by Brian Fuller
“It is a typical tactic,” Kimdan explained. “They rain down arrows to keep our archers from doing any damage while they send in the Bashers to knock down our fortifications. It should let up in a minute.”
The Chalaine huddled on the ground, covering her ears to mute the awful racket punctuated by the painful wails of those felled by the mighty bows of the Uyumaak Archers. Few arrows fell as far back in the woods as she was, but the loud pop of a sleek dark arrow nearby snapped her eyes open, the polished shaft quivering in the trunk of a tree.
As Kimdan predicted, the hail of arrows stopped, providing for a brief respite until the relative silence ended with the horrifying crash of the Bashers smashing into their hastily constructed fortifications. Orders and shouts and screams mixed with the sharp sound of branches being snapped and split and chopped. Kimdan and Dason waited, swords at the ready, itching to help those who fought in the dwindling light before them. The voices of General Harband and Lord Kildan rang out clearly above the din, first calling for reinforcements toward the middle, and then frantically warning everyone to watch the flank.
“If they spread us out, we’re done for,” Kimdan said soberly.
A soldier sprinting back toward their position startled them. “They’re breaking through!” he yelled, eyes filled with terror as he bolted toward the interior of the forest. Kimdan tripped him, sending the panicked Rhugothian soldier and his weapon flying. Angrily, Kimdan hauled him up by his breastplate and slammed him into a tree.
“Get back to the line, you. . .”
Two Bashers charged into camp from their left flank, both carrying massive war hammers and wearing thick hide armor and metal helmets. Kimdan released the soldier, who continued his flight into the twilight of the branches beyond. Wordlessly the Bashers struck, and while their short stature brought them only chest-high with their human enemies, their thick limbs struck with fierce power. The first drove its hammer in a side stroke toward Dason’s hip. Dason jumped backward and away, the strike breaking a thin tree trunk to his right in two. Dason returned with a downward strike to its helmet, the impact hard, but the blade did little damage as it skipped off the metal.
Kimdan took a risk as the other charged him and he leapt at it before it could throw its arm over to strike. The sword’s arcing trajectory aimed for a small space between the helmet and shoulder and missed, impacting with the dense armor of the shoulder and doing nothing. Desperately Kimdan tried to pull back, but the Basher wound up its unfinished hammer stroke and brought it down on Kimdan’s extended leg, cracking it with a sound so awful that the Chalaine shrieked. Dason could do nothing to help his comrade as the other Basher pushed him backward. Dason tried quick stabs, seeking to insert his blade in some gap that would damage the creature.
Kimdan, eyes pained, tried to roll out of the way of another strike, but the Basher pounded him again, shattering his sword arm. The plight of Regent Ogbith’s son finally penetrated the Chalaine’s fear and self-pity, giving her the mettle she needed to act. She spied the sword discarded by the fleeing soldier and dove for it, Samian’s hours of nightly instruction making the hilt and the blade familiar to her hand though she had never wielded a sword in the waking world.
The Basher hammered down on Kimdan again, crushing the left side of his chest, ribs snapping. The Chalaine stood, and with a skill not quite her own, aimed a sword stroke at the same spot Kimdan had tried for before. Unaware of her, the Basher made no move as the sword edge drove into its neck, blood spurting onto her dress as she retreated a step in preparation for its retaliation.
It reeled and turned, horrible line of gray eyes fixing on her from the depths of its helmet. The Chalaine brought her sword up instinctively. Dason still hadn’t finished his opponent, and three more Bashers that had broken through the front line now marched toward their position. The wounded Basher charged unsteadily, its hammer swinging wide. The Chalaine struck quickly, chopping into the neck from the opposite side and severing the head. The Basher fell hard at her feet. At that moment, an arrow took Dason’s opponent down, and with a yell Gerand, Volney, Maewen, and two Tolnorian soldiers broke into the fray and dispatched the remaining Bashers quickly. Blood covered everyone.
“Volney and I will stay with the Chalaine, now,” Gerand said, eyes hard. “You four return to patrolling the flank.”
“I’ll stay, too,” Maewen said. “We may need to flee into the wood if the tide doesn’t turn soon.”
