Brother, Betrayed

by Danielle Raver

  “Where are we?” Oman demanded.

  “We have just passed through Ophilnycad,” one of the soldiers replied after a moment.

  “How long have we been riding?” Oman demanded next, not looking to the soldiers now, but to the thatch of cloth covering the back of the wagon.

  “Throughout the night.”

  Oman stood, his body moving to keep himself upright with the jolts of the road. He breathed in and out heavily, shaking off the weariness of his sleep.

  “There is still time…”

  “Time for what, Prince Oman?”

  Oman was standing. He could make it to the back of the wagon before they could stop him. Find a horse and ride back.

  “Time to save my father!” Oman started quickly for the back of the wagon. But a soldier’s hand was on his shoulder, and then another. Oman stopped, not fighting them off. He didn’t look back to them, his mind in the past. Still on the start of this journey…

  “No, Oman,” another soldier said, stepping in front of him. As Oman’s eyes laid on him, he blinked as anger returned.

  Before he could decide how to beat them away from him, a soldier said, “You cannot go back.”

  Oman shook his head and tried to shrug them off, throwing his body to the side. But they held him, and then so did their words, “Your father, the king, is dead.”

  “No!”

  “We received word from a scout… The entire squadron of soldiers and knights that stayed with the king has been defeated.

  “No.”

  “The king was killed in battle. But take comfort that he was not captured, humiliated or tortured.”

  “He died well, and he was not alone,” another soldier said.

  “No,” Oman said, as if he was staring at the scene of his own death.

  The grip of the soldiers shifted on him, no longer holding him still but moving him back. Just as Oman’s mind was returning to him, and again he realized where he was being held and what had happened, and just as the anger and frustration rose in him again, they had turned him. As he screamed they had him on the floor. It took all of them to hold him down as they rebound his wrists. They pinned down his terrible anger, but didn’t silence it, his screams and cries resounding around them. He continued to fight them and they were silent, holding him down, knowing that he wasn’t just fighting them, but the terrible truth of the pain.

  After a long struggle, the soldiers loosened their holds, feeling his body weaken from screaming and fighting them. His curses diminishing to gasping and crying, his body settled, worn by his desperate fight. The soldiers sat with him and heard his breath diminish, the storm inside him fading, as all storms eventually must.

  Metal and leather bound feet forced into the ground, now wet with mud from blood, sweat, strain, and bombardment from the city walls above. A slew of stones were released by the city’s guards and were answered by a volley of arrows from the attacking army, but neither attack had much effect, having been done with too much haste. The feet still pushed forward, the muscles in the legs above them straining, and their forms leaning forward, their arms and shoulders gripping the sturdy tree as they gave one more unison push and slammed its wedged top into the city’s gate. The door creaked and snapped, and for a moment the soldiers could glimpse movement of men beyond the door, some holding torches with the rest of them desperately attempting to reinforce the door with polls, tables, and other wood scrounged from the city.

  Shouts could be heard from both sides of the wall as anticipation rose. The Dikartians prepared for the assault upon the city once the gate was broken, and the city’s guards tried to thwart the enemy from gaining entrance, and prepared for the possibility they would fail. The sight of their prize and the sound of their opponent’s plight only motivated the Dikartians to increase their efforts. The soldiers wielding the battering ram took quick steps backwards, then charged forward and released their combined momentum upon the door with a resounding slam. The wooden door gave way again, but this time the dent remained after the intruders had moved back to prepare for another strike.

  The men in the Dikartian army all yelled together, informing the Arnithians that had survived their barrage of arrows that they were soon to join their fallen comrades at the end of a Dikartian sword. The Dikartians advanced, leery of another attack of oil and fire, as the city’s guards had implemented several times, but confident their rear archers would protect them. The ram hit the city’s gates again and its assault left the middle wood of the door in shambles. The Dikartians’ cries intensified, and their soldiers rushed around the battering ram, taking hold of it and beginning to charge it forward in one motion.

  The Dikartian’s ram hit Anteria’s main gate and its devastation was audible as bolts, hinges, bars and boards were split asunder. The two sides of the gate were flung aside, letting in the full force of the barbarian’s fury. As the Dikartian soldiers entered the decimated gate, they saw before them the city guards they had glimpsed between the cracking doors. There were only a dozen of them, but they stood steadfast with swords drawn, with their purpose to die in battle while defending against an enemy invader. For only a brief pause the Dikartians stalled, counting them, making sure that this was all of the opposition they would meet. Then they charged, but Anteria’s guards did not rush to meet them. The intruders neared and the guards strengthened their stances and then focused on dropping as many of the enemy as they could before they themselves were slain.

  The Arnithians outmatched them in one to one combat, but soon they overwhelmed them with sheer numbers. The city’s guards had dispatched twice their number of the Dikartian’s soldiers before their swords were silenced, but this caused little effect on the invader’s numbers as more of them flooded into the city. Their sights turned to the castle in the distance, hardly discernible now in the coming night, but unobstructed by person or barricade. Just as their purpose turned to seizing it, the orders were repeated from behind them, “Take the castle first, then capture the city!”

