“Indeed,” said Disias. “That he has not returned is a shame.” Desperous couldn’t tell if Disias was being glib or not. He remembered well that Disias was one of the most vocal opponents to the mission.
Bently eyed the man bitterly; there were clearly no warm feelings between the two.
Thatcher nodded to Marshal and Ferrivo. “We’ve been to every free keep and citadel south of Eremor and west of the Teeth. Those that were able have sent men.”
“Is it enough?” asked Bently, as he eyed the banners that wreathed the room.
“It may never prove enough, but it’s what we have,” said Bailrich with a forlorn sigh. “The siege began three weeks ago. The city’s food stores were full when the enemy arrived, but so were its streets, overcrowded with refugees from Capernicus. We have managed to sneak some provisions in by boat during the cover of night, but even so, the city will soon run dry. Five days at most.”
“And the walls?” pressed Desperous. In what seemed like another life, it had been Desperous’s duty to strengthen the city’s defenses during the Nexian War. They were designed to resist the greatest siege engines the men of Caper could put forth. Luthuania’s battlements were raised a dozen fathoms above the field. Turrets were installed every hundred paces. Its wooden gates were encased in iron; the enemy could exhaust every stone in Laveria and they would neither bend nor budge. Yet Desperous knew the defenses could be beaten. All had been done to repel those who held value for life. The necromancer had no such concern.
“The defenses are holding as they should. The eastern wall is lined with the wreckage of siege works. The enemy has made a frontal assault twice, but each time they were turned back. The second attack was close. Carrions gained the battlements before being driven back.”
“Then why have you waited to move?” asked Desperous. He was shocked that the city had been tried for three weeks while this grand army lay in wait.
“We were awaiting the final hosts from Melock, and the Halgan army only arrived today.”
“The dwarves have come to war?” exclaimed Desperous. “I have not seen them.”
“They set up their camp just to the east,” said Marshal. “Odd superstition and old prejudice. They didn’t want to be so near the men of Caper.”
“Nor would they accept our invitation to the meeting,” said Thatcher. “King Byron refuses to sit at the same table as the Capernicans.”
Bently and Desperous exchanged knowing glances. If Byron was king, then something awful must have happened at New Halgath after they departed. Desperous was disgusted by the thought that they were here, plotting for the final fight while Dolum was alone learning the awful truth about his father. He promised himself that he would find Dolum as soon as he could and issue his condolences. Desperous blinked off the disquieting news of King Salmaen’s death, and struggled to find his best diplomatic tone. “Whatever King Byron believes, it is splendid he is here,” said Desperous. “Now tell me, when do we attack and what plans do we have?”
Bailrich led him to a map and began to point out everything in turn. The plan for the counter assault took some time to explain, and it was not until late in the evening that their discussion drew to a close.
Satisfied that the planning was sound, Desperous excused himself.
“There is one more thing,” said General Bailrich, halting Desperous’s departure. “It’s about High Lord Rancor and your father.”
• • •
Surrounded by foreigners, Dolum slipped quietly to the edge of the camp and settled against a mossy log. He closed his eyes in a vain effort to gain sleep. His racing mind granted him no ease.
He slowly opened and closed his left hand, trying to force his middle and pointer fingers to comply with his mental commands. As he did, his mind drifted over the events of the past few weeks. Dolum had taken the shocking turn of events hard. He couldn’t comprehend it. Ivatelo had appeared comatose, and then in an instant he was gone. Leaving no hint of where he went, the magic simply disappeared into the night. It was chilling, and each time Dolum considered the possibilities he developed a more twisted vision. What if Ivatelo is a slave of the necromancer, and all has been a grand ploy to get them to reveal their hand? What if the necromancer knows everything? He could see the necromancer now, wreathed by his congregation of the dead, and Ivatelo standing at his side. The uncertainty made him queasy.
Dolum rose to his feet in frustration and began to pace. It was in this moment he heard the oddest thing. A harsh voice was squabbling loudly with a Capernican.
“Your ale tastes as if it were made of stagnant water and rotten grain,” growled the voice.
