The arms of the catapults lifted with a moan, hurling their heavy payloads skyward. The iron shot flew almost lazily through the air, reaching a zenith above the carrions, before tumbling earthbound. Throughout the Luthuanian ranks there were explosions of flesh and armor as the iron balls pounded into the army. Cries of agony pierced the air. Men lay torn all about the hillside.
Desperous eyed the spot were two men had stood only a moment before. The earth had collapsed into a crater, and the bodies had become indistinguishable. The men began to falter at the sight. “Hold formation,” yelled Desperous. He alighted his horse, and with a swat to the rump he sent the riderless animal scurrying back up the hill. He joined the front line, hoping his presence might instill courage in his men. “Double time!”
A trumpeter blasted his horn, setting the whole army in step.
The Luthuanians fell into a jog. One hundred yards, ninety, eighty. They weren’t going to make it fast enough. The second barrage came quicker than expected. The earth exploded with each resounding impact, sending up a spray of silt and blood. Desperous was momentarily blinded. He tore his hand across his face, clearing his eyes of the filth. But the brief lapse in vision proved costly. He caught sight of the twirling iron ball only a second before impact. By instinct, he threw his weight into the elves immediately beside him, shoving them down the hill and out from harm’s way. But there wasn’t enough time for Desperous to escape. There was a white flash as the ball struck his face. The projectile’s brutal force drove through his body, crushing his chest, right arm, and leg.
For an instant, Desperous saw his body become misshapen, broken beyond repair. The left side of his head felt as if it burst, and his vision turned red and then black. His ear momentarily screeched from the blow, then he was embraced by the most severe silence he had ever experienced. The void of his mind processed the command to lift his arm, but he felt nothing. He envisioned himself crying so that he might hear his own voice. This labor was also without fruit. A creeping stillness enveloped him, and he found that he had become senseless.
Desperous searched his consciousness for any physical feeling, even pain, yet he found none. He was simply numb. He wanted to scream. He wished to do anything that felt real. But it was not an option; his body was no longer a part of him. It was in this moment that Desperous realized there were far fouler things than death in this world.
CHAPTER
XI
HOME
The Capernican soldiers shifted uneasily as they watched the battle play out half a league to the north. The Luthuanian army had advanced into the carrion horde, leaving a trail of slaughter in their wake. From Bently’s vantage, the Luthuanians looked little more than ants scampering down the hill. But Bently had seen war before, and his mind did not have to work very hard to give substance to the black shapes that littered the slope: ravaged bodies, crushed limbs, and everywhere the vile stain of blood corrupting the earth and turning the whole world red.
The catapults bred disorder amongst the Luthuanians, and their tight formations slackened under the barrage. The men frantically dodged the deadly hail of fire, dividing the formerly solid units into smaller and smaller divisions. Bently chewed his lip, wondering what counterstroke his men might make to aid the faltering Luthuanians.
“The carrions are in motion,” said Ethenel. The knight was squatted on his haunches, perched like a hawk atop a rock that overlooked the valley. He pointed with the crest of his raised visor, directing Bently’s attention to the east. Sure enough, the southern reserves of the carrion horde were slowly plodding across the valley. One division had already advanced parallel to the position held by the men of Westerhip. Dragoon handlers encircled the mindless host, prodding the carrions with halberds to hasten their step. The dragoons were careful to keep the carrions out of range of Bently’s archers.
“They’re flanking the elves,” said Ethenel, quickly perceiving the play at hand. “What would you have us do, commander?”
The banded leather epaulettes of a commander were fastened to either of Bently’s shoulders. They were part of an ornate breastplate, under which he wore his typical suit of leather and mail. The steel armor drooped like a teardrop, falling to mid-chest. The Tower of Yasmire was blazoned on the blue-gray steel. Knotted about his neck was a burgundy cape; it fluttered behind him like the wings of a cardinal. With Waymire trapped within the beleaguered city, Bently was the most senior member of the Royal Guard present on the field of battle. Today he was expected to serve as their commander.
