His left hand drew with exaggerated caution to mimic the accuracy of the fingers that he no longer had. Slowly, a plan began to come to life on the map.
The plan was elaborate, and involved attacks in varying strength against every side of Criarr’s insubstantial walls. Another part of the Deshika would constantly circle the battle, so that the Morschen in the city would never know when, or from where, the true attack would come.
*
Daken saw the Deshik camp rise to the south and knew that his plan had failed. They had come too quickly, and from the wrong direction. Airachni hadn’t come. The First Battalion had.
*
“There has to be something else we can do, Morschcoda.”
“General, we don’t have options. We don’t have Dragons, we don’t have reinforcements. We don’t even have strong walls. Criarr is not where Meclarya makes its final stand.”
“Morschcoda, you once said that you would rather stand beside someone who couldn’t win but would still fight, than stand with someone who couldn’t lose. You believe we can’t win this fight. But we are still here to fight it.”
“No, General. Do not use my own words against me to make me agree to let you sacrifice yourself. The Morieden has arisen, and the Deshika may never retake it. That is a victory, and one you and the Remnant can build on to free Meclarya.”
“But, Morschcoda, Airachni—”
“Airachni cannot be freed if you all die here.”
“But—”
“No more, General. Airachni may be reclaimed from Drogoda, but it can’t be from Criarr. The point of my plan was to draw out the Deshika from Airachni, and my plan has failed. So, we need a new plan, and this one saves lives. Right now, that is all I am concerned with.” The General started to protest again. “That is the end of it, General. You have your orders.”
*
“General Volkure, look.” The War Chief pointed towards Criarr.
Volkure could barely believe his eyes. “It’s Calmi himself.” Daken’s war-hardened and battered form was unmistakable from that distance. His bald head shone in the sunlight, and Volkure could clearly see that he was missing an ear.
Daken stopped not far from the Deshik camp. “Volkure. I know you’re in there. Come out and speak with me.” Daken waited for several minutes, but finally, Volkure came. “I see the war has marked us both, Armandan.”
Volkure sneered. “You much more than me, old man.”
Daken touched what was left of his severed ear with the stumps of the fingers that he was also missing. “More frequently maybe, but losing a whole hand against losing the tips of a few fingers?” Daken shrugged. “Comparing injuries isn’t why I’m here. I’ve come to bargain.”
“You’ve come to die, you mean.”
“If you intended to kill me, you wouldn’t have come out so far. You would have drawn me in so that there’s no way I could escape. I know Vorteez wants me alive. And I can imagine what will happen to you if I don’t stay that way.”
Volkure scowled. “You’re honestly telling me that you’re here to surrender? What fun is that?”
“Surrender? Conditionally, yes. As I’ve said, I’m here to bargain.”
Volkure shook his head, disgusted with the Meclaryan Morschcoda. “I’d rather you fight. But what are your terms?”
“My men go free.”
Volkure waited for more, but Daken was finished. “That’s it?” Daken nodded. “What stops me from taking you and then killing them?”
Daken smiled, baring all of his abnormally sharp teeth. “Are you good enough left handed to disarm me without killing me? And then overpower me magically without killing me?”
“Are you going to find out?”
Daken smiled a little. “You stand your ground at least. I admire that, in a way.” Daken put his hand on his sword. Volkure stepped back, but also gripped his own sword, careful to use his left hand and not bow to instinct. Daken saw the hesitation, the exaggerated deliberateness of the movement. “You aren’t good enough, and you know it, Volkure. But I know the First Battalion, and I know that they won’t run just because their commander is dead. So, you’re the only thing keeping my men alive, and I’m the only thing keeping you out of Vorteez’s torture chamber.” Daken let go of his sword and pulled out his pipe. He clamped it in his lips while he knocked some pipeweed out of a leather bag and into the bowl. “Be a good lad and light this for me.” Daken extended the pipe towards Volkure.