“Aye?” countered the other. “Your drink will turn you green for a week!”
“Maybe for a meek-bodied oaf like yourself,” grumbled the voice.
There was no mistaking who it was. Dolum pushed through the crowd and cried out in excitement. “Captain Braddock!” He was ecstatic to see a familiar face.
The captain stumbled into a turn. His face contorted in confusion as his drunken eyes blinked into focus on the youth. “Light up my ships and call me ready, it’s Lan Dolum!” yelled Braddock in excitement.
“When did you get here?” asked Dolum. Scanning the crowd, he spotted more Halgans in amongst the mix. Some were drinking, still more were sucking on engroot.
“We just got here this very day,” said Braddock. He smacked his palm into his black carapace armor, which caused about a hundred other dwarves to drum their armor in reply. A shout of, “For Halgath,” rose from their collective voices.
Braddock laughed heartily. “Brought the whole damn army with us. This is going to be one hell of a battle.”
“And you’re already drinking?”
“Seems like the natural order of things.” Braddock rapped Dolum playfully in the back of the head. “Your uncle is going to be so happy to see you, lad. He was mighty worried for you.”
“My uncle...?” began Dolum not understanding. “What of my father?”
Braddock’s face grew grim, and he stood silent for a moment as his sobriety returned. “I would have thought you heard,” said the captain softly.
Dolum fell back a few paces, he suddenly felt faint. His father, he was...
Dolum shuddered. He didn’t want to think the words. It just couldn’t be. But looking into Braddock’s eyes the truth was all there. His father had been killed. But worse, if dead, then certainly raised.
“The Fates protect him,” managed Dolum as he drew his hand to his mouth. He was suddenly back in the catacombs beneath New Halgath, his father’s body gushing blood all over Dolum’s hands as he vainly tried to stanch the wound. Paseran stood nearby, leering with his toothy mouth, beckoning Dolum to leave his father’s side and follow him west. The vision passed, and once again Dolum stood amidst a crowd of his own people. Everyone was focused squarely on Dolum to see how he would react to the news.
Dolum felt his eyes brimming with hot tears, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He staggered there awkwardly, not knowing whether he should run away or stand firm and publicly show his grief.
Seeing the pain in Dolum’s eyes, Braddock threw his arm around his waist and led him back to the log. He hid Dolum’s embarrassing display of emotion by placing his body between Dolum and the rest of the men.
“No tears here, lad. Hold a stiff lip.” The captain gave him a sharp squeeze to the shoulder. “You’re the Lan of Byron now. The men will look to you for strength, and whatever feeling you’ve got welling up inside, you’re going to have to lock it away for now. We’re going to send those demon spawn packing, don’t you fret your mind on that. There will be revenge enough for all of us.”
Dolum found a point on the ground upon which he set his focus. He ignored Braddock’s reassuring words and let his rage build. In his mind’s eye a fiery wind was howling from the west, burning the world and blasting the brittle carrions into motes of dust. At last, the flame reached his father’s corpse. Salmaen smiled grate
fully as he was purified with fire.
“My breath is my king’s,” whispered Dolum to himself. “My breath is my king’s.” He muttered with greater vehemence. “My breath is my king’s,” he repeated as he stood atop the log. “My breath is my king’s!” roared Dolum so that the whole encampment could hear his declaration.
• • •
After the briefing, Bently lumbered slowly toward a tent Disias had managed to scrounge up for him. Disias’s courtesy only furthered Bently’s ire for the man. Disias strutted around as if he were the anointed commander. General Waymire should be out here leading the men, not that fool adviser. But who was Bently to question Waymire’s decision to remain within Luthuania. Bently shook his head glumly. He was just frustrated; even the prospect of sleeping on a proper bed gave him no thrill. The memory of things past and dread over the future tormented Bently’s mind. Fresh air had always served him well in times like these, and he walked along the perimeter of the encampment hoping to placate his thoughts.
