by Ben Hale
Suddenly aware of his impolite attitude he blinked and looked at the kind historian. “Thank you for all you have shared with me today. I have learned much, and will probably return soon.”
Sirfalas laughed, a soft wheezing sound, and smiled. “I researched extensively prior to your arrival. I shall now devote myself to further study so we have more to discuss.”
Braon smiled in return and allowed his gratitude to show on his face. “Thank you again.” He stood and inclined his head, sweeping his hand to invite the historian to go first. As he followed him through the maze of records, he continued to examine the different possibilities. Hardly noticing the departing wave of Sirfalas, he exited the archives and headed towards the House of Runya.
Slipping through the twilight city he arrived at his destination and hurried inside. Pausing to leave a note for Lariel to request the dining hall as his strategic command, he returned to his room and sat on a tree bench that grew out of the balcony. Pondering, he didn’t see the sun set or the stars begin to twinkle in the sky.
Deep in his mind he ran through the battle that was coming. Attack, defend, counter-attack. Time and again he set the pieces and ran the battle until he’d found the best placement for his troops—for now. A lot would depend on which races came, and how well he was able to integrate them into his army.
Once again he wished for a second in command. With a sigh he rose and prepared for sleep. His eyes on the battle to come, he climbed into bed. As he lay awake trying to create a better strategy, his heart began to sink. If nothing was added, the best he could see them surviving was not seven days . . .
It was three.
Chapter 7: Captain Arrow
The afternoon sun filtered through the thin canopy as Aroet wearily leaned forward and rubbed the neck of the big roan. Zel tossed his head in response to the touch, but lacked the energy for a more typical playful reaction. In that moment Aroet keenly missed the spark of mischief in the big animals’ personality. He sighed, remembering brighter days with his stallion.
Tall and broad shouldered, Aroet carried himself in a manner much older than he appeared at first glance. With brown hair and smooth skin, he looked more like a flag bearer than swordsman. Upon closer inspection, others would notice the square, firm jaw, and a certain depth to his brown eyes that only came with experience. Over the last five years of his captainship, more than a few swordsmen had learned to respect both his weapon and his leadership skills.
Seasoned soldiers to the last man, the survivors of his five hundred rider command rode dejectedly around him through the northern foothills of the eastern kingdom. So many dead, he thought, once again fighting the despair that had threatened to engulf him over the past few weeks.
Although he fought it, the image of his father being torn from his saddle during the battle at Terros sprang to his mind. With a supreme effort of will, he tightened his jaw and shut out the image. There was no time for grief. He was down to less than two hundred men, and he was lucky to have them. The black army had invaded so quickly that few had been fast enough to survive their onslaught.
The eastern villages had been struck first, and scarcely a handful had made it out of the valleys to warn the middle cities. With just days to prepare, they had been overrun in hours, and the black creatures had spread like wildfire. Without mercy, the horde slaughtered everyone, and drove the entire population of Griffin towards the great lake. Nearly half of the country, numbering over two hundred thousand, had sought refuge at Terros, only to be massacred a few days later.
Aroet had never seen such courage as he had that day. His father and the core of the griffin army had defended the city as thousands of ships sought the safety of the open waters of Blue Lake. Every one of them had willingly perished, granting their people time to escape.
So many dead, he thought with a shudder.
Of the vast country that had been Griffin, Aroet estimated a third had made it out alive, mostly by boat. He still held hope that the southern villages had been warned in time to flee to the southern kingdom of Talinor. Deep down he doubted they could have outrun the speed of the invaders, but hope and luck were the only reasons he was alive.
“Captain Arrow,” his lieutenant said, using the nickname his younger brother had given him when he was too little to pronounce his name.
Aroet faced the man riding at his side. Of average build and older, his next in command sported a week old beard that matched his salt and pepper hair. Brusque and blunt, he had been a minor officer his entire life, mostly due to his inability to restrain himself when a superior gave a stupid order. Aroet felt lucky to have gained the man’s respect.
