by J. K. Barber
Only King Morgan, dressed in a thick, fur-lined coat dyed the blue and red of Illyander over plate, wore a different expression: one of defiance. Gripping the hilt of the sword that hung from his gold-chased belt so tightly that Branden heard the King’s leather gloves creak under the strain, Morgan jabbed a finger at the map, indicating the border town. “These… creatures will go no further,” the King said, his voice thick with conviction, each word punctuated by the monarch’s finger striking the table hard. “I will not see my people overrun by this Ice Queen,” Morgan’s voice pronounced the woman’s name with clear contempt, “Even if I have to climb the walls of Snowhaven myself and put a sword through her cold heart with my own hand.” Branden marveled at how King Morgan’s words penetrated the cold night air as though he had been yelling at the top of his lungs, and yet the man had never raised his voice above the volume of normal conversation. The handful of officers and King’s Guard that stood in the tent rattled their swords in their scabbards, murmuring their agreement with the King’s words.
A young soldier, dressed in the red and blue of Illyander, entered the tent, carrying a large tray of mugs. Steam and the smell of spiced cider wafted out of the ceramic cups. The King’s Guard at the door stopped the young man with a hand on his chest, and the man in the white livery looked to Captain Veldrun. The Captain waved the soldier and his tray forward, before returning his attention to the map on the table. The King’s Guard outside the tent quickly secured the flap against the chill air that invaded the room.
General Frey handed a piece of paper to King Morgan. “Which doesn’t seem to be their plan, Your Majesty,” Frey said.
“What?” Branden blurted out before he could stop himself. However, his breach of etiquette was covered by similar utterances from Captain Veldrun and King Morgan as well.
“This latest report,” Frey indicated the parchment he had handed King Morgan, “indicates that they did not include a gate in the wooden palisade being built along Snowhaven’s southern wall.”
“That makes no sense,” Veldrun interjected. “How do they intend to invade Illyander if they can’t get their troops out of Snowhaven?”
“That’s a very good question, Captain,” Frey answered, the confusion in his voice clear. “Truth be told, there are several things about this invasion that defy logic.”
“Continue,” King Morgan said, taking a steaming mug of cider from the tray. The monarch took a sip from the mug, an expression of pleasure crossing his face as the warm liquid hit his stomach.
“First, there is the attack itself. Never before have the tribes of ice orcs that dot the Frozen March been this organized.”
“Explained by the re-emergence of the Empress of Ice and her general,” Talas supplied, taking a mug of hot cider himself and thanking the young man under his breath.
“True,” General Frey responded. “But to what purpose?”
“To take Snowhaven,” Captain Veldrun said. “The strategic importance of the town is enough to warrant its capture.”
“Agreed,” Frey continued. “However, with the amount of wood and labor required to build the siege engines and fortify the town the way she has, the Empress could have easily built ships to sail around down the coast and bypass the World’s Edge Mountains and Snowhaven completely.” The General pointed at the piece of parchment that he had presented to the King, which had by this point been passed around the table for everyone to see. “Then there is the matter of the defenses she’s building. If Snowhaven is to be used as a staging point for an invasion, why are they building such a thick wall with no gate out?” Frey ran his hand over his head again. “It just doesn’t make sense. There is something we’re not getting in this whole thing.” Branden noted that this last sentence Frey spoke was more to himself than anyone around the table. The King’s Guard knew his old friend well enough to know that Cewin Frey only talked to himself like that when something was truly bothering him.
“Perhaps there is something else she wants,” Talas said, breaking the several moments of silence that has passed after General Frey’s last comment. Everyone’s eyes looked to the priest, imploring him to elaborate. “Well, we’ve been working under the assumption that Snowhaven’s only value has been strategic.” Talas placed a gentle hand on Branden’s arm. “Other than its emotional value, of course.” The smith acknowledged Talas’ gesture.
