by R. T. Kaelin
This was not going to be easy.
Chapter 54: Brothers
23rd of the Turn of Maeana, 4999
The western sky was a colorless gray, yet undisturbed by Mu’s orb.
Most of the lesser stars had faded, leaving only the brightest to hold to the night. Hundreds of torches lined Demetus’ walls, obliterating the dark but powerless against the fog. The low-lying mist swirling below swallowed the torchlight a mere dozen feet below the battlements. Jak peered into the murkiness, his hands cupped to the sides of his face to shield his eyes from the torches’ flames so as not to be blinded by them.
“I can’t see a blasted thing down there.”
Sergeant Trell said quietly, “If anything is down there, Broedi will see it.” The soldier stood on Jak’s right, staring into the fog as well.
“Unless he can see through walls, he’s as useless as I am. That fog is thick.”
Zecus muttered, “Then perhaps he is listening instead?”
“Now that’s more likely,” conceded Jak, looking to his left.
Zecus was leaning on a stout, four-foot wooden staff, having wisely foregone the longsword. A torch burned brightly just beyond the Borderlander and Jak momentarily glanced at its flame. He turned away quickly, peering back into the night, but he was effectively blind now. With a sigh, he dropped his hands to his sides. There was nothing to see anyway.
As a long, ominous silence stretched out—interrupted by a soldier’s quiet cough here and there—Jak muttered, “Armies make a lot of noise when they march, yes?”
Zecus and Sergeant Trell both smiled at his nervous question.
“Do not worry,” murmured Zecus. “Even if they were silent, I am sure we would smell them.”
Jak and Sergeant Trell chuckled softly at the jest, drawing a few curious looks from the Reed Men nearby. As he dropped his chin to chest so as to hide his smile, Jak’s gaze fell upon the one thing that made Zecus’ Shadow Mane uniform different from his own. Wrapped tightly around Zecus’ right arm, just above his elbow, was Joshmuel’s white headband. As his gaze lingered on the cloth strip, his smile faded.
Hearing of Joshmuel’s death had been like getting kicked in the gut by a horse, for a number of reasons. The first night in Demetus, the Isaac sibling reunion had been a morose one with Jak and Nikalys spending the evening trying to console their sister. At first, she insisted that she was fine, but soon thereafter, the tears began to fall.
Despite an entire evening spent grieving with his siblings, Jak had actually said very little to Zecus about Joshmuel’s passing. He had wanted to, but life was busy now. War was literally at the gates.
Zecus glanced over and caught him eyeing the headband. A shadow darker than the gloom of the Marshland’s night fell over his face. He looked up to Jak and, for a long moment, the two held one another’s gaze.
“I am sorry, Zecus. Truly.”
Zecus gave a lone, solemn nod, and in a voice that barely rose above the pre-dawn quiet, he murmured, “Thank you, Jak.” He immediately turned to face the foggy morning, his profile backlit by the flickering light of the torches. “We will honor his memory today.”
Jak nodded.
“Yes. We will.”
He studied his friend a moment longer before facing the blanket of mist. Out of the corner of his eye, Jak noticed Sergeant Trell staring at him. A glance over earned him a silent nod of approval from the soldier. Looking past the sergeant, Jak’s gaze traveled the line of green-and-white-clad soldiers standing on the battlements, all of whom were staring westward, their expressions universally sober. A few quiet, subdued conversations dotted the ranks, but most individuals were silent, lost in their thoughts.
Compared to the castle at Storm Island, the mud-brick ramparts of Demetus were spacious, nearly ten feet wide from outer to inner wall, enough to form three lines of men. One stood at the battlements while the other two waited against the back wall with standing orders to ‘fill any gap that occurs.’ When Commander Aiden had uttered the words, Jak’s insides had gone cold.
While the walls were wide and thick, they were also short, their pinnacles a mere thirty-five feet from the ground. Every two hundred feet, a tower rose from the main parapet. Jak was unsure if the structure deserved the designation ‘tower’ as it was only ten feet taller than the rest of the wall, but it was what people called them. At eveningmeal two nights past, Jak had asked why the walls were no higher and Duke Rholeb explained the loamy soil prevented them from doing so. Anything bigger or heavier would sink.
