Drachenara

by T. G. Neal

  The remainder of that day, Vaelen spent watching, advising, and beginning the training phases of recruits. Though plenty of water was available for them, the sweltering heat of Mreindale allowed little reprieve.

  The 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Legions were massive. At one point, when Vaelen took a break alongside Rolyat, he walked up atop the viewing wall and looked down upon them. Untrained recruits were at least ten-thousand strong, not to mention the trained men who practiced separately, readying for deployment at a moment’s notice. To move that many men and women would require a great deal of time, effort, coin, and resources, but it certainly was something the crown was prepared to do. Vaelen leaned on the railing and drank water until his skin was empty. “I’ve never seen this many people prepared to fight and die before.”

  Rolyat cut a glance at him, “Neither have I. Drachenara will be decimated. If they’re smart, they’ll surrender.”

  “Maybe.” Vaelen said, still watching intently. “These people still have a long road ahead of them to be valuable soldiers.”

  Rolyat made a noise that sounded like it was agreement. “I don’t know that the crown ever intends on them to be valuable.”

  That realization struck Vaelen hard. Even when he had run with his father to quell bandit threats, or other small collisions with people bent on killing him or his men, he valued the men he fought with as if they were temporarily his brother. As far as that went, he knew that Bren Drache, when it was Aurelia’s father, would personally thank each guard for doing his job. That was part of what made him such a good man, and ruler. Suddenly he found himself remembering easier times in Drachenara, when protecting Aurelia meant keeping certain people outside the city gates. Now he had to trust her as much as himself to make sure she was safe. For someone whose whole life had been about protection, that was difficult to let go of. For now, it was completely out of his hands.

  The two continued watching the soldiers make their step-by-step moves. It was rhythmic. Vaelen remembered being trained the same way. One, high left. Two, high right. Three, low left. Four, low right. It taught them coordination and synchronization and made them feel confident about how to handle a blade. Something about the methodical approach they took was almost soothing, almost empowering.

  “Rally point is in Midland. We must be taking the fight straight to Drachenara, then. It’s the perfect staging ground.” Vaelen said. “When Aurelia and I traveled through, we of course came straight through Midland trying to reach Quardanis. You said they’ll be decimated. Do you think so?”

  “Absolutely. The King is sparing no expense to push forward into their lines. He’ll do what he has to do to show that uprisings like this can be quelled at a moment’s notice.” Rolyat said, now finishing his own water. He put his hammer back on his shoulder.

  “The other captains say there’s dissent among the ranks.”

  “Of course, there is. Imagine being a fifteen-year-old boy or being the father of one. Now imagine being yanked away from your family or watching your fifteen-year-old be yanked away from you knowing they’re about to be trained to take a life. Now imagine that being the largest war probably in your whole, and their whole life… fighting your own neighbors.” Rolyat started walking down the steps.

  Vaelen followed behind him. He was glad Rolyat was there for perspective. “Family.”

  Rolyat looked up at him. “Or Family.”

  Miliria held her hands over the fire that burned in the center ring of her quarters. The heat of the coals licked at her palm. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Sudden flashes, and the disembodied thudding of her own heart flashed before her eyes and ears. Then she was seeing the world through the eyes of a bird. With her eyes clenched tight, she looked around, jerking her head from side to side, then she saw the crowds below her that she was looking for. Her eyes clenched and she grit her teeth, tightening the muscles along her jawline. Then she withdrew herself from her view, and pulled back away from the fire. She stepped with a purpose, seething in anger. She took a piece of parchment from her desk, and quickly penned a letter. From her desk, she walked to the balcony and waved her hand in the air, summoning a jackdaw, to whom she tied the letter. “Go, with haste. To Stormvale.” She then turned from where she stood and moved back inside, where she collected a bag. “Slave!” She beckoned.

  From a nearby location a young shirtless male elf, who was perhaps only eighteen approached her. His head hung low, and his neck was reddened from the metal collar he wore. “Yes, M’lady?”

  She pointed to the closet. “Quickly, gather my things. All of them. And stow them in a carriage. We are leaving.”

  He raised his head briefly, then bowed it again. “Yes, M’lady.”

  In the central marketplace, denizens of Drachenara were walking amongst the crowds, dodging long lines of people queued to purchase the slaves who had only recently been offloaded. People scrambled to and fro the long lines of shackled humans and elves of all shapes, colors and sizes. Both men and women were sold – the option of servant or object lay on table for those wealthy enough to buy.

  In the midst of the slaves were only a few who were of older age, most were younger, desirable to men and women who needed something more in their lives. Of the few who were older, stood one who appeared to have been beaten thoroughly before being staged for sale. She weakly stumbled from one side of the stage, where she’d been released from her cage, to the other side where she stood to be humiliated and ogled by those who were in the crowd.

  The older woman hung her head low, but not out of shame, the collar weighed her neck down. Her bruises bore witness to how difficult of a fight she must have put up before being put up for sale.

