Rising Vengeance (The Anarian Chronicles Book 1)

by Stephen Trolly

  Visions of a Bygone Future

  The metallic smell of blood was overwhelming. The dull crash of steel striking wooden and steel shields and ringing off of enemy swords was loud enough to all but drown out other noise. The twanging of bowstrings could just be heard at the edge of the city as the defending archers desperately tried to hold what remained of the walls from an army that more than ten times outnumbered the meager forces still inside of the city. The gate of the city was broken and hanging on its hinges, and large portions of the walls had fallen down, the results of the combined efforts of Deshika siege engines and sappers, letting Deshik warriors pour into the city by the thousands. No matter the number of defenders elsewhere in the city, the Deshika were still laying siege to the hundred foot tall battlements from both sides in an attempt to take away the last high ground that the defenders still had. And louder than anything were the roars of gigantic beasts, like small, wingless dragons with hard blue scales and long sharp teeth. In the centre of this riot of death stood Taren Garrenin the Second. Though the fight had been dragging on for over fifteen hours, he was as of yet unmarked by the battle. His blue great sword was dyed crimson with blood as it flashed to take yet another life of his enemy’s, too weak to stand before him. The roaring of the beasts did not unnerve him, he had heard it many times, on many different battlefields throughout his long life, but he flinched as yet another of his guard, Morschledu all, and every one Tai-Aren Coda, fell to a Deshika arrow. Almost thirty out of the hundred Ringlords who formed The Spear of Drogoda had fallen, and he winced once again as his fallen man’s Mordak, the dragon-like beasts which Drogoda’s soldiers often rode into combat, let out a savage roar somewhere outside of the city and began to rampage throughout the battlefield in front of the great gates, or one of the holes in the wall, making no distinction between friend and foe.

  Taren’s examination of the battle ceased when over one hundred Deshik warriors charged around a corner in an attempt to ambush The Spear. ‘You almost have to feel sorry for them’ he thought, but all pity vanished completely as he remembered the slaughter of the Armies of the Sun on the plains of Ra-Diavere two years earlier. The monsters were from some god-forsaken land on the other side of the sea, and they had attacked from the north, moving southward. Taren had given them more than one fight along the way. The Deshika had had to bypass Drogoda completely and take Caladea and Armanda first. Only when the Drogs could retreat no further did the Deshika turn their attention towards the land of the Mordak Riders. No sooner had Taren banished all thought of the two nations to the south than the giant, many-limbed warriors, whom he considered little more than beasts, were upon him and his men. But by the time the Deshika reached The Spear, The Spear was ready for them. Though he himself cut through the horde of Deshika with little difficulty, not all of his guard fared the same. Taren almost felt as he himself was dying as he watched two more of his guard, both women, fall to Deshika swords, and then again as a man suddenly went insane and began charging forward into a knot of Deshika warriors and Morschen soldiers. He had known all of the fallen by name. He had hand-picked every one, after watching many of them grow from youth. ‘It must be a terrible thing,’ thought Taren as he watched the one man, ‘to have one’s Mordak killed.’ The magical bonding between a Mordak and its Rider was powerful, and the breaking of such a bond through violent death created nothing less dangerous than an arms master who knew no restraint, neither that of friend nor foe, save that of death. Or if it was the Rider who died, a savage beast bent on nothing except for the destruction of everything that stood in its way before it too passed into the void beyond death. Turning to the man at his right, Taren spoke for the first time since giving orders that morning.

  “General Druoth, send out The Spear. Tell them to gather every living soul that they can find to the palace. And then sound the retreat.”

  “But Morschcoda, Alquendiro …”

  “Alquendiro is lost, Makret. I won’t wait for my army to follow its fate.”