When Jak had first arrived in the city, catapults had been atop the towers. Now, bowmen alone crowded the pinnacles. During one evening strategy session, Wren repeatedly pointed out—much to the annoyance of Duke Rholeb—how ineffective the catapults would be against an army with Stone or Air mages. The next morning, the giant war machines had been dismantled and removed.
Nearly every soldier on this section of wall was a Reed Man, each one wearing a pointed metal helm polished to shine. A good distance down the way, before the next tower, Jak spotted a group of Southern Arms, their beards and blue and gold uniforms sticking out amongst the sea of clean-shaven, green-and-white-clad men. Here and there, Shadow Mane black dotted the ranks. Somewhere on these walls was the lone Dust Man unit, led by the corporal who had rescued Zecus’ sister from slavers. The Shore Guard was absent from the walls, the entire Long Coast contingent being held in reserve within the city, ready to respond wherever they might be needed.
This was the new Army of the White Lions. Men with backgrounds as varied as the selection of spirits once kept at The Lout and The Witch. Yet despite their many differences, they all had two things in common. The first was obvious: they were all here to fight the Cabal. The second was something most every soldier was trying to hide, some better than others. The men were afraid.
Someone to the north sneezed. Half the men within earshot started, their heads whipping around to face the offender’s direction. A few moments later, they began to look back west, sharing a nervous grin with their neighbors. Jak sighed.
Over the past few days, one of his primary duties—and that of every Shadow Mane here—had been to spread calm and confidence among the ranks while still conveying the sincerity of the threat they faced. At first, most doubted the claims that the God of Chaos was driving a massive army of demon-led Sudashians toward them. Yet public speeches by Duke Rholeb and Duchess Aleece paired with the ever-increasing oligurt sightings convinced a large majority of the soldiers while unfortunately replacing everyone’s doubt with restrained panic. A few demonstrations by Nikalys, Kenders, and the White Lions eased their worries enough that there was not widespread desertion. The reality was that they were being asked not only to stand against Tandyr’s wave of aggression, but also to break it.
Hearing the quiet murmuring of voices behind him, Jak glanced over his shoulder and found the back two lines of soldiers staring into the city. He shot a quick look to Sergeant Trell, but before he could ask leave to go, it was granted.
“Go,” said the sergeant. “See what it is.”
Zecus asked, “May—”
“Yes, you can go, too. Quickly, please.”
Spinning around, Jak strode to the inside wall with Zecus right behind. As he approached, he called out, “Move aside!”
Men turned and, seeing their black and white uniforms, parted to let them through. Upon reaching the wall, Jak placed his hands on the rough rock and leaned forward, peering down at the main thoroughfare. The fog was not as dense within the city, but it still obscured anything much beyond a hundred feet.
The lines of soldiers in the streets below were backpedalling slowly, pressing their backs against buildings in an effort to clear the flagstone way. To a man, they had their heads turned, staring into the center of the city.
Standing on Jak’s right, Zecus asked, “Do you think it’s Nikalys?”
Jak tried his best to see through the fog, but all he could make out were the glowing auras of the tor
ches lining the street.
“Gods, I hope so.”
After leaving the duke’s dining hall last night with Nikalys, the pair had hurried through the halls, Jak intent on delivering the duchess’ order to Commander Aiden. At an intersection of passageways, when Jak had turned left, Nikalys went right. Jak had called after him, asking where he was going. With a wink and a smile, Nikalys answered, “To wake up Nundle.”
Shortly thereafter, a stableman had seen the pair, along with Wren surprisingly, step through a ‘rip in the world’ near the horse barns. Unfortunately, the stableman had a large mouth, and word of their disappearance spread like a Summer grassfire. Just when the soldiers had accepted the idea of mages and White Lions aiding them, rumors quickly spread that the heroes were abandoning Demetus. Jak had done his best to assuage the fears, but it was no easy task.
Jak had a good guess as to where his brother had run off. Eyeing the mist below, he said a quick prayer to Lamoth that he was right.
“Come on, Nik.”