“Go on,” King Morgan said, motioning for the priest to continue.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Talas replied. “What I mean to say is that, while it’s true that Snowhaven is an important location, strategically speaking, there must be something else of value to the town.”
“What do you mean?” Veldrun asked, intrigued by the priest’s line of reasoning.
“Well, the Snowhaven Sorcerer School was established there. Why?” Talas asked.
“Because of the Sorcerers’ Tower,” Branden replied.
“But surely the tower hasn’t always been there,” King Morgan said. “I mean, the decision had to be made to build the school there, before building the actual school.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the smith replied. “Let me elaborate. What I meant to say is that the Sorcerers’ Tower is built around the crystal that grows out of the earth at its center. Perhaps that is why the Empress wanted Snowhaven so badly.”
“Well, that would certainly make sense,” Captain Veldrun said, a gleam of recognition in his eyes. “It would certainly explain the Empress’ earlier… actions.” Veldrun looked around the table, making sure that everyone involved understood his veiled reference to the Ice Queen’s secret attempt to invade Aeirsga from within. The King had ordered silence on the matter, not wishing to alarm anyone beyond reason.
“Indeed,” Talas replied. “However, why not establish the Sorcerer School in Aeirsga? Given what we now know about the capital city,” there was another secretive look around the table, this time from Talas, to make sure everyone was following the unspoken reference. “There would be a certain logic to establishing a place to train sorcerers… and their warrior partners, in the capital. It’s a more secure location. There are more resources to be had in the surrounding city. There is something about Snowhaven itself that makes it valuable to the magical community; something that makes it of interest, first to the Administrator and now the Empress.”
Before anyone could offer a guess, a shouting could be heard in the distance that quickly spread across the camp, like a rapidly moving wave of noise. A wave that swept up to General Cewin Frey’s tent and pushed open the flap. A panicked looking soldier rushed into the enclosure, all manners regarding proper etiquette in the presence of the King washed from his mind by obvious brain numbing fear.
“We…we’re under attack!” he blurted out, the words and his breath coming out in ragged bursts.
General Frey spoke, “Get a hold of yourself soldier!”
The tone of authority and command allowed the frightened young man’s training to reassert itself and the soldier at once came to full attention, his back rigid and his arms at his side. “My apologies, Sir,” the man said coherently, though his voice was still clearly wavering with fear. “Your Majesty,” the man said, hesitantly, caught in a struggle as to whether he should stand in the presence of his general or kneel in the presence of his king.
“Spit it out son,” Morgan said, settling the matter.
“We’re being attacked, Sir,” the solider said, more steadily this time.
“How?” Captain Veldrun asked. “Even at night, anyone trying to slip out of the pass to Snowhaven would have been detected and reported far in advance of their reaching us.”
Outside, the screams of men and horses began to fill the air. General Frey waved off Veldrun’s question. Figuring out how the Empress’ forces had made their way to the Tradestar undetected was a matter for later.
Frey turned to one of his lieutenants. “Sound the horn. Have everyone push north. If we can catch them in the pass, away from Snowhaven’s walls, we
may be able to press the advantage.”
“No,” the frightened solider said, quickly adding a “Sir.”
“Pardon me?” Cewin Frey asked, obviously unaccustomed to having his commands countermanded by one of his men.
“I mean… that is…,” the young man started then stopped. Took a deep breath to calm himself and then replied. “With all due respect, Sir, you don’t understand.”
“What is it I don’t understand?” Frey asked, his anger rising.
“The attack, Sir. It’s not coming from the north.”
“What?” Frey responded. “An attack could only come from the north.” Branden saw the General’s mind racing quickly, trying to figure out anything he could have missed that would allow the enemy to circle around his army and attack from another front. Branden was doing the same and could think of no way such a task could be accomplished.
“Begging the General’s pardon, Sir, but the attack isn’t coming from the north,” the solider said, his voice shaking once again, between fear of his general and the attack itself.
“Then where is it coming from?” the Cewin Frey asked, his voice incredulous.
