by S. C. Stokes
Something inside of Grindelmere had empathized with the creature’s struggle. Like the Adal, it was living below its privileges. Grindelmere took the bear in and raised it himself, naming it Morkalth, meaning “fury” in the tongue of the Adal. The two were inseparable.
The once-struggling bear cub had matured, and on a whim Grindelmere had his craftsmen fashion a saddle and the bear had taken to it. The High King had always been an imposing figure in battle; now riding atop Morkalth he was a force of nature.
“Easy, my friend. You will need your strength soon.”
Grindelmere watched patiently as the Glaciadal formed ranks. He longed for greater freedom in choosing a field of battle but upon the flat of the plains there was little terrain he could use to his advantage, and the swift-moving Kairon could not be outrun.
Instead the Glaciadal would employ a stratagem as old as time. By moving the vulnerable among his people to the center, he could encircle them with warriors and ensure the Kairon could not use their speed to reach the more vulnerable Glaciadal.
Bristling with spear and sword, the ranks of the Glaciadal presented a wall of sharpened steel in every direction. Behind the front rank, archers stood ready to greet the charging creatures.
The ranks of the Glaciadal parted and a group of ancient Adal made their way before the King. “You sent for us, my liege?”
Grindelmere addressed the venerable Master of the Eight. “Aielniur, the Kairon move against us. We must make an example of them, then others of their kind will know better than to challenge our claim. Show them no mercy, for they will show us none.”
“We understand, my liege, and we will see to it,” Aielniur replied. The spellweavers turned as one and disappeared into the ranks of the Glaciadal. By the time the Kairon learned of their presence it would be too late. Grindelmere took his place among the Adal and waited as the Kairon surged toward them.
With each moment the dust plume grew wider. There must be hundreds of them, perhaps a thousand. In his heart Grindelmere sent up a prayer for the Adal who would not live through the day. For the Adal a death in battle was a tragic waste of a life that could otherwise be without end. Unfortunately, on their present course many Adal journeys would be cut short this day.
It is the price of reclaiming our legacy, Grindelmere told himself as the Kairon became visible amid the dust rising from the plains.
A bestial roar erupted from the Kairon as they galloped.
Grindelmere raised his spear and yelled at the top of his lungs, “For the glory of the Adal!” The hairs on his neck stood up, and for a moment Grindelmere thought it was blood lust coursing through his system. Then he recognized the sensation—the spellweavers had begun their incantations.
One moment the Kairon were thundering towards the Glaciadal. The next, all hell broke loose. Lightning split the darkened sky as it hurtled earthward, and the beast that was unfortunate enough to be struck collapsed dead. The sudden attack from an unseen quarter threw the surrounding beasts into chaos. Thunder rolled through the sky as another bolt of lightning hurtled into the surging tide.
Another spellweaver added her power to the assault, hurling a fireball at the charging creatures. The broiling ball of flames consumed several of the Kairon. Without mercy the spellweaver was already preparing a second ball of flaming death to follow the first.
The ground underfoot began to tremble. At the spellweavers’ manipulation a pillar of earth rose out of the ground and solidified into stone. The Kairon ignored the pillar, a course of action that proved short-sighted as the vast column of earth lurched sideways and toppled over. The falling stone column crushed dozens of charging beasts as it fell, then blocked the path of those behind them.
The spellweavers continued to unleash their arcane barrage, sowing death and discord among the charging Kairon. For all their savagery the Kairon had no magical affinity, leaving them dangerously exposed to the magic of the Adal.
In spite of the chaos and death in their ranks, the Kairon surged on unperturbed. The thrill of battle coursed through their veins. Each beast knew that victory here would provide a feast the likes of which they had not seen since the massacre at Cidea.
The Kairon closed the distance swiftly, their large frames designed for speed, and the distance closed sooner than Grindelmere would have thought possible. “Fire!” the High King commanded. The response was instantaneous and a hail of white-fletched arrows arced out of the Glaciadal battle lines. The volley sailed gracefully through the air before raining down on the charging beasts.