“Lieutenant Fisk,” he said with a nod, ready for the day’s report.
“We are down to one hundred and eighty seven men—.”
“Who did we lose?” Aroet interrupted, wiping his forehead, and then realized he’d only smeared the grime.
Fisk sighed, “Baron and Holdr.”
Aroet bobbed his head, placing the memory of the two men into the same vault that held his father. Grieving would be a luxury . . . if he didn’t die first. “Understood, continue.”
“Thirty-seven are wounded, and three are in critical condition.”
“Will they survive?” Aroet asked.
Fisk shrugged, and the silence hung in the still air. After a moment, Aroet accepted the likelihood of more losses and glanced at Fisk to continue.
“We have rations for about a week, but are running low on water. We will need to restock before we reach the northern fortresses.”
“How far are we?” Aroet asked. Even though he knew the answer, he hoped it would be less.
“Eight days ride,” Fisk replied, “Unless we run into enemy patrols.”
A horse nickered somewhere to their left, and they both looked to ensure all was well. They weren’t the only ones to do so. Since they had left the battle at Terros, they had crossed paths with two of the black patrols. The sole reason they had survived at all was due to incredible grit his men had displayed. Each battle had cost them over a hundred lives.
So many dead.
“Has our runner come back from the northern forts?”
“Just arrived a few minutes ago,” Fisk said, causing Aroet to swivel his head and fix him with a glare.
“Why didn’t you say so first?” he demanded.
The usually dour Fisk grinned. “You always ask about the men first anyway.”
Aroet’s lips tightened in disapproval, but he couldn’t deny the statement. Choosing to ignore the breach, he asked, “What did the messenger say?”
The grin broadened. “The northern forts haven’t been attacked, and they still have nearly ten thousand men.”
Aroet allowed a small smile, his mind buzzing at the first good news in weeks. If they could make it to the north edge of the kingdom and the untouched battalion, they just might have a chance to survive. Unbidden, the question over who the invaders were came to mind again, cooling his sudden rush of elation. Since they appeared, the question had been unanswerable, and it had caused no end of speculation in the days leading to the destruction of Terros. Someday he might find the answer, but for now he shoved it aside as he had before, making room for the glimmerings of a plan.
Escape to the northern battalion. Identify their attackers. Find a way to destroy them.
Although only the first step was clear, it was the first time that Aroet had any idea of what to do—even though he would never have admitted that, even to himself. He smiled savagely. Soon he could take the fight to them.
“How is morale?” Aroet asked.
Fisk opened his mouth to respond, but a cry of agony rent the air, freezing every man in his saddle. An instant later, snarling rippled through the forest from the east and the sounds of battle burst out.
“By Skorn’s blade,” Fisk breathed, “another patrol. What do you want us to do Captain?”
Aroet wheeled his horse to face his lieutenant, speaking fast. “Get five o
f our fastest riders to me. We will lead them west before heading north. You call a retreat and take everyone else north. We both know they fight the strongest first, so make sure the men know not to fight, just run! This won’t work unless they focus on us!”
Fisk frowned, “I don’t think sacrificing yourself will do any good, Captain. The men need you.”
“I don’t plan on dying, lieutenant,” he growled, patting his horse. “Zel still has enough in him to get me out of here. Now stick to your orders!”
Fisk nodded, still frowning, but began calling out names and issuing commands. In moments, horsemen took their places and the men of the east fell back towards their position.
“I hope you know what you are doing Captain . . .,” Fisk murmured from beside him.
“Trust me,” Aroet replied with a confidence he didn’t feel.
The eastern flank came into view as riders collapsed towards the center. Behind them, the shadowy figures darted after them, howling for blood. So far all he could see were the dogs, but he knew the others would be right behind them.
“Send a few arrows into them to get their attention,” Aroet said to the five around him, drawing his own bow as well.