“They’re above us, Sir! The attack is coming from above us.”
“Dragons!” Branden gasped, looking up into the night sky.
“Great Mother preserve us!” Talas exclaimed, grasping at the silver disk that hung from the chain around his neck. Even Captain Veldrun had run outside the King’s tent after the soldier who had burst in on the planning meeting had finally stammered out the source of the attack.
Their great dark shapes could barely be seen against the starry backdrop of night, but their presence was unable to be ignored. Flashes of lightning lit up the camp to the south, followed by peals of thunder and the screams of men. The brief illumination of the lightning strikes revealed a huge winged creature, easily as large as the house that Branden had lived in in Snowhaven. The reptile’s wings stretched to either side, spread as wide as the creature was long. Its gaping maw, lined with fangs that could be perceived even at such a distance, roared defiance as it swooped down. The dragon could be seen in the night sky only by the quick bursts of illumination from lightning it belched into the defenseless soldiers. The mingling sounds of man, horse and dragon created a cacophony that Branden would hear in his dreams for years to come.
Unfortunately, the noise was not unique. The horrendous scene that Branden, Talas and Veldrun were witnessing to the south was being repeated in all directions. The King’s Guard saw similar sights all around as more of the creatures descended from the sky and strafed the camp, leaving howling men and fires in their wake. Branden counted at least four more, before the rushing wings of a fifth flew overhead, causing all three men to duck reflexively.
“We must tell the King,” Veldrun declared, turning to the former smith and the priest. The Captain had insisted that King Morgan stay inside, not wanting to place the monarch in an exposed position before he could see the threat for himself. If the attack was coming from the air, as the young soldier had claimed, allowing the king to show himself openly would be too dangerous.
Branden’s mind shook off the shock of seeing the creatures of legend and the destruction they were wreaking. He stepped past his commander and Talas into the dark opening of the King’s tent.
As the King’s Guard stepped into the canvas building he noticed two details immediately. It was much colder than it should be, being the first. Braziers of hot coals had been smoldering in the center of the tent, warming those assembled against the chill of the northern mountains. Now, it was scarcely warmer inside than it was out. Secondly, it was almost pitch black inside. Whereas before a plethora of lanterns had illuminated the interior so that the map of Snowhaven could be easily viewed, now Branden had to strain his eyes to make out the figures moving around the interior of the tent.
Branden stepped forward, his foot slipping so that he had to flail his arms to keep his feet. Looking down, he barely made out the form of a man lying at his feet, unmoving. The King’s Guard cursed his impetuousness. He had run out of the tent, leaving his greathammer leaning against the table. Drawing his sword from its sheath at his waist, he called out to Talas and Veldrun. “The King is under attack!”
Not waiting for a reply, Branden stepped over the body, hoping inwardly that the still form was not that of his monarch. Pushing the thought aside, Branden pressed further into the tent, silently willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness faster. He could hear the yells, curses and grunting of a struggle in front of him, but without his eyes to tell him who was who, he dared not strike anyone in the darkness. The sound of something whistling past his ear, made the King’s Guard duck to the side and crouch on the thick rugs that covered the ground. As he did so, pain lanced through his left hand and he cried out. Pulling his hand back rapidly, Branden again cursed the darkness. In his blind state he had touched searing hot metal. The smith’s mind latched on to this fact, dragging his body into action. Stretching out his hand wide to feel the warmth before he actually touched the object, he found the source of the heat, carefully passing his hand just over its surface until he found what he was looking for. Grasping the handle of the fallen lantern, Branden stood, heaving it into one of the braziers, the dull orange glow of its coals easily visible in the dark. There was the sound of breaking glass and a font of flame blossomed in the darkness, lighting the interior of the tent.