The Chalaine ran to Kimdan. Gerand, noticing his sword mate, joined her. Kimdan barely breathed, eyes vacant and blood running from his mouth and nose. With every ounce of will and desire she had, she tried to heal him, but as with Volney, nothing would come. Her gift had truly gone. In despair she watched as Kimdan exhaled for the last time, face slackening. Shaking, she stood and went into the lean-to he had built for her. The sudden energy that had come upon her was gone, and she curled up on the ground and wept for the blood spilled for one as useless as she.
The sun dropped fully as her Protectors formed a solid perimeter around her, the darkness becoming ever more impenetrable. A change in the thumping brought them all on alert, but gradually the sounds of fighting ceased, replaced with the moans and cries of the injured and dying.
“I’m going to scout to make sure they haven’t secreted any force inside the wood that could come upon us,” Maewen said.
“How can you see anything?” Dason asked.
“Eleven eyes aren’t defeated by the dark, and the Uyumaak aren’t as blind as you are, either. Stay close to the Chalaine. And start no fire! If I cannot return, find Falael and do as he says.”
“We need to bury Kimdan,” Volney said sadly. “He deserves a better resting place than this cursed wood.”
“We need sharp swords and eyes right now,” Gerand returned. “Let’s pull him back a space and arrange his body with what dignity we can. Dason, stay with the Chalaine.”
“As you wish, little brother,” Dason said with a firm tone of dominance. Once Gerand had left, he turned to the Chalaine. “I think someone is getting a little carried away with showing off for my father. I think he’s always resented that I am the elder son. Curse this miserable darkness. At least the Uyumaak can have cook fires.”
The Chalaine, tears falling silently now, said nothing. The movement around the forest was slow. Men flung curses into the night at scrapes and trips that could hardly be avoided. But stumbling about was better than light that would provide targets for the Uyumaak Archers. The moons again shone brightly on the plain, though stray clouds would drift overhead and shroud patches of the ocean of grass. The Chalaine drifted in and out of consciousness, for how long, she didn’t know, but when she woke, everything was unnaturally still.
“What is it?” she asked weakly.
“The drums have stopped, Milady,” Gerand said. “The Uyumaak have gone completely silent. I can’t imagine what this portends. Be at the ready. We may have to move.”
“Fall back! Run!” came the cry from the front line. As dissolute as she was, fear struck her heart as she realized that Ethris had raised the call. The Chalaine bolted upright as a curtain of fire rose on the plain, the light sending shadows wavering through the forest. At first she thought the flames some trickery of the Uyumaak or their Chukkas, but Maewen arrived seconds later to correct her assumption.
“Ethris buys us time,” she said, frantically. “Keep the sun to your left in the morning!” she yelled to everyone. “We meet at the ridge.”
They pushed southward toward the unknown chambers of the forest, Dason gripping her arm painfully as he vainly tried to guide her around obstacles he himself couldn’t see well enough to avoid. Once the boles had swallowed the light of Ethris’s fire, going forward became a matter of blind feeling about in the darkness. All around, the voices and footfalls of panicked men created the strange sensation of everyone being together in a dark room where the only comfort was knowing someone else shared the same affliction of blindness. Branches and undergrowth co
ntinually clawed at their feet and clothing like restless corpses trying to pull them down into an inky grave.
They had hardly gone two hundred feet into the sylvan abyss when a new sound creeping up from behind them stopped every foot and turned every head. Something moved along the forest floor, scrabbling and scraping among the dried needles and branches, coming for them like a wave in a steady, crescendoing roar.
“Lanterns!” someone yelled, the cry echoing through the forest.
None of her Protectors possessed one, but after a few moments, several pockets of light bloomed around them in the gloom. The uneven retreat had scattered the soldiers haphazardly around them, and the Chalaine shuddered to think of what had already become of those too wounded to flee.
Relentlessly, the sound grew, men drawing their weapons to face the unknown threat. This was no Uyumaak horde, the persistent thumping of their language unheard among the approaching cacophony, but when their enemy did arrive among the forward ranks, oaths and screams punctuated the night. The Chalaine, despite her weariness of soul and body could not stifle the scream ripped from her by the revelation of the horror that came for them.
