River of Spears (Kingdom's Forge Book 0)

by Kade Derricks

  The major sat quiet as a stone for a moment, his head still tipped downwards toward the map. Then his eyes met Dain’s again and he spoke.

  “I have one request before we agree to this.”

  “Go on.”

  “I want you to teach me what you know. Someday I may need to be more than a figurehead, and I want to know what to do when that day comes.”

  Dain paused—not to consider refusing the request, but to scold himself again for underestimating the fresh-faced Esterian who, Dain reminded himself, really wasn’t much younger than he was. Less than a fortnight at the front and Tindall already showed more foresight than his predecessor, who himself had proven wiser than most.

  “Deal. Now, you understand that I will need to know about any and all communication between you and your superiors. I can’t make informed decisions—suggestions—without that,” Dain said.

  Tindall smiled slightly. “That makes sense. I presume you want to start with what the commander told me tonight after you left us.” Dain nodded, and Tindall continued. “In another week a full battalion will arrive from downriver. We, along with two other patrols, will be joining them in an expedition into Tyberon lands. We will journey southwest, away from the river, for over a month.”

  “A month?” Dain almost choked. “Are the generals all mad? No one has lasted more than two weeks away from the post. It’s been tried. The Tyberons won’t fight directly; we’ll be bled each night when every lark and crane within two hundred miles will be raining spears on us. It’s suicide. And if word gets out to the mercenaries, none will fight. There’ll be armed rebellion in the camp.”

  “This has been planned carefully. The expedition has some surprises for the savages if they move on us at night.”

  “What sort of surprises?”

  “Pyre Riders.”

  That caused Dain to pause. “Someone actually listened to Balerion?”

  “Yes. We will have a dozen Pyre Riders with us, and Balerion himself will lead both them and the expedition.”

  Dain eyed Tindall with suspicion.

  “No Esterian commander?”

  “None. General Reiken himself said this was to be a mercenary-led mission. Though a few ‘observers’ will be joining.”

  “Observers?”

  “The usual patrol leaders, myself included, and a handful of others. We have strict orders not to interfere, merely observe.”

  “The commander told you all this just now?”

  Tindall hesitated. His eyes turned away, and Dain knew he’d caught him in a lie. His curiosity was piqued. Where would a lowly major learn such things? Grayson sure hadn’t told him, not after the look he’d given him earlier. There had been venom in that one.

  “Who, then?”

  “General Reiken, he’s…he’s my father,” Tindall said.

  Dain sat silent, letting the comment stand for itself. At least the Esterian hadn’t tried to cover the lie when he’d been caught out in it.

  “You didn’t draw my patrol by accident did you?”

  “No, my father suspected you led this patrol. Your record has too few casualties. He confronted your old major and then pulled a few strings to make sure I landed it. He wants me to learn from you.”

  Dain smiled. He almost laughed. Seems the Esterian generals, Reiken at least, do understand how this war is being fought. And, if one of them knew how things truly worked out here, it was likely the others did as well. Pity none of them would ever tell Grayson.

  His thoughts swung back to the expedition.

  “Balerion. He’s been asking for Pyre Riders for as long as I’ve been here. The man’s a legend. No mercenary will abandon him. Most openly worship him as some sort of demigod,” Dain said.

  He sat back for a moment, contemplating both the sudden change in strategy and the ruthless reputation of the Pyre Riders. “Major, with Balerion and the Pyre Riders on our side, we might have a chance after all.”

  With a little luck, they might survive this—and if there was a chance at a few Magentite gems making their way into his possession without too much trouble—he would be leaps and bounds closer to a way out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Their role wasn’t glorious. When Balerion arrived and heard about their patrol’s reduced strength he converted the survivors—those that could ride—into scouts. The rest of the Esterian footmen joined an augmented battalion in the army’s bulk.

  Dain didn’t mind. Scouting had been his role with the paladins, after all. Others weren’t so happy, especially the Esterians. Unaccustomed as the former footmen were to riding, they hobbled around camp every evening, complaining to anyone who’d listen. Served them right for claiming they could ride in the first place. Most could barely saddle their own horses, and Dain spent half of each morning making sure their cinches were tight enough to hold their saddles on. None would desert, of course. The army was alone now and deep in enemy territory. No, they knew well enough that they stood a better chance of survival with the army than if they abandoned their duties.

  Riding a blue roan, Dain led a group of four former Esterian footmen in a diamond pattern fifty feet across. The camp’s farrier hadn’t been able to heal Boon’s injured leg in time and he’d been left behind. Bix would see to his care. And while the blue wasn’t trained for battle like Boon, he could cover a lot of ground in a hurry and run all day when needed.

  Dain leaned over and patted the horse’s neck. The best of traits in a scout’s mount.

  Balerion had impressed him. Taller than Dain, he towered over the Esterians and, true to camp lore, wore only a thin leather covering for armor. For a weapon he carried a single, enormous halberd. Back and shaven head held erect, he had a way about him that both reassured men and drove them to do their best. His midnight eyes seemed to weigh and measure and take in everything. The dark-skinned fighter would have been a natural leader in any group of warriors.