Volkure took the pipe, looked from it to Daken and back, and then dropped it. He kicked the pipe back towards Daken, who scowled. “Your manners are pitifully lacking, whatever other gifts you have. That was Dothorin Pipeweed, and that pipe was my great-grandfathers’.” Daken didn’t sound angry, just upset.
“I don’t care. I won’t kill you, but ask me to do you any more favours, and I won’t spare your men.”
“So, we have an accord. You let my men go, and you can take me to Airachni.”
“Fine.” Volkure extended his hand, and Daken shook it awkwardly with his own left hand.
The two rode into the Deshik camp together. Daken dismounted and let one of the War Chiefs put him in chains. Volkure turned to his War Master. “End this now.”
*
As the first Deshika entered Criarr, the gate crumbled on top of them. Seventeen died, and another twelve were injured.
A Deshik soldier tripped over a wire that had been pulled across a narrow street. Arrows flew from the walls on either side, cutting through the Deshik patrol. Fifteen soldiers died before they hit the ground.
As the Deshika probed deeper into Criarr, searching for their enemy, they continued to spring hastily-prepared traps. Some killed one soldier. Some killed a dozen.
Finally, four Deshika went up into the only standing Dragon Tower to extinguish its fires. As they doused the last one, they felt the tower shake. Criarr’s final Dragon Tower fell in a glorious heap, showering stones down on Criarr and the Deshika, shaking the city. When the shaking stopped, hundreds more Deshika were dead or dying.
…
A day later, Volkure stormed into the tent where Daken was being held. Daken was sitting on the ground tied to a stake, watching the flap like he’d been waiting for Volkure to arrive.
“You know, don’t you!” Volkure pointed a finger at the smaller Meclaryan.
Daken almost laughed. “How many did you lose?”
“Not as many as you hoped.”
“Killing your Deshika wasn’t the point, Volkure. The point was to teach you some battlefield etiquette. You agreed to the terms. Then you broke them. There are consequences for that kind of thing. You are not untouchable.” Daken pulled on the rope that held his arms up and forced it to move enough to fold his hands behind his head. “So, how many did you lose?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re going to Airachni. Vorteez has special plans for you there.”
Breaking
Daken had never been inside of any dungeon anywhere inside of Anaria. He had also never been inside of a prison; not even the prisons in Airachni. He had known that they existed, but he had never gone down to inspect them for himself. He made a silent note to himself that if he ever got the chance to see them from the outside again, he would refuse it. He also made a mental note to never be inside of one ever again. If he managed to succeed with both of those goals, and also survive his current predicament, he might even take pity on Meclarya’s criminal population and have the prisons cleaned at least once a year.
Daken was in prison because his plan had failed. He was not a General. He had attempted to divide Meclarya, cutting the country’s Deshik forces in two. He had tried to retake the Emin-Tal plateau. And that strategy had failed him. He had failed. Now, he was waiting for his death. His captors had brought him back to Airachni to present to Vorteez, but with the Devil gone, they had changed their minds. Very soon, he would be led through his own palace and out into his own city, where he would be executed. There was no changing what was to come.
All he could do was wait.
*
And wait.
*
And wait.
*
Finally, the horns blared, echoing through the city, even into his dungeon, calling all living Morschen in the city to the courtyard. His guards came, Deshik, not Meclaryan. The trip through the palace was interminable. Though he was being dragged by giants almost twice his height, he continued to look around at his home. He knew every hall, every stone of its floor. Each step disturbed the ghost of another painful memory. They passed through the great kitchens, which still fed hundreds and thousands every day. He saw the hall that lead to his own chambers, where he had been held as Taren’s prisoner. They dragged him past the doors to his throne room. They set him on his own feet in the main hall, where memories of memories fought for his attention. And the great doors of the main entrance brought to mind the desperate final stand of his army, only seven years before. Through the doors, the last remnants of his people stood, waiting in the harsh sunlight, watching as the doors opened wide, and their last lord was lead to his death. Some were crying, but none dared to help him.