Moments later, Nikalys emerged from the gloom with Nundle and Wren at his side, fog swirling about them as the trio walked down the street. Jak allowed himself a smile, happy to see his brother return.
“Now, let’s hope you brought some friends.”
Soft exclamations of disbelief slipped from nearby soldiers as a handful of strange figures stepped from the mist as well, trailing Nikalys, shuffling along the flagstone. Their limbs, covered with dark, bark-like skin, were more tree branch than arms or legs. Their hair, both the color and consistency of grass, sprang from the top of triangular-shaped heads, swishing about as the creatures stared at the buildings, their glossy black eyes reflecting the flickering torch light.
“Bless the Gods,” muttered Zecus. “Every time I think I have a grasp on my world…”
Jak nodded, silently agreeing with Zecus’ unfinished thought. Nikalys’ descriptions of the thorn had been thorough, but seeing the strange race for himself, marching through the streets of Demetus, was a surreal experience.
Counting the figures as they emerged from the fog, Jak had only reached ten when the line of thorn stopped. A frown spread over his lips. He had hoped for more.
As the thorn shuffled along, Zecus muttered, “Those are the great monsters?”
Jak had been thinking the same thing. After Nundle’s grand tales about the fearsome creature encountered on the beach, he had expected something different.
“They look like tree saplings,” murmured Jak. “I wonder if Nundle was…exaggerating…” He trailed off, his eyes opening wide as a number of seven-foot-tall figures stepped from the fog.
Twenty bald and tattooed hillmen and hillwomen marched together, looking around the city, expressions of curious wonder on their faces. They all wore drab robes that cut off at their calves, heavy leather boots, and carried wooden staves on their shoulders that were thicker than Jak’s forearm.
“They look intimidating,” muttered Zecus.
“They certainly do,” agreed Jak.
More hillmen followed the first twenty robed giants, but their dress was much different: simple cloth tunics and breeches with thick strips of leather armor strapped to their arms, legs, and chest. Half carried the largest bows Jak had ever seen, while the rest wielded long poles topped with a sweeping metal blade. The wicked weapons were a full foot taller than the hillmen.
Raising his voice a bit, Jak said, “A gold ducat to the first man who spars one of them and wins.” The quip elicited a healthy chuckle from the nearby Reed Men who heard it.
As the procession of hillmen continued, Jak’s gaze shifted back to his brother. Nikalys was scanning the walls and stopped the moment his eyes locked onto Jak and Zecus. Jak lifted a hand and waved. Nikalys returned the greeting before turning back to the city center.
Holding up both arms, Nikalys called for the group to halt. As the thorn and Titan Tribe members came to a stop, a subdued cheer arose from the soldiers watching, both in the streets and on the walls. The ten thorn stared about them, their glossy, black eyes opened wide. The sound appeared to baffle them.
As the quiet cheer was fading, Jak spotted Broedi pushing through the throng of soldiers, aiming for where Nikalys, Nundle, and Wren stood. A series of nods and whispers rippled through the assembled hillmen the moment they saw him. Broedi, surely aware of the response, ignored it and upon reaching Nikalys, leaned down to speak quietly with him. After a moment, Nikalys pulled back from Broedi, a curious expression on his face, and turned back to peer up at Jak.
A quiet sigh slipped from Jak. This would not be an easy talk. Without taking his eyes from Nikalys, he murmured, “What do you think he’ll say?”
Glancing over, Zecus said, “That you are either mad or a liar. Perhaps both.”
“My coin is on a long series of blank stares paired with stuttering.”
Zecus smiled slightly.
“Was that your reaction?”
“At first, yes. Then came the accusations of madness.”
In the streets below, Broedi was speaking with Wren and Nundle now. After a few moments, Broedi called out for the thorn and hillmen to follow him, turned north, and hurried along the base of the walls. Wren and Nundle went with him, leaving Nikalys alone to stare up at Jak again. When Jak pointed to the southern tower, Nikalys nodded and began to make his way there.
With a sigh and a shove, Jak pushed himself away from the inner wall, stood tall, and called out, “To your positions! The show is over!”