  The day after their departure from the fort, Balerion and the expedition’s “observers” briefed the officers and leading mercenaries.

  “This army’s goal is simple. The strategy of forts and patrols have proven fruitless,” Balerion said. “To end this war, we must find a Tyberon city.” He paused and swept the officers and mercs alike with his dark glare. “We will proceed away from the river and into savage territory. Unless we find something sooner, we’ll spend a month at march.”

  “Our hosts,” he nodded to the gathered observers at his left, “have agreed that intelligence on the enemy is vital and are providing us with the support we need. If we are to win this, we need to find where the Tyberons live. I don’t care if that’s a city, hut, den, or down-stuffed nest. We will find it.”

  A young merc at the back of the room raised a hand.

  “Hallock, is it? You have a question.”

  “What if we don’t find anything?”

  Balerion nodded, acknowledging the young man’s concern. “As I’ve said, we’ll have plenty of support for this expedition enough to field the army for a month. Besides, this grassland doesn’t go on forever. On the west the Mahad desert borders the grasses at some point, and there’s the canyonlands to the south.” Balerion locked eyes with the lead Esterian observer and continued. “The ranking mercenaries will be in charge of each unit.”

  Most of the Esterians shifted their feet and glanced at each other. They murmured among themselves, voices low but heated. Their own lead commander turned to face them. They grew silent.

  No surprises there, Dain thought. Each of the little generals thinks they could do better.

  The Pyre Riders weren’t mentioned during the briefing, but the rumors had slipped out, likely by design to keep morale high. They were on everyone’s lips.

  Dain agreed with Balerion. Riding around in a patrol and waiting to be attacked by savages di
dn’t appeal to him. They had to shift the balance of power somehow. Striking deeper than before into Tyberon territory was their best chance. He just hoped that someone, preferably himself, survived to tell the tale.

  Taelon the Traveler had journeyed these lands, according to the rumors, and even the great explorer hadn’t been able to find a Tyberon settlement. Paid by the Esterians, he’d come up the river years prior to the war. Unlike Taelon’s other explorations, however, none of his records or journals regarding this expedition had been made public. It was said that Taelon left a half-dozen duplicates of his journal with the Esterian rulers. If true, the Esterians had been plotting this for years.

  All the more amazing that they still know nothing of the enemy, Dain thought. What had they learned to make the war worth all the effort and treasure they were spending on it?

  Bix hadn’t been happy with the new developments. She was all too familiar with the harshness of life out here and with the Esterians’ success rate, if one could call it that.

  “I’ll be awhile this time. A month, maybe two,” he’d told her as they lay together. He ran his hand up her bare back to a small, round scar above her elbow. One she usually kept covered. She turned to him.

  “Sit this one out, love. Stay with me instead, or take me away from these cursed lands and we can make a life together. You don’t have to work for the little traders. They are fools.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  She moved a long, smooth leg up across his stomach and put a soft hand on his chest. Her skin smelled of the same mix of fragrances she always wore, strange and enchanting.

  “Not even for me? I could work, too. I was a teacher once…I taught languages and philosophy before I came here.” She tilted her head and stared at the tent’s ceiling, her eyes taking on a look of far away and long ago.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned her past as a teacher. He knew a bit of philosophy from his own youthful studies, but her knowledge was much deeper than his own. She could quote Foxer, Halsten, Yaltar the Wise, and a dozen others he didn’t know. Still whenever she spoke of it Dain tried picturing her as a teacher and failed miserably. He knew that this was due largely to the context in which they knew each other, but he couldn’t help wondering at it whenever he looked at her beautiful, expressive face.

  How had she ended up here?

  “Without working for the Esterians, I doubt I could support us both. And what else would I do? I have no real skills except fighting,” Dain said, twisting a strand of her hair between his fingers.

  “Can’t you heal? Paladins can heal and perform aural blessings, yes? That would be a better, more moral, use of your gifts.”

  Dain nodded slowly. “Some can. Most can, I suppose. But it’s been a long time, and I’ve never been very skilled at it. I can heal scrapes and bruises—not the kind of healing people pay much for. Certainly not enough to pay our bills.”

  He had asked himself before if there was something, anything else he could do, some other way to provide for his needs. He could charge the Light into weapons or maintain a rudimentary spellshield around himself, or use it to strengthen his body. All of which pointed to a single occupation, a single purpose. And he didn’t know how to translate those abilities into anything else.

  “No, this life—fighting—is all I’m good for. Maybe someday I’ll save up enough for us to make a life elsewhere.”

  It was a pleasant lie, one he was certain they both chose to believe as a mutual comfort. He wondered if her previous lovers had made ones like it. Dain was under no illusions that she loved him. He had “inherited” Bix when another merc fell to the Tyberon’s spears during a patrol. Dain had survived and risen to the man’s rank, and Bix took him as her own the very evening of his return. He’d had no quarrel with these proceedings.