Bently readjusted the uncomfortable breastplate, considering all the disquieting options at hand. Strokes and counterstrokes. Although each of his ideas came up short, the time for delay was through. “Come with me,” said Bently to Ethenel. He marched down the line barking out orders to each of his division captains; they needed to prepare their men to move. He found Lord Disias already in council with the other members of the high command.
“All ears to me,” Bently called brusquely as he drew near. Without waiting for a reply, he pulled out his sword and sketched a crude map of the battlefield into the ground. He cut the Capernican ranks into seven squares, marking each commander’s army. “We need to act with haste before events spiral beyond salvation. Sir Ethenel and I will lead our men north and cut the enemy off in the valley between Ois and Serel.” He eyed the carrions, hoping they still had time. “Lord Carigrie, are your men prepared to march?”
The squint-faced sea lord from Donast opened his mouth as if to speak, but Disias raised his hand in apparent exasperation. “Might I explain, good captain, why we cannot do this?” interjected Lord Disias.
Disias also bore the burgundy cape of a commander, appearing venerable, although falsely so. He walked atop Bently’s map, obscuring the markings with the heel of his boot. “While you are the acting commander of the Guardsmen, I am the mouth of the queen, and you must do as your queen bids. She has instructed us not to engage the enemy unless signaled.”
General Waymire had positioned flagmen atop the gatehouse so he could direct the army from an elevated vantage point. Bently spied the gatehouse tower. There was no movement atop the peak. In fact, he did not see a soul atop the structure. It was as if the post had been deserted.
“Queen?” scoffed Bently, curling his lip in disbelief. “There is no queen on the field of battle. There are men, and steel, and death. On any other day I will abide to Lady Manherm’s bidding, but today, right now, we must go to battle or accept defeat.” He gestured to the carrion horde that would soon move beyond the reach of possible interception. “We must act now.”
“We will not,” said Disias resolutely. He crossed his arms before his chest like an obstinate child.
Bently had heard enough and spit on Disias’s carefully polished boots. “I should have put a blade through your sniveling mouth at Manherm.”
Disias recoiled, feigning injury. “Yet you did not, and the kingdom is better for it. You see, Captain, I am but a humble servant of the queen, as you are also. Now, play your part, as all men are wont to do. You might be surprised how your queen rewards her faithful subjects.”
“I will not await the order,” said Bently, firm in his position. “They have no greater vantage than we do. We move now, or we lose the day, maybe the war!”
“General Waymire was very precise,” said Disias.
The other commanders erupted in a chorus of discord.
“I don’t give a damn what General Waymire said!” Bently snapped tersely, unable to control his fury. Inwardly, he flinched at his own insubordination, but he was not about to accept inaction. “Do you have any idea what will happen if the carrions take Serel?”
Dumb looks resounded from the collection of lords and commanders.
Of course not, thought Bently, bristling with rage. These men knew nothing of war. They would dawdle and bicker while Desperous’s entire army was pressed to the irons. He looked to the embattled lines of the Luthuanian army and knew he could not abandon his friend to
so helpless a fate. He stood rigid as stone before the contemptuous host of lords, and growled out his command like the grizzled veteran he had become. “As ranking officer of the Elite Royal Guard, I order you to follow my directive. Sir Ethenel, your men will intercept the carrion advance that is flanking the Luthuanian position.” Bently pointed to the commander of the host from Donast. “Lord Carigrie, take a thousand men, and place yourself between the carrions and the city gates.” Lastly to the Kari Prince, Gurwan Kelig, who had brought two hundred mounted lancers to war. “Prince Gurwan, feign cavalry charges on the stationary carrions to the south. Hem them in and hold them at bay.”
Bently yanked a signal flag from the hands of an infantry soldier and held it aloft, waving it at the Westerhip division. Immediately a river of men lapped over the crest of the hill and began to descend into the valley, set at an angle to cut off the carrion advance.
“I cannot allow you to do this,” called Disias to his rear.