Along the forest floor, a horde of black, lustrous beetles the size of a man’s fist scrambled in an anxious advance toward them, the lamplight casting a fiery reflection along their obsidian backs, giving them the appearance of a flowing river of fire. A single snaking tubule hung between wicked pincers, adding to the uncomfortable appearance of their pointy, jointed legs and ridged backs.
Such was the speed of the insect host that none thought to flee. Swords, boots, hammers, and shields all pounded down with fury on the mass of carapaces, the crunch of popping insects and the explosion of pus and slime bursting all around them. To the Chalaine’s amazement, the creatures avoided her, circling around her instinctively as if she were a warding pillar they could not abide. But her Protectors and every other soldier caught in the unyielding wave eventually succumbed to the beetles, the creatures’ pincers lancing through boot leather, puncturing legs. The insects’ tubules wiggled into the pincer cuts, sucking blood.
The Chalaine huddled against a tree trunk, powerless as the beetles took their fill of the soldiers’ blood, and then just as quickly as they had come, turned and scrabbled away back to the north. Blood dribbled from the beetle wounds, the wounded staunching the blood with their hands.
The pale soldiers around her slowly recovered enough to stand, and as tough and indomitable as the Dark Guard was trained to be, the Chalaine could see in Gerand’s and Volney’s eyes the flicker of fear that would plague lesser men in less dangerous circumstances. No more did screams and yells punctuate the forest, only the pitiful sounds of whimpering and crying from an army of men pushed beyond the reach of hope.
“We’ve got to move,” Gerand said, the first to rise, looking sickly and wan. “Let’s keep the lanterns lit until the Uyumaak give us a reason not to.”
Maewen found them moments later, a haggard Ethris at her side. A stunned, upset Cadaen followed, eyes hollow, Falael bringing up the rear. Several bites gashed Maewen’s legs, though her hard eyes betrayed no weakness. Ethris was untouched, though Cadaen fared as poorly as everyone else. They examined the Chalaine, looking for injuries.
“They didn’t bother with me,” she said to get their prying eyes off of her. “I can walk.”
Maewen inspected the cuts on her legs. “They bit me, but died immediately on doing so. The same for Falael. They didn’t like the taste of elven blood.”
“They liked mine just fine,” Gerand fumed. “What was that?”
“One of Mikkik’s abominations,” Ethris said sourly. “I could feel its mind challenging me just before it attacked. Awful, horrible thing. What it wants with our blood, I cannot guess. We are in dire circumstances, now.”
Gradually, the call to move echoed through the forest, and those with the strength to do so hauled themselves up and forward under the power of fear and will. Cadaen joined her group of Protectors, and the Chalaine wondered what bargain Ethris had struck with the man after awakening him. Whatever it was, she knew he would bolt at the first opportunity to find Mirelle or die in the attempt.
They marched through the night, and the Chalaine could only guess what the toll in men would be between those that simply got lost amid the trackless forest and those who collapsed from exhaustion. From the glances between Ethris and Maewen, she could tell they noticed the same thing as she—the soldiers looked more exhausted and sweaty than they should have. Even their breathing seemed forced.
Near morning, they encountered a pleasant glade blooming with wildflowers and bisected by a gurgling stream. There they ordered a halt, Lord Kildan and General Harband crossing to where Ethris, Maewen, and Falael talked in Elvish. Both leaders appeared as wan and unsteady as the men.
“The men, well, all of us are of a fever and weakening,” Lord Kildan said. “We go no farther.”
Maewen shook her head. “We should at least get to the treeline on the other side so the Archers can’t butcher us on a whim. I know the men are weak, but it must be done. It’s not far. . .”
Lord Kildan collapsed to the ground insensate, twitching with fever. All over the glade, men dropped prone as if compelled to a sudden slumber they could not refuse. In minutes, the entire clearing appeared like a battlefield where the battle had long ended and only the corpses were left behind. Only the fitful fever sleep revealed that something else was at work.