  Bowing, High General Makret Druoth moved among The Spear, giving orders for them to search different parts of the city to try to find any survivors, civilian or otherwise, and bring them to the massive palace that dominated the north-western quarter of Alquendiro. As most of the seventy remaining men and women moved off to search the city, five guards, three men and two women, with Makret leading, moved closer to Taren, ready to sell their lives if they must to ensure that their Morschcoda survived the little that was to remain of the battle. They knew that they would not need to. Taren was highly praised as a swordsman throughout the Ten Nations of Anaria, held as one of the greatest who ever lived. Sword-mastery was one thing, however, and a pitched battle was quite another.

  * * * * *

  The blood on Taren’s sword was beginning to harden as he and his five guards walked into the massive courtyard that opened up among the buildings and lead to the palace. The courtyard was one of the few places in Alquendiro that the battle had yet to reach, but with his men retreating, the peace it had enjoyed could not last for long. Already some of The Spear had brought civilians, a family of small children huddled closely around their mother, back to the courtyard, but they were standing around, unsure of whether they should go out and look for more, or stay to protect the ones that they had found already. The three women saw Taren enter the courtyard and one ran over for orders.

  “Take them through the tunnels that lead out of the palace, and then to the mountain holds east of the city,” Makret told her. “Gather anything you think might be useful,” the woman had already turned to sprint back to her companions, but Makret called her back. “Captain Reeshnar,” the woman stopped and turned, “don’t waste time searching. There aren’t enough of you to search thoroughly anyway.”

  As the Spear Captain Edya Reeshnar ran back to her charges, four men of The Spear entered the courtyard, carrying a dead man on their shields, and another three walked beside them, guarding the procession. Every one there recognized the dead man, either by his face or his armour, which marked him as a member of Drogoda’s Morschcodal House. It was Elich Garrenin, Taren’s youngest brother. His other two brothers had died in the Drog Civil War long before. “I thought I told you to run, Elich” said Taren to himself as he started to walk over. One of the men who had been guarding Elich ran over to meet Taren.

  “We found no one alive, but we can tell that your brother died a hero’s death. There were almost thirty dead Deshika around him, and no other Drogs.”

  “Small consolation, for now I am the last of my House,” said Taren through clenched teeth. “I would have him buried properly at sea, but that is not possible. If you can get to the docks, though, send him out to the waves in a small boat. He would like that better than to be left as carrion.”

  “It will be done, my lord” the man said as he turned back to his fellows.

  Before any more of The Spear returned to Taren, before even the three women had escorted their charges into the palace and out of harm’s way, harsh war horns, like the screams of the gore crows who were already circling high above, but deeper, longer, more menacing, could be heard coming from outside of the city. And then a rain of large, heavy arrows fell among the few men and women in the courtyard. Nobody had time to cover themselves with shields, though several tried. Taren looked up and saw that Deshik archers had scaled several tall towers inside of the city. He cursed them silently as he saw one cast a torch at the giant Drogodan flag flying on the pinnacle of the Topmast, Drogoda’s tallest tower. As the first of what likely would be many arrows pierced Taren’s flesh, he woke up, sweating, panting, in a bed far to the north of Alquendiro.
r />   What Comes with the Morning