  Even after five months together he still knew next to nothing about her—not her homeland, not her people, not her story. He knew only that she was well educated. She could recite poetry, sing magnificent ballads, and prepare five-course meals out of their sometimes-meager rations like some great lord’s chef. She was a mystery he didn’t believe he would ever solve.

  Bix did claim that he had outlasted her previous lovers. She said he was kinder than the others as well. Still, he knew that if he fell, she would move on. Perhaps on this very campaign. He tried not to think thoughts of that kind.

  For two days they rode south. Here the grass was only knee-high, scrubby thin, and faded green. From horseback, the scouts could see for miles. On the third day they found where the shorter grass edged with the taller, stalky grasses the Tyberons often ambushed from. Like a great rolling wave it rose above the plains, hissing and swaying in the hot afternoon breeze.

  Balerion’s orders called for the scouts to stop a half-mile out from the green wall. Dain and the others followed his restrictions. Of the Tyberons they saw no sign. They stared at the boundary and, after a time, it seemed to stare back, alive, like some waiting monster luring them into its den, eager to snatch them up and swallow them whole.

  Dain pulled a swig from his canteen and studied the boundary. Mile after mile of rolling waves, a spear lurking in every crest.

  He looked back over his shoulder toward the army’s bulk. His mind told him the army was large, that there were hundreds of soldiers, but out here it looked pitifully small, a tiny ship of men and metal. How could the Esterians ever hope to conquer all of this?

  That night the host of over twelve hundred strong stopped early. They camped beneath a bright, waxing moon while the wind rustled the swaying wall of green. It whispered of bloody days ahead.

  In the morning, the red sun just above the horizon, Major Tindall joined Dain and the other scouts for breakfast. Until now he’d spent most of his time with the other observers.

  “Coffee’s hot, Major,” Dain said. “Jalasp here brews it too strong for my tastes, though.” He pointed a tin mug at a seated mercenary.

  “Better than that thin stuff you call tea,” Jalasp said.

  “Thanks,” Tindall replied.

  “Will Balerion’s Riders be joining us today? Or do we go in without them?” Dain asked.

  “They’ll be here soon enough.” Tindall paused, then continued. “New orders from the top. Our patrol is reformed with a new duty. We’ll be guarding a wagon.”

  “We’re still short a third of our footmen. Are we going to fill those spots out?”

  “Another patrol will join us. Major Valynt and a merc named Hallock will combine their men with ours.”

  “Any idea what we’re guarding?”

  “A wagon.”

  Dain raised an eyebrow. “Lots of wagons out here. Anything special about this one?” A hint of irritation rose into his voice. Already their arrangement was being tested. Should have expected it, he scolded himself. Damn Esterian arrogance.

  “Yes, this wagon belongs to them,” Tindall said evenly. He pointed due east, toward the rising sun.

  Dain looked, at first seeing nothing. Then he began to see shadowed shapes flitting toward them. The shapes drew closer, and he could make out a dozen men, all clad in scarlet armor and riding on beasts out of nightmare. Giant leather-winged bats, banking and diving in unpredictable zigs and zags. They swept close to the army and then circled it. At times their wide wings almost seemed to touch. Dain wondered that they didn’t collide with one another.

  A pair of Riders remained aloft, flying in slow, if erratic, figure eights above the Esterian camp. The other ten descended, dipping toward two specially designed wagons. A wooden pole stood in each wagon’s center with an iron ring fitted to its top, and there were three round crossbeams branching off from the pole in different directions like a skeletal tree.

  One by one, the bats swooped in and dug their claws into a branch. They hung upside down, and the Riders
slipped their harnesses then somersaulted to the wagon’s platform base. They landed lightly, with no sound.

  When the last Rider touched down, he whistled, and the bats shifted their taloned feet, crowding together like a covey of nightmare quail. The other Riders used ropes and pulleys—one hung from each crossbeam—to hoist a black curtain up and around them.

  On the ground, the Riders were not imposing figures. Fur lined the cuffs of their armor and they wore fingerless gloves. Leather hoods draped their heads, and inside them they wore scarves over their faces so that nothing but their eyes were seen. They carried no visible weapons except for a small belt knife each.

  All were small and thin. Malnourished, Dain would have called them. They seemed more like young boys than fighters. Though being lighter in weight would allow them to stay aloft longer, he reasoned.

  The last to dismount Dain presumed to be the leader. He wore five golden bands over his armor on both arms. He stepped forward and surveyed the army from the bottomless depths of his hood.

  Dozens of rumors swirled around the Riders. Even in his homeland to the far south Dain had heard many as a child. Rumors that they were dark sorcerers who worshiped death and chaos. Rumors that they sacrificed their young to appease their gods. Rumors that they weren’t alive at all, but undead warlocks who’d made pacts with fire demons.

  But on one fact all the rumors agreed. The Riders were utterly ruthless. They’d torch a farmer, his crop, and his children as easily and with as much emotion as they would burn down an enemy soldier.

  The space around the wagons was clear. Men didn’t want to be too close to the infamous Riders or their demon mounts.