The soldiers closest to him turned from the scene below and began relaying his order up and down the line, to the north and south. Jak kept his expression blank despite the wonder he felt watching hundreds of men obey him. Six turns ago, he was trimming olive trees. Now, he was giving orders to soldiers, many of whom were five to ten years his senior. And they were listening.
With Zecus in tow, he strode back across the battlements, returning to his spot beside Sergeant Trell. The sergeant glanced over, his face as calm as a pond on a windless day.
“Nikalys?”
Nodding, Jak said, “Yes.”
“Good. And buhanik?”
Jak stared back, confused.
“Pardon?”
“Thorn, Jak,” replied the sergeant with a small grin. “Did he bring back thorn?”
“Ah,” said Jak. “Yes, he did. Only ten, though.”
“Ten?” said Sergeant Trell, his eyes widening a fraction. His smile grew. “Excellent.”
Jak shared a quick, doubtful look with Zecus before looking back to the sergeant.
“Sergeant? They look like a stiff breeze could blow them over.”
The man chuckled quietly and stared back west, into the gloom and fog.
“Remember you said that, son.”
Nikalys’ voice rang out over the walls.
“Jak!”
Looking to his left, Jak saw his brother stepping from the darkened doorway of the southern tower. Jak lifted a hand, indicating that he should wait where he was. With a nod, Nikalys halted.
“Sergeant? May I—”
“Go,” replied the solider. He leaned back, peered down the bulwark to the waiting Nikalys, and gave a nod of greeting. “And Ketus with you, Jak.”
“Thank you.”
Patting Zecus on the back as he passed, Jak hurried down the torch-lit wall. Glancing east, he noticed the sky had lightened a shade or two. Dawn was near.
Halfway to his waiting brother, Jak reached up to stifle a yawn. While opportunities for sleep had been few of late, even when he managed to lie down for a bit, he rarely awoke refreshed. Ever since his injury, nightmares plagued his sleep. He would awake, his heart pounding, an overwhelming sense of dread filling his chest. He would sit there shivering, an icy chill radiating from deep inside his soul, trying to remember the dream and failing every time. The images faded like pipe smoke on the wind the moment he opened his eyes.
Nikalys was leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed and head down. Jak guessed the constant
, furtive glances shot at him by the men on the walls were making him uneasy. As Jak reached the tower’s entryway, Nikalys glanced up, a flicker of relief dashing over his face.
Nikalys nodded and said in a rather formal tone, “Good days ahead, Corporal Isaac.”
Amused by the greeting’s propriety, Jak stopped a few paces away, fixed Nikalys with a steady gaze, and gave a deep bow.
“And good memories behind, sir.”
Standing tall, he added a wink, prompting a tiny smile from Nikalys, one tinted with a healthy amount of brotherly annoyance. Nikalys shook his head, turned, and slipped into the cover of the tower. Jak followed, chuckling to himself.
The tower’s interior was dark, the only light inside coming from the torches outside and through the two open archways. Looking through the southern opening, Jak saw the long line of Reed Men continuing along the wall, all the way to the next tower over. Facing his brother, he found Nikalys slumped against the western wall.
“Hey, Nik.”
Glancing up, Nikalys said, “Hey, Jak.”
Overly formal just a moment ago, both now spoke as if they were sitting in the Isaac family kitchen after a long day in the groves.
Jak stopped a step or two in the doorway and studied his brother. Even in the low light, he could clearly see the bags under Nikalys’ eyes.
“No offense, but you look terrible.”
A tired, lopsided grin slipped over Nikalys’ mouth.
“Negotiating an acceptable agreement between the buhanik and the Titan Tribe was harder than I thought it was going to be.”
“Why?”
“Why?” repeated Nikalys, sounding rather annoyed. “Well, to begin with, one race enslaved the other for a century. So that took some time to overcome.”
Any other time and place, Jak would have had a quick retort for Nikalys’ overly testy response. However, this time, he kept quiet. He needed Nikalys calm and collected, not upset.
After a moment, Nikalys shook his head and reached to rub his eyes.
“Hells, Jak. Sorry. I’m just tired.”
“I understand,” replied Jak. “We all are.”