The creatures were surprisingly resilient. Dozens fell, but where the arrows failed to strike vital organs the creatures shrugged off wounds that would have crippled a human, and still they advanced.
Now within range, the Kairon returned fire. With a lifetime spent hunting game on the plains, the Kairon were effective marksmen, their horse bows crafted to suit the Kairon’s incredible strength. With a much greater draw strength the bows of the Kairon were more akin to balistas than to bows.
As the arrows slammed into the Glaciadal they would often impale not only the warrior they struck but anyone standing behind. Against the tightly packed ranks of the Adal they proved devastating.
With thunderous fury the Kairon struck the Adal battle lines. The Kairon had sustained heavy losses at the hands of the spellweavers and archers, but the beasts were undeterred. The long hunting spears struck the ranks of the Glaciadal next, running them through and casting them aside as if they were rag dolls.
Grindelmere watched as the Kairon barreled onward savagely, trampling anyone brave or foolish enough to get in their way. To the High King’s horror they broke through the Glaciadal’s ranks and continued straight for the defenseless Adal in their midst.
“Not the children!” Grindelmere shouted. “Glaciadal—with me!”
Digging his heels into Morkalth’s flanks, he spurred his steed into action. As the center of the line collapsed under the onslaught, the flanks held steady, funneling the Kairon forward. With less room to maneuver, the fleet-footed Kairon were at a disadvantage. The Adal gracefully side-stepped the heavy-handed blows before darting inside the creatures’ guard to deliver their own deadly blows.
Trusting his warriors to hold the line, Grindelmere and Morkalth hammered into the Kairon spearhead. Morkalth let out a roar that drowned out even the Kairon’s savage war cries as he leapt at the nearest creature. Morkalth struck the black-haired beast hard, sending it sprawling into the dirt, a large gaping hole in its flanks marking the place where Morkalth’s claws had pierced its hide.
Lashing out with his spear, Grindelmere took another beast in the stomach. When it failed to react, Grindelmere withdrew his weapon and thrust it home again, this time catching the creature in the throat. Morkalth was restless, and soon the brown bear bowled over another Kairon, and once the creature was on its back, Morkalth mauled it without hesitation.
The counter charge yielded the desired results—the Kairon were forced to address the rampaging bear ravaging their flank. Grindelmere turned in time to see a barrel-chested brave galloping toward him and with only moments to react, the High King drove his spear into the juvenile.
The young warrior howled his outrage. Dropping his sword the creature grabbed the spear with both hands and yanked Grindelmere out of the saddle. Grindelmere twisted as he fell and landed gracefully on his feet, drawing his sword as he did so. The curved blade caught the sun as he held it aloft.
The young Kairon tore the spear from its body and turned it against its former owner. The juvenile bore down on him and Grindelmere waited for the strike. Then the nimble Adal ducked under the high thrust and sprang toward the charging beast.
Grindelmere brought his blade down across the Kairon’s chest, the fine steel blade cleaving through the creature as it passed by. The brave took a half a dozen steps before collapsing in a heap. Grindelmere sheathed his blade and reclaimed his spear.
Surveying the field, Grindelmere was relieved to see the Ice
Guard approaching rapidly. The elite of the Glaciadal, the Ice Guard served as the retinue of the high King. Without their own mounts they had been left behind by the swiftness of Morkalth’s charge, but the fleet-footed warriors were now reaching their King.
Falling upon the Kairon from the rear, they were without mercy. One of the guards dropped his shield and leapt up behind a Kairon. Straddling the beast, the lithe warrior brought his short sword across the creature’s throat, ending its miserable life.
Seeing Morkalth locked in combat with two of the creatures, Grindelmere went to his aid. Grindelmere distracted the creature circling to his friend’s right and allowed the bear to focus his ire on the beast to his left. The wary Kairon was harassing Morkalth with a hunting spear. He would thrust at the bear’s flank, antagonizing Morkalth as he baited him. When the bear reacted he would withdraw, interposing the wicked spear between himself and the snarling bear once more.