The time for debate was through. Without turning around, Bently issued his order. “There is no place for treason on the battlefield, Lord Disias.” Bently called out two captains from his own division. “Relieve Lord Disias of his command. Escort him to the train and see that...”
His words were cut short by a hard pressure just below his left shoulder blade. It was deep and crushing, truly the oddest sensation Bently had ever experienced. He tried to speak, but his breath caught in his throat. A searing spasm rippled through his back.
“Your orders, sadly, are not in the interest of our kingdom,” whispered a kindly voice in his ear.
Bently instinctively cleaved backward with his sword. It raked harmlessly across Disias’s steel breastplate, gouging a groove through the white tower emblem he bore on his chest. With one deft motion, Disias seized Bently’s hand and contorted his wrist with such force Bently had no choice but to drop his blade. Disias grasped the blade lodged in Bently’s back and wiggled it back and forth, forcing Bently down on all fours.
For a moment Bently lay prostrate before his army in utter disbelief. Disias met any resistance with a light twist of the blade. Wildfire surged through Bently’s core. His hands had grown numb, and he felt no sensation below his hips. The fact that he was still alive meant one thing; unbelievably, the blade had missed his heart. But the taste of blood welling in the back of his throat quelled any hope. The wound would prove fatal.
From the corner of his eye, Bently watched as Disias rubbed at the gouge in his breastplate with a silk cloth, as if the mark was of much more circumstance than Bently’s demise. Realizing the mar was there to stay, Disias pressed his knee into Bently’s back, and laid a mocking hand upon his shoulder. “Blood that runs so deep cannot be allowed to persist,” said Disias in an all too matter-of-fact tone. “But I imagine you knew the fate the Weaver wove when you abandoned your family at Manherm, didn’t you, Captain Troushire?”
Bently issued a guttural howl as his fading mind made sense of the treacherous insinuation. Disias had plotted, and schemed, and conspired so that his queen might sit upon the throne of Caper unchallenged — a challenge Bently had never intended to issue — and it was Bently’s family who paid the ultimate price. Bently’s body began to shiver uncontrollably, but it was not from the blow Disias had dealt. It was the thought of his family. His wife and child. Bently ground his forehead into the earth, pinching back his tears.
“You’ve grown tired in this world,” whispered a soothing voice. It was a wisp on the wind compared to the chaos of war around him, yet it rang true in his mind. He knew the voice all too well. Bently scanned the horizon for the source, but did not see her.
“Do not fear what comes, I await you, my love. We await you.” A flicker of white satin fluttered before his eyes. The patter of feet and a shrill laugh echoed ghostly in his ears. Samantha. The thought of his daughter brought with it a flood of pride.
“I’ll be there soon,” managed Bently, his voice was broken, incomprehensible to all who bore witness. “I must do one thing first.”
In a surge of berserk strength, Bently lurched to his feet, grabbed Disias by his breastplate, and body slammed the treacherous lord into the ground. Disias croaked like a toad as his breath burst from his lungs. Bently swiftly kicked him across the face, turning his nose crooked in a spurt of blood.
With Disias momentarily incapacitated, Bently stumbled like a drunkard as he tried to catch his bearings. Up and down had no meaning in his fading mind. He motioned for a flag, and some unseen person put the haft of a signal flag into his hand. He ground the coarse wood handle in the palm of his hand, and using it for support, Bently rose upright. He coughed, sending flecks of blood splattering across the field before him. His time was short. Using the last of his energy, he called to the gathering of confused soldiers before him, finding a voice he did not know he had. “Delay no more. Men of Caper, warriors of the king, to battle! Go! Go now!”
But even as he urged the men to battle a horrid sight accosted his eyes. The grand iron portcullis that barred the entrance into Luthuania was slowly grinding upward. The city gate was flung wide open. He had beheld the mirror image during the fall of Manherm. “Betrayed,” he murmured with his failing breath.
“Don’t listen to him,” shrieked Disias. His face was a hideous mask of blood. “He’s a traitor to the crown.”