  Miliria was now leaving the castle inside her carriage, her young elf consort with her in the back. As she neared the marketplace, the same site of death only the day before, she had the driver stop the carriage. Then she stepped out, and walked through the crowd, surrounded by her guardsman. By the flow of magic, and the voices at her disposal, she knew this woman. When she finally reached the stage, she stepped up and placed a hand on the face of the older woman and caressed it. “This one is not for sale yet.” She looked to the Slave Master who sauntered across the stage with his whip in hand. He nodded. “She’s special. Give her a few more days. Perhaps a week. Then sell her for a few hundred coins.”

  The Slave Master looked at Miliria slightly confused, but he bowed his head nonetheless. “You ‘ear that you lot? The old lady ain’t for sale yet.”

  Laughter roiled through the crowd. “Not that we wanted her!”

  The Slave Master made her stand there anyway.

  Miliria returned to her carriage, and they rolled away, beyond the walls of Drachenara and onto the path north to Stormvale.

  Aurelia and Keneya finally reached the border of Quardanis after days of travelling. When they arrived, they were met with a force of ten guard, and more who approached. Keneya rode up closer “We are with the Silver Sort, heading for our headquarters. We are under order of the King.”

  The Sergeant at the border turned and whispered, and the guard he spoke to jogged away. “Alright. Come on through.”

  Suddenly tense feeling, suspecting betrayal, Keneya wrapped his hands around the handle of his blade and prepared himself to attack. However, attack was unnecessary. As he kept a watchful eye, he could see a familiar face walking out of the tent. “Daja?”

  From the tent walked Daja Uruk, who moved slower than a man half his age, but such was to be expected from a man who had survived four arrows, being cut up the back, and most recently a poisoning. He smiled as he nodded his head to Keneya, “Ah, boy. You’ve come to see me. And this must be Aurelia.”

  Aurelia smiled. “Daja Uruk, you’re Mikael’s father?” She asked, looking to Keneya for clarification, then realized this person was her superior. Upon her realization she bowed her head a little and placed her fist over her chest in respect.

  “My dear, please don’t. Come. Hop down off your horses.
” He turned and whistled. A squire ran to take their horses to trough. “We’ve set up camp for the Sort just beyond this border station. We were waiting on you to move out. King Tivanis sent word – first time in a few years now – informing me that you were on the way. He also requested that I lead the border teams from southern Berlessis, The Jagged Edge, and Southern Alfendul to the rally point in Midland for staging. They’ve drawn the border garrison in Drachenara and Greyvale as well as the northern garrisons for the three we’re meeting and gone ahead and moved them into Midland. By the sheer force the King’s recruited, we should be able to route their forces and push them out of Drachenara, possibly defeating them.” He walked with his hands behind his back, and he walked like a man who commanded armies. He was tall with stark white hair that was cut nearly to the scalp in shortness. He wore the tabard of the silver sort, and he smelled of sandalwood incense and leather.

  Aurelia remained quiet as he divulged the information to them. “This is all taking place very fast, it seems.”

  As they stepped inside the camp, they were shown to tents that were theirs for the night, then led on to the command tent. “It has to. If our enemy discovers our size, or even our approach, they could lay traps, or perhaps even summon a larger force. We’re moving across much more land than they are, and we’re going straight to them. But if we can push them out of Drachenara, we will have struck a harsh blow to them.”

  Keneya looked at the maps and furs laid out here and there and smirked. He remembered reading stories involving war parties and great triumphs as a young boy. The thought that he was going to be a part of such a thing ignited the flame he had for combat. More specifically, for outmaneuvering and outfighting his foe. “Do you believe we will have the element of surprise?” Asked Keneya, looking at the map, examining the size of their forces. Before he even allowed Daja to answer, his eyes grew large. “Twenty thousand troops are marching from Mreindale?”

  Daja nodded. “Plus, a portion of Subterfuge and the Templars. The King has elected to remain in the capital and has kept his most loyal guards and some of his most talented soldiers behind. We will be joined in a week by them. They’re probably preparing for the journey tonight. Rolyat and Vaelen should be joining us.”

  Aurelia looked at the maps as well, and he heart thumped a little faster when Vaelen’s name was mentioned. Had it not been for the obscured light of the tent, she might have even blushed, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of Vaelen, or the overwhelming amount of information. “You seem very abreast of the situation for a man I was told was recently poisoned.”

  Daja laughed. “My dear, my son likes to exaggerate my condition. True, I was poisoned and faced my death bed, but you can't kill an old dragon when he still has treasure left to protect.”

  She smiled and looked down at the map. Keneya looked up at Daja, “When do we move out?”

  “The border garrison from Berlessis will be here in a short few hours. I recommend that you both get to know the rest of the Sort who have come from all around. In the morning, at dawn, we will leave and meet up with the Alfendul garrison, and march around the Jagged Edge mountain range into Midland. Our camp will be on the North Side of the Grand Market of Midland.” Daja said, sitting down on a stump, groaning as he did.