But the Kairon had made a fatal mistake presuming Morkalth was nothing more than a wild beast. The bear had trained with the Ice Guard since he was a cub and knew their elite battle techniques. Learning his foe’s pattern, Morkalth waited for the Kairon to strike and withdraw. Then rather than back away from the spear thrust, Morkalth batted it away and lunged at his foe.
In hand-to-hand combat a Kairon could snap a man in two, but that strength was nothing before an adult brown bear, nature’s juggernaut. Morkalth crushed the life out of his tormentor before turning to aid Grindelmere.
With the momentum of their charge spent, the Kairon were struggling in the heart of the Glaciadal formation. Realizing their folly, the beasts tried to withdraw but found themselves encircled and cut off by the warriors of the Adal.
The spellweavers continued to assail the beasts with arcane missiles, further disrupting their ranks. With the signal to advance the Adal moved forward, and the archers continued to sow death among the Kairon.
The remaining Kairon saw the inevitability of their fate and charged in an attempt to break through the line and make their escape. But with their numbers thinned it was a futile attempt. The Glaciadal cut them down—in minutes there was not a single Kairon left alive on the plains.
Grindelmere searched the battlefield. Even from his position low on the plains he knew the cost in Adal lives was vast. In his heart he sorrowed for those who had fallen, each life a journey cut short by the barbarity of the Kairon. His heavy heart conflicted with his mind, which told him that today the Glaciadal had won a great victory. If his scout’s reports were accurate, today they had broken the back of the Kairon.
For the first time in a century the Kairon were no longer a threat to Sevalorn. The rolling plains they had plagued for so long lay open.
And we will take them! Grindelmere thought to himself. There will be no more blasted ice plains for the Adal. Our children will feel the warmth of the sun on their faces and build monuments to those who laid down their lives this day.
Chapter 6
Sevalorn, Amendar, capital city of the Andaran Empire
As he had traveled among the people of Andara, Syrion Listar had learned that it was the custom of the empress to receive petitions on the last day before the new moon rose.
Eager to avoid announcing his presence in the stronghold of those he had so recently faced in battle, Syrion had opted for the subtle approach. I will go before the Empress as a commoner. The number of supplicants was far lower than he had expected, and Syrion had taken his place in line and waited his turn.
Syrion Listar looked about with wonder at the size of the Imperial Palace. Until coming to Sevalorn he had thought King’s Court was a large city. Now that he had seen Khashish and Amendar, he realized just how many souls called Sevalorn home.
Many of those souls had passed from this life to the next in the Gods’ War frenzy that had swept across Sevalorn in recent memory. Guided by servants of the god Mythos, Empress Yaneera of the Andara had marshaled an army and laid siege to the Everpeak, the ancestral home of the Dwarves.
Stubborn and unyielding in their service to the Allfather, the Dwarves had fought for their lives. If not for the timely intervention of Syrion and his new found ally, the Shah of Khashish, Andara certainly would have wiped them from existence.
The price of preserving freedom was high. Tens of thousands died in the Gods War, and Syrion himself had been seriously wounded—he had spent weeks convalescing in the Everpeak. Dwarven physicians had dutifully tended to the wounds he had suffered at the hands of the zealous disciples.
Now Syrion had traveled north, looking for answers. The disciples were dead or gone, the last of them fleeing through a portal as the tide of battle had turned against them. Syrion wanted to know more of these strange priests and the god they served, where they came from and how he might safeguard against further incursions. Most importantly he wished to ensure the empress had cast aside her foolish lust for power.
Syrion also longed to know where his mother was. He had heard nothing since they had parted at the gateway to the Soul Forge. What had transpired there? Could one truly barter with the Soul Smith? Charged with guarding the gates between this life and the next, he was a being of immense power. What would such a being want in exchange for his favor? Syrion’s mind raced with questions, and the young Astarii mage almost didn’t notice the line before him disappearing.