Bently ignored the coward’s cry, and began to make his way down the hill, waving the flag over his head. He made it only a few paces before his senseless legs buckled and he fell. Bently looked at the soldiers and found that they remained perfectly still. Many had cast their gaze aside, while others had turned their back to him, unable to bear witness to the unfolding tragedy.
“I beg of you, heed my call,” said Bently in despair.
Bently didn’t see Disias coming. The second blow was numb, the pain not able to register. Bently fell flat on his stomach, his mouth in the dirt. His gaze began to fog.
Suddenly, another form fell to his side. It was Disias, set through the abdomen with a spear. Ethenel stood over him, his eyes fraught with uncertainty.
Bently looked to the frightened knight with pleading eyes. “And you Ethenel? Will you lead them to battle?” Bently held up the banner to the knight.
For a moment, it seemed as if Ethenel might waver. Then, with a sure hand, he lifted the flag and swung it aloft.
“To battle!” roared Ethenel. He unsheathed his blade and began to reiterate Bently’s final commands. The men of Caper went thundering down the hill, bound to throw themselves between the carrion horde and the open city gate. The lancers took flight and about him a thousand hooves pounded the earth; their blue and green caparisons danced like the waves of the sea.
Bently watched them as they went, letting out a final sigh of relief. All was not lost. His efforts had not been in vain. He thanked the Guardians that he was so fortunate.
His body lay still amongst the grass.
As if in a dream, Bently reached out to Maya, and for once her apparition did not recede from his touch. She took his hand in her own, and there was warmth and comfort and life in those fingers like never before. The chaos of battle waned to an imperceptible hiss. He was ready.
“Do not fear your dying breath,” whispered Maya. “Let the warmth take you in.” She wrapped her arms around him, cupping his head to her chest.
As the world around Bently faded into black, a shimmering light purged through the darkness, racing across the battlefield to meet the enemy head on. All hope was not lost. The day could still be won.
“You are at peace now, my love,” said Maya.
And Bently knew he was. The warmth flooded over him, and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity a smile graced his lips. He had done his duty. His days of strife and hardship were at an end. Bently was home.
CHAPTER
XII
THE WEB
The darkness was all-encompassing. The bittersweet flicker of the afterlife Desperous had felt on the cobblestone steps before t
he citadel of Coralan plagued his mind, a reminder of what should have been. This was more dire a fate than he could have imagined. This was a death without an end. A death deprived of all its blessing.
“I have been forsaken,” bemoaned Desperous in the recesses of his consciousness. “I have been denied the right of all humanity.” He envisioned his arms and legs, his torso and head, a thousand strings of entwined flesh, yet all melted away, transforming into an amorphous cloud on a breath of air. “Fate, why have you condemned me to this end? I give into death, do not bar me from what is rightfully mine.”
“There are no rights in this land,” whispered a voice from beyond the veil. It streaked through his consciousness, foreign, not of his own mind. “But you should have learned that long ago, Prince Desperous.”
A light pierced the darkness. A dull glow that might as well have been the sun; such was its brilliance when compared to the nothingness that surrounded him. Slowly it grew in radiance until it tore through his frame like a fiery dagger. Desperous collected the warmth in his hands, closing his eyes in rapture.
“Your purpose has not yet been fulfilled,” spoke the light. Desperous recognized the voice, although he had only heard it once before.
“How,” managed Desperous weakly. “How are you here?”
The Guardian suddenly took form before him, still wearing the same mask of flesh he bore upon the steps of Coralan. Yet his crimson cloak was gone, replaced by pure light. From his back sprung millions of threads, each as fine as a strand of silk, bundled so that they became a great cape that trailed beyond the Guardian into oblivion. Yansarian examined Desperous’s broken form piteously. “The stone Camara bestowed upon you,” said Yansarian, pointing to the elf’s chest. “Do you not know what it is?”
Desperous followed the Guardian’s finger, finding that he was naked save for the necklace Camara had granted him. The blue gemstone pressed against his bare chest; the skin that wreathed it took on an icy hue. Desperous cautiously lifted the stone and rubbed his finger across its milky surface.
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 12