Focusing on the mission had kept most of the waking visions away, but there was no denying them now. His churning mind would not cease, and every time he looked out into the forest, there she was, dimly outlined amongst the boles of the trees, her white dress marred by the end of her life.
Soon, he wanted to say, hoping that would set her unquiet soul at ease. Instead, he looked into the expanse above, hoping to find solace there. The night was starless, as if a black pall had been drawn across the sky. Flashes of white light broke along the horizon.
“A storm approaches,” said a familiar voice. “This night forebodes death.”
He saw that Desperous sat nearby upon a cairn of stones that had been fashioned into a bench. Bently was pleased to see a friend and took a seat beside the elf.
“I see we have both sought solitude to collect our thoughts.”
“Or perhaps to escape,” said Bently. “What troubles your mind on the eve of battle?”
“The Guardian,” said Desperous. He held the blue jewel Camara had given him at Coralan. “I feel that this stone is somehow tied to the god, although I couldn’t tell you how. It has been cold as ice ever since we departed. I don’t believe the Guardian is coming.”
“Yansarian is not the savior we sought,” said Bently, now certain that this was the truth. He didn’t bother to cross himself.
“I imagine you didn’t come out here to talk about the futility of our mission,” said Desperous. He tucked the jewel back within the neck of his tunic. “In Ravor you began to tell me something. Please, share it with me now if it will bring some peace to your mind. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring.”
Bently sat in silence, shifting his weight uneasily as he sought the courage to speak the truth; a truth he had long hidden behind a veil of silence and misdirection. “The tragedy that has befallen my family lies with my lineage,” said Bently finally. He looked about the camp to guarantee no others were within earshot.
“Go on,” said Desperous kindly. “It’s just you and me.”
Bently nodded. “My mother was a mistress of King Johan. But the bastard son of the king has no place in the hallowed halls of Yasmire Tower. I was fostered in Lord Halen’s court, where I served as a page alongside Sir Ethenel. But as I got older, it became obvious someone was displeased with my station in life. Lord Halen surprised me on my tenth birthday with a commitment to the Yanish Brotherhood. I doubt it was his choice. Someone in Caper thought it would be wiser for me to become a brother than a knight. I couldn’t roil King Johan’s court if I was a sworn servant to the Guardian.” He ran his hand through his hair, revealing the razor scars that lined the top of his crown.
“When I came of age, I broke my vows to the brotherhood and swore the oath of a guardsman. In my ignorant teenage mind, I imagined I might one day serve under my father, as a son should. Do you know how many times King Johan ever spoke a word to me? Once. He congratulated me for my service in Ravor and pinned a medallion to my chest. I was granted an estate outside Manherm, far away from the intrigues of the king’s court, as my reward.”
He sighed despondently. “As the years went by I rose in rank. I became General Waymire’s second. All of my accomplishments were hard-earned, and I never once used my lineage to my advantage. Yet the truth must have been known by someone.”
“That’s why they were hunting you,” whispered Desperous as he finally pieced everything together. “And that is why they killed your family.”
“Yes, I think so,” said Bently. “And I knew, somewhere deep inside of me, that when I retreated with Lady Manherm’s caravan I was committing my family to death. But due to honor and duty, I submitted to General Waymire’s command. Although it was not my hand that held the blade, it was my actions that killed them in the end.”
“The horrors of war cannot be broken down with logic,” said Desperous quietly. “Nor can we place blame other than where it belongs. It was the necromancer who brought this upon you. It was no act of your own. Just know they have passed on to Elandria and try to find comfort in that. It’s the most you can do.” He squeezed Bently’s shoulder reassuringly.
“I just miss them so,” whimpered Bently, giving way to his emotion. Desperous laid a kind hand upon his shoulder, and sat beside him in silence, patiently waiting for Bently to regain his composure. Through force of will, Bently steadied his breaths. “Tomorrow, Desperous, we’re going to take the fight to them.” His voice grew hard and certain. “We’ll let the afterlife sort out the righteous from the weak.”