  The Dikartians quickly regained their speed and raced down the large street towards the castle. They saw as they sprinted that the city was dark and deserted, and surmised that the citizens of the town had taken refuge in the fortress before them. They imagined the men and women, huddled and shivering in fear of their arrival. They also imagined the plunder: gold and jewels, the castle’s fine ornaments, all ready for their ascension.

  The enemy saw light ahead, and lifted their own torches to surmise its origin. Wavering shadows and wisps of firelight concealed then revealed piles of wood with the hint of movement in between them.

  “This is where they make their final stand,” one of their officers stated, and though their advantage was obvious and their victory was nearly at hand, the Dikartian soldiers slowed and advanced with caution, having been taught by cycles of oppression, war, and misery how ruthless Arnithian soldiers can be. They heard movement, and the clear ring of metal weapons being drawn behind the wooden blockade.

  Arnithian swordsmen stepped through openings along the blockade, but did not appear panicked or terrified as the Dikartians anticipated. They advanced coolly, with their eyes on their enemy and swords and shields at attention. Intimidating as they were, their effect was only momentary for the invaders were able to count them as they stepped into the street and labeled them as dangerous and skilled, but few.

  “Tear them to pieces!” a Dikartian shouted, and the front group of soldiers cried in unison and charged. The Arnithians matched them and charged forward with furious cries. But before the two forces clashed together, the Arnith soldiers halted and kneeled. The Dikartians, taken back, had no time to consider their tactics as they rushed forward towards the now vulnerable Arnith soldiers.

  Without horn or call to warn the enemy, the Arnithian archers positioned behind the blockade appeared and aimed at the rushing invaders, seeing the surprise on their faces before they released. Then archers on the rooftops, with bows drawn and the tips of their arrows already ai
med at the faint figures beneath the enemy’s torches, released before warning could be given. Then, simultaneously, all of the archers veiled in darkness on the roofs of houses and buildings along the main street of the city took any shot they could towards the Dikartians, and all of them had one to seize. The concealed archers repeated their aims as shouts of warning began through the staggering enemies. Though the Arnithians couldn’t understand the language, they could surmise their meaning: ‘archers’ and ‘ambush.’ The second round found most of its targets, only a few of the enemy raising their shields in time as they clustered for safety, and only a few of those shields providing protection.

  Then the enemy suffered under a constant hail of arrows from either side of the street. Swordsmen appeared out of the darkness, prepared for the Dikartians to seek refuge in the streets. Before the enemy could move, the trap was sprung and the archers along the rooftops lifted straw-wrapped arrows that showed the foe below them their doom as the tips were ignited. Fifty archers fired, flaming arrows flew towards the grouped Dikartians, with shields raised, but none of the arrows stuck flesh. They hit the ground of the middle of the street, and instantaneously set a thick rift of fire inciting beneath the Dikartians’ feet.

  The Dikartian leader witnessed the increasing flames, searing through his men like a serpent. Its bright fury was reflected in his dark eyes as he watched his army burn and heard the steady release of arrows throughout it. And he discerned other sounds as he stood aghast at his demise, the kinds of sound that are heard at the end of a battle when the losing side’s survivors are dealt with. With the light of the fire he could discern that they had been misled, that the city was full of guards. He could see their shadows moving along the walls and rooftops around and within the city. The firelight searing his pupils now sharpened them. He saw the shadows along the city’s walls wield the killing flame.

  The leader of the Dikartians fell to his knees, hardly daring to breathe, and placed his hands onto the moist ground below him. Terror now flowed up his arms, gripping his chest, his throat, and making him cry out. Their flaw, their failing; it wasn’t just mud beneath them, as he had assumed. As his hands sank deep into the black earth and lifted large clumps of it, squeezing it between his fingers he could smell the definite combination of oil and pitch. His eyes, red with emotion and flame, returned to the archers along the wall, preparing to release the red death upon them. “Retreat!” he screamed with all his might, but the sound of it was devoured by the immediate roar of the inferno.

  The soldier walked quickly down the hallway of the castle, hastened by the parcel he carried under his arm. He could tell that the castle guards and servants were distinctly aware of him, the object he was delivering, and its connotations. He could still feel the heat emanating from it, and its importance only strengthened his step.

  He opened the door to the throne room and bowed to the princes, one standing near the throne speaking with some of the knights assigned to protect them, and the other standing aside from them, brooding. The soldier approached the younger.

  “What news from the city?” the youngest prince asked the soldier, who drew forth the metal object and presented it to him.

  “The Dikartians have been vanquished,” the soldier explained. Prince Syah took the piece of breastplate from him, still smoldering where pieces of leather had been attached. “This was worn by their leader, sire.”

  “No Dikartians remain in the city?” Prince Syah asked nervously.

  “No sire, none survived our initial attack along the city streets. The Dikartians that escaped the counter attack beyond the gates retreated to the east, and we are in pursuit of them.”