  Taren rubbed his eyes and sat up. Though the dream did not frighten him as it once had, it still unnerved him. It reminded him, also, that no matter whom you are, fate can cut you down as easily as a seamstress can snip a thread. Though it was still early, the third bell had yet to ring, Taren groaned and forced himself out of bed and dressed in the clothes he would wear to that day’s council, though he did not yet don the amour that he wore to most sessions. Every year, the Morschcoda of the Ten Nations of Anaria met at Dishmo Kornara for anywhere from a week to two months of meetings in which trade, war, treaties, anything really, would be discussed in detail. Walking to the window, Taren looked out over the city of Dishmo Kornara in the yet weak early morning light. The ancestral home of the Morschen and the seat of the Morschcoda Council, the city was divided into ten districts, one for each of the Ten Nations, each with their own distinctive architecture proudly displayed in living spaces and other buildings: Drogoda’s flowing and graceful stone houses, Rista’s unmelting ice palaces, the massive towers of Meclarya, Eschcota’s network of caves, Torridesta’s imposing buildings made of threatening black rock that looked to be cloaked in shadow, Dothoro’s treetop houses, the burning red of Armanda’s stone structures, the light-radiating yellow of Caladea’s, the grand and impressive scrollwork of Storinea, and the quiet and unassuming grey of Noldoron which was adorned with intricate metalwork and carvings. The Ten Districts each had a gate in the outer wall and a road that led to the center of the city, where a single, massive castle-fortress in the midst of it: Pentailia Morschcoda, the Palace of the Ringmasters. It was a truly magnificent structure and one that embodied every aspect of the Morschen. People from across Anaria, and the few outsiders who were permitted into the ancient city, knew that despite its size and impressive architecture, it was merely a symbol of the power of the Morschcoda Council. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of men and women had dwelt within its walls, and now, Taren Garrenin stood, as a Morschcoda, one of ten, gazing out over a city that was as old as time itself. The Morschcoda of the land of Drogoda, Lord of the Mordak, Prince of House Garrenin, he was a powerful man.

  As he exited his sleeping chambers, two Tai-Aren Coda of the Spear of Drogoda came to attention and fell into step behind him. It was their duty to guard him, and guard him they would, even in his own bedroom. A third man, slightly taller Taren, came over from the window where he too had been observing the city in the early morning.

  “You could not sleep either, Morschcoda?”

  “You don’t need to be so formal with me, Makret. Use my name, as you always have.”

  Makret nodded in understanding, noting Taren’s appearance and knowing all too well what it meant. “The same dream again?”

  He nodded, pouring himself a drink and gulping it hurriedly. “It’s getting worse.” He cringed as the alcohol burned its way down his throat. He poured another drink.

  “How can it have gotten any worse than what it was?” asked Makret, taking away the bottle as the two men sat down.

  “Almost thirty of The Spear fell before we even considered retreat. The gate didn’t hold as long as it used to, either. And Elich fell, fighting alone down some deserted side street.” He did not mention his own death, or Makret’s. He felt that it might make him seem weaker or more vulnerable than some of the other Morschcoda hoped for, and their spies could be anywhere.

  Makret leaned in close to his friend. “Is this just a dream, or is it a premonition?”

  “It seems too clear, too real, to be anything other than a premonition, but if it is, why does it keep changing? I have seen into the future before, and I know can’t afford to ignore what might be a glimpse at the weaving of time, but neither can I afford to let it affect me. Especially with The Councils starting today.”

  Makret leaned forward even more, anxious to not be overheard. “You told me once that you believed that the enemies you saw in the dream were Deshika. Do you actually know that, or is it just a guess?”

  Taren lowered his voice to match Makret’s. “I don’t know, but who else would even dare to invade Drogoda? None of the Morschen races, and it wasn’t them. No other race, not even the Humans, would march on Alquendiro, even supposing they had the armies to march, and if any of them have heard of our lands far beyond their reach … And in the dream it seems as though I have memories of others of the Ten Nations falling before the battle even starts.”

  “So, you don’t actually know that it is an attack by the Deshika.”

  “No. But everything I see points to them. The weapons, especially the arrows, are the same as relics from El Bendro Dakoia. I no longer doubt my guess.”

  “The Eternal War was fought before the dawn of time. And uncounted millennia have passed since the founding of Dishmo Kornara, long after. Those relics might have been used by the first Morschen, or the Deshika may have altered their weapons and armour in the long years since any but the Morschcoda have even thought of them.”

  “Hardly uncounted millennia. The Garrenin line has been unbroken since the end of the war. Three hundred and fifty generations or so. Two hundred and fifty thousand years. I know that the arguments you make have their points, but do you honestly think that I haven’t thought of them?”

  “I assumed that you had, but I wanted to be sure. But you can’t be certain without having seen them, in your dream or out.”

  “I have seen them though. There was an ambush. They were almost nine feet tall, and they had four arms.”