“Do not be too bold in your quest for vengeance,” said Desperous. “That battlefield will be no place for a foolhardy approach. Moreover, your men will need you. Lead them brilliantly and we may yet make the necromancer rue the day he set against us.”
With that said, the two stood and embraced in camaraderie.
“Farewell, friend,” said Desperous quietly.
“Farewell,” called Bently in return. He had the dark impression this would be the last time he would see Desperous in this world.
CHAPTER
X
THE WRATH OF LUTHUANIA
Before dawn, the encampment came to life.
The men apprehensively crawled from their tents and sleep rolls, awakened by a chorus of clanking mail and the soft draw of whetting blades. Beneath a thick canopy of dew-laden trees the men fell into ranks, collecting before the standards of their respective lieges. The moon was nearing half-full, and at times it peeked through the overcast sky, flickering off polished steel, glinting off honed spears, mirroring off blazoned shields. The light glittered over the surrounding forest, granting the impression that the soldiers were standing amidst a sea of stars.
The men of Caper rejoiced, envisioning the moon as a auspicious omen, a sign from the gods. The growing crescent was the symbol of Capernicus. But such zealous thoughts were brief. The light slowly waned, and as the meandering trail of soldiers set forth, thunder clapped on the horizon. The tranquility of the night broke and rain came down in a raging torrent.
From atop his mount, Desperous set the entire Luthuanian army in motion with the wave of his hand. The forest shivered from the percussion of a hundred thousand feet marching in step. Desperous had led soldiers into battle before, but never under such dire circumstances. The men were deathly quiet, as if members of a funerary procession. But for whose funeral; the necromancer’s or their own? Desperous couldn’t help but risk a wan smile. The wrath of Luthuania was on the move.
His horse stamped impatiently, eager to join the columns of marching men. Desperous gave the horse’s withers a hard scratch, which seemed to placate the animal. The stallion was draped in a green caparison, and Desperous wore a green ranger’s cloak to match. Beneath he wore a breastplate of steel that bore the tri-rays standard of his house. He ran his fingers over the embossed steel, tracing each of the three rays; one for the house of Farsidian, one for the house of Valerius, his ancestral sire, and one for the house of Alwin, from which his father was born
. With Nochman and Rancor imprisoned, and Luthuania about to fall, a bleak thought entered Desperous’s head. I might be the last to bear the tri-rays into battle. Grim-faced, he joined the parade and led the gathered armies from the valley.
On the fringe of the camp, erected on either side of the path, stood competing deities bearing witness to their passage. Effigies of the Guardian and the comely-faced Weaver had been carved into the boles of two living trees. A trio of Yanish brothers stood nearby. They bore in their hands coiled flails for any who wished to atone for their sins. A passerby would raise a hand and the flail would snap, leaving behind a glaring welt or thin red cut. Desperous saw others going through the stations of absolution, their lips moving silently as they made peace with the Weaver, Vacia, or whatever god they held supreme. May they be so lucky that their god sees them through the coming storm, thought Desperous, for many are fated to die. He shook his head with disgust, knowing full well that he would be the one throwing these men into the pyre.
A rustle beside the road signaled Thatcher and Marshal’s return from their scouting mission.
“The enemy has continued their bombardment through the night,” reported Marshal, who walked alongside Desperous’s stallion. Marshal’s creaton face was stiff and unnatural, showing nothing of the fear or anxiety everyone else felt. “The carrions mill aimlessly, and the dragoons have sought shelter within their tents. We spotted the necromancer’s entourage of phirops and undead dragons. If the necromancer is not a coward, we will face him today.”
“And if the weather continues we will catch them unprepared,” said Thatcher. His yellow eyes flickered beneath the hood of his red cloak.
“Perhaps our only saving grace,” said Desperous. With all three kingdoms committing their full force, it represented the largest creaton army assembled since the War of Sundering. Yet they were still grossly outnumbered. All actions from this point forward were those of a desperate people; a ploy to stave off the inevitable, if even for a few days. As long as Luthuania stood, Laveria stood, and just maybe the Guardian might return in time to save them both. But they needed a victory today.
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 10
