall or to rehang the ruined, burned gates.

  From Daken’s viewpoint, about one league away from the city, it looked like all but one of Criarr’s Dragon Towers had been razed. What made Daken curious, though, was that he could see at least three guide fires burning in that one tower.

  “Maybe not so curious,” he thought out loud. “If Vorteez wants to exterminate the Dragons, what better way to attract them and their Riders than to keep the fires lit …” The guide fires were what a Dragon Rider would aim for when attempting to land at a tower. Being able to see the fire meant that nothing was between the Dragon and the landing platform.

  Daken’s night vision was no comparison to Erygan’s, or that of any Torridestan, but it was good enough to allow him a reasonable guess at the size of the Deshik force defending Criarr. Daken crawled backwards and went back to his men at the bottom of the hill.

  “At least one Dragon Tower is still standing, and several of its fires are lit, which I thought was strange. Likely, though, it’s a trap for any Dragons and Riders still living. Maybe they’re trying to make it look like Meclaryans have already retaken the city.”

  “Could you make a guess at defending forces, my Lord?”

  “If I were higher up, I could be more certain, but I think I have a number.”

  “How many, my Lord?”

  “None.” Daken shook his head. “I may be wrong, but as far as I can tell, Criarr is deserted.”

  Daken’s statement, and he himself agreed to the assessment, was believed to be impossible. It was decided that several Tribesmen would go and scout the city from closer vantages to help determine how the army should proceed.