At Fisk’s command, the entire eastern flank broke north in a clean turn as Aroet and his chosen men launched several volleys of arrows into the roiling dark mass. They were rewarded with yelps of pain and several of the dogs crashed into trees. Although a few followed the riders north, the rest turned with a fury towards Aroet.
“Fisk,” Aroet said in a rising tone, sending an arrow winging to take one down that was about to leap towards one of his men. “Time for you to get going.”
“I will see you after you lead them away Captain,” he yelled, yanking his horse north. “Ride safe!”
Aroet nodded, sending another shaft to bury into one of the hounds as it peeled off in pursuit of Fisk. Then he turned his horse and slapped his rump. Zel leapt west, away from the enemy patrol. The five riders followed him, and at a word, began fanning out to present a larger quarry. Behind him, howls of anger rose as they sped away.
“Give it all you’ve got men!” Aroet yelled. “But pace yourself. We will go a few miles and lose them in the marshes before regrouping farther north.”
Bending down he tried to balance himself so Zel could have free range of movement, and the big steed ate up the ground in great strides. The pounding hooves thundered across the ground as the six horses galloped towards the great lake, gouging the road as they wound through the trees.
Aroet threw a look back to check on their pursuers, and saw that only one of his men was close to him. The other four had begun to lose ground, unable to keep up with the big stallion of their captain. Sensing the kill, the howling pack began to close the distance. A slight pull of the reigns brought Aroet back to his men, and as he fell into place, he drew his sword.
Five swords cleared their scabbards in response, but they didn't slow. Thundering around a curve, they flew across the patchwork of shadows created by the branches overhead. Dirt clods filled their wake as the horses hooves tore at the gravelly soil. With the hundreds of pursuers baying for their prey, each man rode for his life . . . but the dogs were gaining. Bounding forward like charging lions, they closed the distance until they were close enough to strike.
"Send them back to whatever hell they came from!" Aroet bellowed, plunging his weapon into a black dog leaping for his mount.
Blades glittered in the uneven light, sending bodies tumbling behind them. More took their place, darting over their fallen allies and pouncing on the rearmost soldier. His horse collapsed under the weight of the spiked dog, and both rider and steed fell broken to the hard earth. A whinny of pain mingled with the man's scream, until both ended under a torrent of evil creatures.
Within moments another of their group was slain, and then another. The fourth died when his horse stumbled, and the two were swallowed into the dark horde. Down to two, Aroet yelled his fury and filled the air with his longsword, striking any foe that dared venture within range. Dogs yelped and snarled, but couldn't withstand the onslaught. His space momentarily cleared of enemies, Aroet reached for the last soldier.
"Jump behind me. Your horse can't keep up!"
Jaron cast him an angry look. "Are you crazy! Even Zel can't carry two."
"You have your orders, Jaron!"
"And I respectfully decline, Captain!" Jaron bellowed. Then he wheeled his horse towards a side path. Sheathing his sword, he drew his bow and sent a quick burst of arrows into the dogs. "Now get out of here!" he roared, peeling away from Aroet and taking many of their pursuers with him.
Before he could protest, Jaron had disappeared into the trees. Growling against the helplessness and rage, Aroet gave Zel his head. Pulling away from the pack, he sent a prayer to Ero for Jaron, and his family, who had been among the first to perish in Terros. The man's bravery had probably saved Aroet, but the loss of a good man's life wasn't a price he was willing to pay for his own.
So many dead.
The fresh losses nearly burst the vault in his chest, but he doubted they would be the last. For now, he took solace in the fact that their lives made it possible for the rest of his men to survive. It was now his duty to return his attention to his remaining men, not the ones he'd failed to save. He knew that they had been the bait, and too often the bait is lost in the catch. Closing his eyes, he allowed a brief moment to miss the ones he had lost. Jaron, his father, his men, and so many others.