  The young prince released an audible breath, closed his eyes and lowered his head. The soldiers turned when they saw the older prince shaking his head and leaving the great hall. They turned back to the youngest. “Very good,” he said, sitting down in relief.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  THE BETRAYAL

  The prince woke to sharp, flooding pain through his head. It came from feelings too strong and too deep that it drained him, yet gave him an unnatural strength. He knew where he was, and his mind realized quickly, again, what had happened, the terrible truth he had just woken to, the terrible world he now must live in. He blinked, which doubled his pain.

  Oman felt he might lack the strength to sit up or stand. He sensed the horses had stopped and the wagon was no longer moving.

  “We have arrived in Anteria, your majesty,” a voice said from above him.

  Oman swallowed and forced himself up. He was dizzy, but turned to several soldiers waiting for him. Oman tried to settle his own sense of unease. The flaps to the exit were pulled aside and Oman could see the inner walls around the castle. A soldier waited on the ground, holding out his hand to help Oman down. He paused, eyes narrowing. Oman finally took the soldier’s hand.

  As he left the wagon, he saw a line soldiers standing at attention. He recognized some of them though they did not look towards him. Oman realized they were waiting for a punishment. In fact, they expected it. He felt sick.

  One of the soldiers stepped from the line, turned and came before of Oman. The soldier held a sheathed sword out to Oman. It’s Father’s sword. Oman’s hand raised and he grasped it, fearing he didn’t have the strength to lift it. The soldier bowed deeply as he let go of the sword. Oman’s hand, with some inner strength, grew tight around the sheath of the sword. The metal dug into his fingers and palm so tight that he could feel his blood pounding in his hand. So tight he felt he would crush it, or it would crush him. Was it anger, despair or acceptance he felt? He knew not. He turned the sword in his hand, shaking.

  As his other hand took hold of the hilt of the sword, he remembered the soldiers. The soldier before him had returned to the line. He looked over to them. They expected him to murder them, to run them through. They would probably stand and take it, Oman thought. But his anger for them was now too confused and mingled with despair and disbelief. The piercing feeling overcoming him, he lowered his gaze. He took one deep breath and then turned away from them, starting for the castle gates.

  Prince Syah looked up sharply when the door to the throne room was violently swung open. His brother’s face was pail.

  “Oman is coming!” Fasime cried. And though Syah did not know why, his body reacted and he jumped up from the throne. He blinked at himself, shaking his head as he stepped down. He stopped as he saw his eldest brother enter the room with hunting anger in his eyes. Oman’s gaze went to Syah, who stood just below the throne.

  “What is…” Oman’s thoughts trailed off as he looked to the soldiers around the room. “So many…” Oman said as he stepped in, his mind counting the soldiers and pitting them up against the enemies he recently faced. “So many soldiers.” Fasime and Syah made motions to move closer to him, but something about his demeanor made them keep their distance. Then with dry singularity, Oman’s eyes focused on his youngest brother. “What is going on here?”

  Syah didn’t answer at first, studying Oman’s face. “The castle was attacked by Dikartian troops. We withheld some soldiers to protect the city.”

  “We?” Fasime said tensely, glaring back to Syah.

  Syah looked to him, then back to Oman, nodding with an ungraceful motion. “I withheld them.”

  “You,” Oman said, half between accusing and questioning. His attention went back to the soldiers, not counting now, but marking their faces. “You kept these soldiers from answering our call for reinforcements?”

  “Yes,” Syah said in a firm tone. “I kept them, as few as I could, just enough to defend the city’s walls.”

  Oman shook his head, feeling as if snakes were in his gut. His hand tightened on the hilt of his father’s sword. He stepped towards Syah. “What authority did you have to disregard an order from the king?”

  Syah stayed steady before him, sensing something had happened. “Where’s Father?” Syah asked abruptly.

  In one quick motion, Om
an angrily drew the sword, and the great hall was silenced as the sword of Anteria glimmered, raised above his head.

  “No,” Syah whispered. “The king is…”

  “The king is dead,” Oman answered, his brows lowering, focusing on the young man before him. Gasps and cries filled the hall.

  “What happened?” Fasime asked hesitantly.

  “He was overrun by the enemy,” Oman replied, lowering his father’s sword but holding it poised before him. “He was killed in battle because there weren’t enough of his loyal soldiers there to defend him.”

  Syah covered his face.

  “But you already knew that,” Oman growled, moving closer to Syah, blocking his way out of the throne room.

  It took a moment for Syah’s gaze to return to his brother, and he shook his head as if to get out something he had misheard.

  “What?”

  “You already knew the king was killed. That was your plan all along!”

  “What do you mean?” Syah begged, stepping up to Oman.

  “Do not try to deny it. I see your schemes now so clearly.” Syah stared perplexed at Oman. “You withheld these soldiers on purpose, with the intent of lessening the king’s guard.”

  “That’s not true!” Syah yelled and looked quickly over to Fasime. His face white, Fasime shook his head. He stepped back away from them, staring at Syah with wet, wide eyes.

  Syah hardened and looked back to Oman. “If I had not, the city would be overrun now by the Dikartian army.”

  “It was not your charge to defend it! It was your duty to hold them back at the eastern border, and of course you failed to do it.”