His Deshik guards forced his head onto the block, and an Armandan stood ready with an axe. He did not look at the woman more than to notice her hair. It was curled, blood red at the bottom, and fading to a deep orange and then a bright yellow. ‘Like flames,’ he thought, as he attempted to empty his mind before death. He heard a War Chief reading out the charges against him, not that it mattered what they were. He was a Morschcoda. That was enough.
The reading stopped, and the drums pounded out a solemn beat. When they stopped, the Armandan executioner swung her axe.
Daken heard the impact of the axe. That, he knew, should not have happened. He should have felt a sharp pain in his neck, and then nothing at all. Or maybe, if he was lucky, he should have had his full body back, including all of the fingers that he had already lost in the war. He would have been in Arbendia, the home of the gods, but he was not. The axe struck metal. He noticed a large tear in a Deshik guard’s breastplate as the dead giant fell in front of him. Then the other guard fell dead. The executioner took out a knife and cut the bonds on his hands, letting him up.
“It is not your time yet, Daken.” Xari pulled out Daken’s horn and blew a piercing note which echoed through the city. The Deshika still could not respond, they did not know what was happening, but a dull roar could be heard now, in answer to the horn. Morieden warriors that had followed Daken into Meclarya had followed Xari to Airachni. And now, they were fighting for the city, even as the Drogs had during that first battle. Xari handed him a sword, and the two Morschcoda joined their army in battle.
*
While Daken waded ever further into the bloodbath that had erupted, Xari and a handful of the Morieden warriors held the gates of the palace, keeping Deshika from retreating into it and keeping Deshik reinforcements inside.
An arrow bit into Xari’s shoulder as it flew past and claimed one of the Morieden. A rock dropped from high above and crushed a Deshik soldier that was about to jump at her from behind. A wave of arrows flew from Deshik archers, still holding some rooftops from the Morschcoda’s army.
Privately, Xari began to fear that liberating Airachni was impossible, even as she cut the knees out from a War Chief trying to run past her into the palace. Another rock crashed down, closer to her this time, and as she flinched, she saw a tall man in full plate-armour. The black-on-gold were the colours of no House she knew, and the crossed swords decapitating a swan was not a symbol she recognized. Despite that, she did not doubt a Morschenic traitor stood before her, and the only thing she hated more than the Deshika or the Seven Devils was a traitor.
Leaving the palace gates undefended, Xari charged at the mysterious knight. Summoning her strength and releasing her rage, she threw herself into one attack after another, driving him towards the short staircase.
He laughed the whole way. He enjoyed the ferocity of her attack, waving away any Deshika that tried to intervene or take advantage of Xari’s focus. Despite that, she let a trail of a dozen Deshik bodies behind her.
Xari faked a high slash, and when he brought up his shield to block, she slammed into it with her shoulder, throwing him off balance. She tried to press her advantage, but even off-balance, he threw up a guard to every slice.
Annoyed, she let flames run down the length of her sword, and her hair ignited. While this had terrified other traitors, it only amused the strange knight more. He began to attack in turn.
A Deshik arrow aimed at Xari caught fire and crumbled to ash as it got close, but the iron tip still buried itself in her leg.
She yelled in frustration and punched at her opponent, her fist wreathed in white-and-blue flames. He caught her by the wrist and squeezed, crushing it. She screamed in pain and kicked his knee. She swung at his hand when he stumbled, and cut through his armour and the bone underneath.
He didn’t even flinch. He looked at the bloodless stump of his wrist, then at his hand, writhing on the ground. Then he looked back at the new hand that was already growing on the end of his arm.
“Few have ever managed to mark me, Xari Gundara, and were my hand not too useful to do without, I would keep this scar as a precious memory of our dance here.” The hand stopped growing. “Die well now, knowing you have the respect of Mredic, the Sword of Alega.”
Xari roared, letting her magic rage, spitting fire like a Dragon. Mredic feinted left, and she blocked. He cut down from her right and she ducked the blow. He stabbed at her, and she pushed his sword away, but he pulled out another blade and drove it through her gut.