Most of all, he found he missed his younger brother, who had been sent to train with the elves fifteen years ago. Trin my brother, I hope you survive this, he thought. And I hope to see you before I die.
Chapter 8: Origin of a Thief
Newhawk stared at Siarra when she finished describing the call to gather, and hardly blinked for a full minute. Taryn watched the druid leader consider his options with a furrowed brow and wondered what he would do. He could either throw them out, laugh, or disregard their words—but a leader of such quality was certain to weigh his plan of action carefully.
When Newhawk did speak, he said, “You have told me that Draeken—the same God of Chaos from the legend—is invading with an army hundreds of times the population of our world. He also sent an assassin that was the source of the dark fear that was felt in all nations. In addition, all peoples must gather at Azertorn if we are to survive. We then must prepare to defend ourselves—without fighting amongst ourselves—while you go to defeat him.” His voice resonated deep and strong, but the way he summed up their situation made it sound like he may doubt their sanity.
Siarra nodded, her expression sober as Newhawk asked, “How can I believe you?” His tone held no trace of sarcasm or disbelief, and his honest question left an opportunity to explain.
Siarra raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to see what is coming?”
Newhawk cocked his head, hesitating for a moment before he answered, “Yes, if I can.”
Siarra stood and moved to stand next to Newhawk, who even sitting was almost as tall as the elven Oracle. She placed the tips of her fingers onto the side of his face. From his temple to his jaw, each point where her fingers touched his skin glowed and shimmered. His eyes closed in response and for a brief moment Newhawk’s expression remained calm—then his breath caught and he gripped the side of his chair so hard his hands went white. Swallowing, his expression darkened as if he were in intense pain.
Liri, Mae, and Trin all gasped at the sight of the druid leader and Trin whispered, “What is she doing to him?”
“Showing him the battle that is coming,” Taryn replied without taking his eyes from the druid.
Mae threw him a sharp look. “Did you see it too?”
“No, but I saw her show the queen. I’ve never seen someone so devastated.”
For several minutes they watched as Newhawk witnessed the coming future, until Siarra separated the link and stepped back. The druid leader leapt up and stumbled to the porch overlooking the fore
st. Looking upward he sighed in relief, and then returned to collapse back into his chair.
“I saw Reiquen die.” He looked at them with a haunted expression. “Is that what will happen if we gather—or if we don’t?”
“That is the battle if we gather.” Her voice dropped. “If we don’t gather it is far worse. That is a future you do not want to see.”
Newhawk leaned forward, his expression one of desperation, “So what I saw is going to happen?”
“No,” Siarra replied. “It is not certain. For one thing, I have come on this journey instead of staying with the gathered races. That has already changed the future. Some of the things you have seen will come to pass, others will change.”
Newhawk blinked and leaned back. Staring off into space his composure returned and his expression became calculating. After another minute of silence he shrugged and sighed. “When do we need to leave?”
“Tonight,” Siarra said and Newhawk’s expression turned grim, but he nodded again and moved to the door. Opening it, he spoke to a man outside and Taryn caught enough to hear he was summoning a council.
When he was finished he remained standing and smiled without mirth. “Will you stay for the night? I have had a room prepared for you.”
Liri spoke up first. “Thank you, Guidrian, for you hospitality, and your willingness to join the gathering. We will pray to Ero for your safety.”
He nodded and indicated for them to follow him out of his home. Sweeping from the room he descended the spiral staircase that wrapped around the tree trunk until they reached the forest floor. Leading them through torch lit roadways, he headed towards a small hut.
Opening the door himself, he said, “This is where you may stay for the night. Your horses will be outside when you awake.” He started to turn and then stopped to add, “I apologize in advance for not seeing you off tomorrow. When I speak to the council it will cause havoc among our people, and we will be in the middle of preparations to bring in the smaller settlements.” His gaze flicked to Siarra. “I promise we will reach Azertorn within four days.”