The Chalaine, Ethris, Falael, and Maewen still stood amid the stricken army to witness the sun cresting the tall pines, revealing a glorious morning. The beauty of the glade and the teeming life of insects flitting among the blossoms mocked the terror of the passing night and the moaning men scattered everywhere.
“Ethris,” Maewen said, voice empty, “do you have anything to aid this?”
“I will try,” he replied, “though I am close to spent. Is there any elven lore that might help? Falael?”
Falael shook his head. “Not that. . .”
Maewen aburptly stood erect, eyes distant, her hand going to her chest. Her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to exclaim, but she snapped her mouth shut. While the Chalaine couldn’t be sure, it seemed some thought or hope had struck the half-elf.
“I . . . I remember now,” she finally said, “a woodsman I once knew who used to frequent these woods. He used to dwell in a place not far from here. He may have wisdom to aid us. Let me see if I can seek him out.”
Ethris furrowed his brows. “Would he know more than you?”
She nodded. “In some things, yes. He is the only hope I can see for us now.”
CHAPTER 74 - THE MASTER OF THREE
Sore Kam helped his sister Sarina arrange Gen’s lifeless body on a white granite boulder in the heart of the Black Forest where the old trees grew tall and round. Night had fallen, and the fireflies attended them as they waited for their father and Aldemar to come counsel together, the last of the Millim Eri.
“Let us remove the armor and clothes,” Sarina said, “and wash the body. He deserves that service, at least, for what part he played.”
Together, brother and sister went about their work, discarding the ruined armor and torn clothing, fetching water from a pool formed by a clear, flowing brook.
With a tender touch they washed the blood away from the cuts and the gaping hole of the crossbow bolt. When finished, Sarina arranged his hair and limbs to afford him dignity, while Sore willed the leafy vines of the forest to shroud his nakedness, leaving his still face uncovered. Fireflies flew about his head, their yellow glow on his pallid skin lending his cheek a false color of life. A cool summer breeze teased the mighty pines about them, the moons clear in the sky above them.
Two ravens crossed the sky and then fluttered to a clear space at the foot of the boulder. As avian feet touched the earth the birds transformed into Aldemar and their father, Norus Kam. Like all of their race, their father was built powerfully. While he enjoyed the eternal youth of th
ose of powerful blood, the white hair and the faded blue irises of his eyes aged him. He had the wise and troubled countenance of one who had seen the passage of centuries and the death of three gods.
He and Aldemar stared at the body for a moment before Norus spoke. “I see that you bear the fruit of your meddling, my children. I have watched this drama unfold with great interest and with great sorrow. Even I began to hope that my advice to you to remove yourselves from the affairs of men would be proved wrong. But woe has always followed whatever attempts we have made to right Mikkik’s wrongs. It had been better if our strength could have veiled Trys forever than to have Ki’Hal suffer this shameful fate. But we are weak now, and all our devices have failed. It is time for us to enter our rest.”
“Not so, father,” Sore disagreed. “It is true that Mikkik has turned our carefully crafted prophecy and its prepared actors against us and will now accomplish his design. Yes, it is a pity that the race of men is so weak and we are so few. But you must see that there was in this man something more, as in the time we elevated Aldradan Mikmir and helped him save many peoples.”
“Gen proved that the race of men can be noble and strong,” Sarina joined in, Norus listening expressionlessly. “Mikkik owned his body, but for one created without a soul, he was indeed powerful. Oddly, our guiding hand had little to do with what he accomplished in the end. His love for the woman we chose and for her mother guided all his actions. If only the Ha’Ulrich could have loved the world or the woman as much, then this might have ended well.”
Norus nodded. “It is as I have always said. To make a man a king is to make a man a ruin.”
“It would not have ruined this one,” Sarina said, indicating Gen. “He possessed the power of knowledge and the firm purpose of love. He despised fame. He craved no authority.”
Norus grasped his daughter’s shoulder. “Perhaps, Sarina, but he is dead now. And from what I saw of his heart, it was a small tent that only admitted a few. For Gen to have succeeded in his purpose, he would need to have enough room to love the whole world. He would have failed, too, I am afraid.”