The scene was like something from a ghost story Branden had heard as a child. The suddenly ignited lamp oil painted the enclosed space with a harsh orange light. The two King’s Guard that had remained inside the tent with King Morgan struggled against a pair of shadowy figures, most of their features hidden beneath black hooded garments. The assailants clothing was torn from half a dozen sword cuts along their arms, the sickly pale flesh beneath slowly leaking a black ichor that reminded Branden of hot tar. Branden knew from experience though that the black fluid which coursed through the veins of the abominations attacking his brothers-in-arms would be ice cold to the touch. The orange light of the burning oil glinted off the blue-white eyes of the creatures, making it look as though a reddish glow shone from within the dead orbs. The attackers pressed savagely, their expressionless dead faces an odd contrast to the fury of their blows. Each creature used a pair of black daggers, the smaller weapons working to their advantage in the close quarters.
“Shadow Walkers!” Branden cried, lunging forward and driving his sword into the exposed armpit of the undead thing. He knew that such a blow would mean nothing to the creature, but he left the sword in place, hoping the hilt that still protruded from beneath the creature’s arm would hinder the limb’s movement, giving them some advantage against the revenant.
Branden took a moment to survey the room, now that he could see. General Frey lay sprawled across the table, a nasty gash on his temple oozing blood onto the map they had been studying earlier. In addition to the dead solider that Branden had stepped over coming into the tent, half a dozen others lay scattered about, either dead or sporting wounds that would soon see them that way. Only the King and a pair of his Guards remained, valiantly but vainly fighting against the undying Shadow Walkers. Looking back to the table, Branden saw his maul lying on the floor next to it, the huge hammer apparently having fallen during the fight.
Branden turned away from the scuffle and reached down, grabbing the end of the haft in both hands. As he turned back, he rose, spinning and swinging in one motion, using the full force of his rotation and powerful arms to drive the head of the large two handed warhammer into one of the creature’s back.
The aging smith had expected to hear the satisfying thud and crunching of the thing’s broken spine. Instead he heard the dull sound of his hammer hitting thick metal as the force of the blow drove the creature forward into his fellow King’s Guard. The pair fell to the ground in a tangle. Dancing back from the entangled combatants, King Morgan tripped over the body of one of the dead soldiers, sprawling onto his back, his sw
ord slipping from his grasp.
Branden cursed his luck as he looked over his shoulder to Talas and Veldrun, who were trying to slip past the fight to protect the King, but were hampered by the enclosed space and bodies that littered the floor. “They’re wearing armor beneath their clothes,” he told his Captain and the priest.
Seizing the advantage the prone Shadow Walker afforded him, Branden turned sideways, swinging his hammer in a descending arc, striking the creature in the side of the head and driving it off his fallen comrade. Again the sound of struck metal reached Branden’s ears and the smith uttered blasphemy under his breath. “The cursed things are wearing helmets too,” he said as he helped the other King’s Guard to his feet. As Branden hauled the man up, he heard the man cry out in pain. A growing stain of dark crimson marred the white tabard of the King’s Guard. Still bravely managing to stand upright, the man’s face was pale and wracked with agony. Branden motioned towards where Talas and Veldrun were helping the King to his feet. “Go, defend the King!” he shouted. The man hesitated and the smith knew why. “You’re not deserting your post,” Branden said in a softer tone. “Your duty lies with the King. Let us cover your escape.” The wounded man paused for a second more, and then nodded his thanks to Branden before painfully making his way to King Morgan.
Branden turned just in time to block a sword stroke with the haft of his hammer, something ice cold and thick like syrup sprayed his face. Branden pivoted the shaft of his weapon around the blade, bringing the butt of the hammer up into the side of the creature’s face, but he might as well have struck a post for all the effect it had on the undead thing. Branden cursed the Ice Queen’s foul sorcery as he parried thrust after thrust from the Shadow Walker. Taking a momentary advantage as the creature over-extended itself, the smith thrust his right arm forward, hitting his opponent in the face with the head of his maul, using the long hafted weapon like a staff. The Shadow Walker stepped back, staggered slightly by the blow.