A herald ushered the man before him into the throne room, leaving Syrion alone before the heavy oak doors. The Empress had been in court for most of the morning, but examining the faces of those leaving the throne room did not reveal her disposition. Some petitions had clearly been granted. Others left with faces downcast and dejected. Syrion wondered how his petition would be received.
The doors opened and the man who had spent most of the day waiting with him was ushered out, his expression a clear indicator that his petition had not been granted. Well, that doesn’t bode well, Syrion thought letting out a sigh.
The herald approached Syrion with a rather weary expression. “Name?”
“Pardon?” the young mage replied, far more courteously than he had been addressed.
“Your name. Give me your name so I can announce you to the empress.”
“Syrion,” was the curt reply.
“Syrion what?” the herald responded, clearly out of patience.
The young mage matched the herald’s tone with his own: “Just ‘Syrion’ will do.”
Clearly the herald could not be bothered with arguing, as he simply motioned for the young mage to follow him into the throne room. Raising his voice loudly, he announced the day’s final petition: “Your most imperial majesty, may I present Syrion . . .” Pausing where he would traditionally follow with the supplicant’s family name, the herald struggled.
As the empress waited impatiently the herald continued: “May his petition be heard and answered according to your wisdom.”
The empress tilted her head in acknowledgment of the herald’s obeisance.
Syrion walked up the long aisle into the heart of the throne room. Dressed as he was in a simple robe, it was likely the assembled courtiers and nobles thought him to be a simple farmer, or a traveling priest. Their assumption would serve his purpose well.
Pausing before the throne, Syrion examined the empress. She was far younger than he had expected—in fact even with the heavy makeup and court attire she was little older than his own twenty-three summers. The young woman rested confidently on the throne, staring down her sharply pointed nose at Syrion. Her hair was dark and neatly fashioned to frame her face.
“Speak!” the empress commanded. “The court does not have all day to wait on your gawking.”
“Pardon my silence, your highness. I was merely stunned to be in your presence,” Syrion replied.
“Flattery won’t see your petition granted. Now dispense with it, and speak your request—it has been a long day.”
“I understand, your highness,” Syrion replied with a grin. “My petition is a question. I merely wish your indul
gence to answer it.”
“Very well, you may ask it.” The Empress spoke flatly, without any enthusiasm.
Syrion’s smile disappeared as he earnestly asked the question that had been plaguing him for weeks: “What exactly were you hoping to obtain when you forsook the allegiance of your forefathers and marched on the Everpeak? Your foolish gambit cost thousands of lives and thrust the nations of this land into war. What would possess you to embark on such a reckless course of action?”
Stunned silence descended on the throne room as all eyes turned to the newcomer. Guards shifted expectantly as they waited for a response from the Throne.
Yaneera’s expression turned to stone as her eyes narrowed on Syrion. After what seemed an eternity the empress replied: “If my father still sat on this throne you would be killed for your impertinence.”
“If your father still sat on that gilded chair, it is unlikely I would be here at all. By all accounts Aelor honored his alliances and would not have spent so many lives so frivolously.”
Syrion’s searing indictment shattered the empress’s stony expression. Leaping to her feet she bellowed in outrage, “How dare you address your empress so? I heard your petition in mercy, but such repeated impudence demands justice. Give me a reason not to kill you where you stand.”
Syrion did not move as he answered: “First you are not my empress. Second, I came here seeking answers, not a boon of imperial grace. And finally, if you could not kill me with an army at your back, what makes you think you can do so now with a mere handful of Palace guard?”
The words pierced Yaneera to her core. Unwilling to lose face in front of the court, she turned to the assembly. “Clear the room. Court is finished for today.” The assembled nobles and courtiers glanced back and forward at each other but nonetheless began to file out of the room. The guards remained to protect their empress. For all the good that they would be, Syrion thought to himself.