  Aurelia thought of Cynthia, and of the vision. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, turning to leave the tent. She walked toward her tent, looking toward the sun as it began to set to the west, back over a hazy horizon of flatland that transitioned to yellow earth in the desert beyond. She stood there a moment and thought. The sound of music played in the background – simple instruments like a lyre, and a penny whistle, music to liven the spirit and preserve the mood. For her, it reminded her of the music that she and Vaelen danced to at the Midland Market. She smiled, looking down, then grew more somber and looked up to the sky. Above her head the glow of the sunset was offset by the transition to night. A deep purple hue stretched on, dotted with stars who just began to appear. She spoke aloud, her volume barely above that of a whisper. It wasn’t a prayer, but it was. It was a plea to herself, to the world, to the universe. “My parents are gone, my brother a betrayer, the world I know is about to succumb to war, and here I stand thinking about a man who may not feel the same about me, who is a whole Brendom away.” She took a deep breath and shook her hands, almost like she was shaking the stress and the thoughts away. Then she made herself comfortable, and found a place to get some dinner, and talk with some of the other mercenaries she hadn’t met yet.

  That night took her hours to fall asleep. The sounds of the forest around her was soothing, so much so that it reminded her of Drachenara, and her thoughts went to the people, the ones she knew and the ones she only saw in passing. She wondered what it would be like, when war came to the beautiful city she’d known since she was just a young girl.

  Her dreams were wrought with fear, flames and blood, and she caught herself waking up every few minutes it felt like. It was a night that went on for days, it seemed.

  Vaelen had spent the day preparing the last bit of recruits as much as he could before they departed in the morning for Midland. All the young recruits were exhausted, and some had even fallen asleep during their meals. Vaelen had a twinge of pity for them.

  He could tell just by which ones were still awake, which ones volunteered, and which ones were forced to come aboard. He could see the fear in their eyes when blades clashed, and he knew by the way they grunted if they would be willing to kill a man, or if they would be standing there facing death themselves. A simple misstep would lead to them dying, or losing an arm, or a leg, or just slowly bleeding to death on the battlefield. If they were lucky – if they were all lucky – they wouldn’t encounter resistance from Drachenara. If they were lucky they would retreat, surrender, admit their losses and then run away.

  Vaelen had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen.

  By the time he reached the end of the larger tents, Rolyat was waiting for him, having already checked on the ones he’d dedicated himself to keeping an eye on. “All good?” The Paladin asked Vaelen.

  “As it can be.” Vaelen put his hands on his hips and walked forward toward the large tent that he and Rolyat were sharing. Vaelen had to drink a chalice of wine to help take the edge of and go to sleep, but then he realized just how bad of an idea any more than that could have been. Would he want to be caught off guard, the difference in his reaction time being the difference between his own, or his friend’s life and death?

  The two settled in for the night, and the next day, began the journey to Midland, several days behind the advance party and the Silver Sort

  Jorvig arrived at Drachenara with the armies of Stormvale in tow. Behind him walked thousands of soldiers, all covered in various armors and bearing weapons. They were mounted on horseback and cart and wagon, and some walked. Jorvig had prepared a battle plan as he rode, working out with his top commanders exactly what they would do when the time came.

  “They will march their full force in from the south.” Miliria had told him. “You will single-handedly slay any man you stand against, and you will destroy them all without contest. No man will be your equal on the battlefield. Succumb to your rage.” She said.

  To Jorvig, this was his moment to prove his worth, to finally bear the power he had been promised since Miliria first met him, the power to vanquish any foe. And he was willing to give up everything else for that power. She could lead. She could make the decisions. He just needed the willpower, the fortitude and the unbelievable strength and agility to overcome his foe. He smiled at just the thought of it.

  Drachenara had never been devised to house troops – not a garrison – especially not the one the size that Jorvig brought. Their tents were set up on the Northern side of the Valley in the cover of the dense forests, but he had moved men inside the city walls, and on the southern side of the valley, near Giltshore, as a reconnaissance camp. If the King attacked there, he would know to be prepared, and then when
they arrived outside Drachenara, they would swamp the foe in sheer numbers and destroy them. His victory would be swift, and he would be remembered all around for years to come. He would be sung about, and recorded to history books, and he would be remembered as great as his father.

  The castle was emptier now than it had ever been. In fact, the whole city was quiet. Many of the citizens who had not taken up the blade to help with the fight, had moved out of the city and gone north toward Meadwind Village, others had caught the ferry to Rootsborne. The whole city was quiet in comparison to its normal hustle and bustle, and yet some remained. Jorvig walked the town with his elite guard, adorned in crimson-red cloth, flowing regally behind them. All he had to do was wait. According to Miliria, they would come to him.