  “Certainly not Morschen then, as you said” laughed Makret. Then he grew more serious. “Taren, that is just what our ancestors tell us through records of what they assume the Deshika to be.”

  “I know all of this, Makret. But what if it is a premonition? I can’t afford to ignore it, but if I begin to muster the Drogs, well, Erygan is likely to be under pressure from the council for sending not even half of the Black Guard in the general direction of Rista. How do you think they will react if I marshal the entire army of Drogoda, twenty five thousand soldiers and ten thousand more which ride into battle astride Mordak, based on a dream that I don’t understand?”

  Bells rang high above them, clear and unfeeling, tolling out the third hour of the morning. Both men were quiet for almost another hour. Taren took his bottle back from Makret and drank in silence, finishing the Eschcotan whiskey. It was widely claimed that Taren’s drinking habits could leave a Dwarf with a hangover, though no one had seen Dwarves since the end of The Eternal War. Seeing that Taren had finished what he sometimes referred to as his ‘liquid tolerance,’ Makret finally spoke again.

  “Do you know anything that might be helpful going into today’s council? Or that you may be able to use later?”

  Taren did not even pause to think. “Marrdin is upset about Erygan marshalling the Black Guard against his border. Xari is always in a terrible mood at the start of The Councils, and at most other times, honestly. Ranny will be after either my head or Erygan’s, as usual. Bloody woman, I honestly do not know who I hate more, her or Xari. Daken will not be of any help to me because he hates to be anywhere when he could be flying on that cursed dragon of his.” Makret started to say the name of Daken’s ‘cursed dragon’ but Taren cut him off. “I don’t know what its name is, and I don’t care what its name is.” Makret sat back in his chair. “And there are two new Morschcoda this year.” Taren shook his head, as much to clear it after the strong drink as to prepare himself to dive into the yearly quagmire of politics that would be the next few weeks. “It’s about bloody time in Storinea’s case. Garneth went over the mountains fifty years ago. We all knew he never planned on coming back, so he should have been replaced before he left. None of that is of any more use to me than anything ever is, though.” Contemplating the banquets and parties that various Guilds and Merchant Clans always planned around The Councils only made him less happy about the time he would spend in Anaria’s capital. The only annual parties he attended happily were held by the Anarian Gui
ld of Brewers, for obvious reasons, and the feast that the chief members of the Merchant Conclave took turns presiding over, as the Merchant Princes each had fortunes to rival that of a small country.

  “This might be of some use, then. Erygan has arrested three Dragon Riders for spying on Torridesta. Apparently the Riders claim that they were sent by Daken’s sister to invite to Lady Dalrey to Airachni. Daken doesn’t know that they have been arrested.”

  “Lady Dalrey is Daken’s sister.”

  “His other sister then. You know what I meant.”

  “I would say that that is likely related to whatever Erygan has the Black Guard stationed so far east for.” He thought for a few moments, pulling out his pipe slowly, and searching through his pockets for his tobacco. He put his pipe away with equal slowness and more than a hint of disappointment in his eyes when he remembered that he had left the small leather pouch in his room, along with his supply of whiskey. They were too tempting to take to the Council Chamber, and there at least, he needed a clear head. “That may have a use later, of one kind or another, if I can confront Erygan with it before he says anything, or anybody else brings it up, especially if, as you say, Daken doesn’t know.”

  “It might even be enough to start a small war. Then we can go home early.”

  “Or it might finish one.”

  The tolling of four silver bells high above them interrupted their conversation. Almost immediately, advisors, aides, servants, and messengers began running everywhere, hurrying to prepare for the beginning of The Councils. Taren and his two guards left Makret among the Drogodan rooms and went straight to the Council Chamber, where he did not doubt he would find at least one of the Morschcoda already. Makret would join him later, as would the other entourages join and sit behind their Morschcoda, representing their nation’s interests, while taking no part themselves. As he walked, Taren thought of the other nine Morschcoda, two of which he would be seeing in that role for the first time at this meeting.