He leaned in close, supporting her weight. “You are a dangerous woman, and an exciting one. Part of me hopes you will survive this, somehow.” He pulled out the knife and let her drop. A War Chief stomped on her leg, crushing it. Mredic, offended, killed the War Chief and let his body fall beside her. “Fight well, Xari Gundara. May we dance again.”
*
Daken wandered through his city, dead Deshika crowding the streets as they had seven years before. Only this time, the victory meant more. Retaking Airachni meant breaking Vorteez’s hold on the coast. It meant that Morschen ships could sail again, merchants could trade with distant ports. Help could come, if any help existed. And the Dragons could fly free and proud once again. There was again a place in Anaria where they could not be hunted. Vorteez would rue the day that he had started that, and he would suffer as Daken’s people had. Before, Daken might have seen the victory as his, or at least, as his people’s, but he knew it was not. Though he had started the long march alone, many had followed him, and most had not been Meclaryan. The Morieden Tribes had owed him nothing. They had had no cause to march against the Deshika, who came so conveniently to the villages and camps throughout the plains of Moredo. And Xari had not needed to follow him. Daken, for the most part, had always been able to take care of himself. He was not a great leader, or even a great man. She was worth more to Daliana than he was. But she had followed him. And she had saved his life, leading his ragged army into Airachni after him, and freeing Meclarya at the same time. That was why he looked for Xari. He needed to thank her before she went back to Dothoro.
“My Lord—”
“Ah, Captain. Where is Morschcoda Gundara?” The short woman stopped mid-stride. Her face fell. Daken knew what was wrong. “Where is she?”
She swallowed once. “This way, Morschcoda.”
Xari was stretched out on the ground, near where Daken should have lost his head. Meclaryan healers were doing all that they could, but Daken took one look at her and knew that there was no saving her. Xari was lying in a pool of her own blood that stretched over one foot in every direction. She had been stabbed through the chest, twice, and another sword had gone through her stomach. One of the healers held a Deshik arrow and was chanting a counter-spell to negate the poison that glowed on its barbed head. It had ripped a chunk of flesh out of Xari’s right thigh. Xari’s right leg below the kn
ee was lying a few feet away. It had been crushed, and the healers had wasted no time in realizing nothing that they could do could save it. But, they still had not given up on Xari. She opened her eyes as the sound of Daken’s footsteps drew closer.
“You survived. Good. I didn’t waste the trip then.” Daken could not force himself to smile. “Don’t look at me like that Daken. It’s my time.”
He fell to his knees and took her hand. He couldn’t hold back his tears or keep his voice from cracking. “No. You have centuries still to live.”
“No Daken. This is the price I pay for doing nothing the last time. Dalasin shouldn’t have died that day. I should have stopped it.”
“Gelida is a strong as Dalasin ever could have been.”
“Some people are born to change a life. Some people are born to change the world. Dalasin could have changed the world. It’s long past time you started trying to do the same. You could have been someone like Taren. But you were too good of a person.” Xari smiled through her pain. “Maybe it’s better that you didn’t end up like him. The Morschen had enough tyrants. Good rulers were rare.”
“What about you?”
“I was neither. I was nothing, which is the worst thing to be as one of us. But now, I have struck a blow on behalf of Armanda. My people’s debt is repaid.” Xari closed her eyes. Then she laughed. “Did you know Taren killed my husband? Allihn was leading the Flame Weavers against my brother’s rebellion. Taren himself was at the battle, and Allihn tried to fight him. He was a swordmaster, but it wasn’t enough. That’s why I trained so hard. That’s why I wanted so desperately to kill Taren myself.” She coughed for almost a full minute. “Galdren was actually Allihn’s sword. Taren returned it to An-Aniath himself, with Allihn’s body. I wish he’d killed my then too.”
“No. Taren and Erygan chose well when they let you keep your throne.” Xari did not respond. “Xari. Xari, stay awake! You can’t do this!”
Devil's Dominion (The Anarian Chronicles Book 2) Page 32
