Twixt Heaven And Hell

by Tristan Gregory

  Darius would not be taking part in either event, and would have no knowledge of exactly when they occurred. A major army was well connected with globes, and to a lesser extent messengers. The Gryphons – being a much smaller and more independent force by Darius’s own doing – occasionally operated out of contact with Bastion for months at a time. When they needed news he had only to make for the nearest large camp. The Gryphons traveled quickly, and the nearest globe was rarely more than a few days away.

  It was a small price to pay for keeping the High Council beyond arm's reach for a time. Darius could contact them from the field – by forcing a message into a globe within Bastion – but Bastion could not reach him. It was this freedom from interference that really led Darius to enjoy being in the field, and that enjoyment had grown along with the Council’s tendency towards meddling.

  Darius chuckled ruefully. He was out of Bastion, but still brooding on the Council. Arric would take some pleasure in that, certainly.

  Two days and several ashen circles later, the Gryphons were bedding down for the night. Darius had found nothing new. The Enemy, it seemed, had a reliable spell. It performed well and correctly each time. It denied information to anyone looking. Which meant – what? That there may be useful information to be found otherwise? Darius had assumed that. No magic of that complexity and power could be entirely subtle.

  Darius was certain if he could catch it in the act, he would learn everything he needed to know. He merely had to wait for the Enemy to use it again.

  Being at the whim of the Enemy in any way did not put Darius into a good mood. As he lay brooding in camp that night, he heard someone approaching. He rolled over and saw a soldier dressed in the black cloak and face paint of a night sentry about to shake Robert awake.

  “Soldier!” Darius whispered loud enough to stop the man, but hopefully not loud enough to wake his lieutenant. Sentries had orders to wake Robert before Darius, but as the latter was still awake there was little purpose in that. The soldier moved over to his captain and knelt.

  “Sir. We have seen enemy scouts setting up camp to our north. Too few for a routine patrol.”

  Darius cursed quietly. A patrol kept an eye on a portion of land as a matter of routine. Scouts were dispatched when the commander had reason to believe they’d find something. The too-obvious preparations of attack from the north had made the Enemy suspicious. Whoever was in charge of Nebeth was no fool.

  The Gryphons now had two options. Nobody could fail to miss the tracks they’d made in the area. They could either slip away in the night and hope to be far away by morning, or attempt to slaughter the scouts so that it would take longer for news of something amiss to reach their parent army.

  Darius’s soldiers were in no great danger either way – any force that could travel fast enough to find and catch them would be easily destroyed. However, his life and the lives of his soldiers were not his only concern. Twenty thousand men were even now escaping from the Valley, and these scouts could find sign of that if they were allowed to live.

  “Thank you, and good work. Stay close for now,” Darius ordered. The man saluted and waited as the wizard woke Robert. It was time for battle.

  The other sentries were called in and the Gryphons gathered their weapons and armor. Packs were left behind – they would collect them afterward.

  The Gryphons crept close to the enemy camp. The sentries were no problem – they did not expect a wizard to be about, and they died quickly and silently. When they caught sight of the actual scout camp, Darius drew his men back to plan the attack.

  “There are only perhaps fifty in the camp,” Darius said to his lieutenant and sergeants. “This will not be difficult, but we must keep any from escaping. The first instinct of these men may be to flee, not to fight. They will attempt to bring news of our presence back to their commander at Fortress Nebeth.”

  Darius quickly worked out a plan. “I will attack from the north. They will first attempt to flee from me, and then circle back to Nebeth. You will intercept them before that can happen. Clear?” All nodded. “Good. Robert, once I depart, spread them out.”

  Accompanied by a pair of his own sentries, Darius circled to the north of the small camp. Along the way they found and executed more enemy lookouts. It mattered not how skilled or observant they were, their senses just couldn’t compete with the magic Darius commanded.

  Darius had no qualms at the work. War was not meant to be sporting.

  When they had made a complete circle, they moved back along their route until they were almost directly opposite their comrades on the other side of the enemy camp.

  Darius could sense the soldiers of the Enemy. They had small fires lit and shielded with thick hide so the light could not be seen beyond a few yards. Magic made a mockery of such precautions. Fire was an active, animated font of energy and it stood out to Darius’s rare senses like – well, like a beacon fire.

  He stood slowly, not caring if he was seen now. The enemy warriors would know soon enough what came for them.

  It was really rather easy to make men run. Toss a few of their comrades around and they were happy to oblige. If all the men flying unwillingly through the air are moving in the same direction, it is easy to imagine where the unwelcome wizard is, and thus easy to imagine where you should be running away from.

  Even the bravest of soldiers has difficulty running towards an enemy magician in the heat of combat. Surprised in the night, with no hint of warning from your lookouts? Bravery rarely exists in such circumstances, especially when the men in question are not taught to be brave, but rather to survive and report.

  As the majority of the warriors fled from him, Darius continued to use the simple magic of telekinesis to knock them about. In battle he might simply sweep a man’s legs from under him, breaking them in the process. It removed him from the battle as effectively as killing him. Here, Darius showed no such restraint. They could leave no survivors, even crippled ones. Darius did not wish his soldiers to have to execute more men than necessary once they were done here – killing in battle was one thing, but execution weighed heavily on the soul. Every time he struck, men died. The warriors who escaped him ran directly into his men; the Gryphons rose up like phantoms to slay them.

  It was not a battle, Darius corrected himself; it was a slaughter. Very well.

  When it was finished, The Gryphons roamed the area, ensuring that there were no survivors. They had suffered no casualties in the action, Darius had driven frightened and unsuspecting enemies directly into the arms of their executioners. Leaving the bodies where they had fallen, Darius and the Gryphons returned for their gear and subsequently marched throughout the night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There were only a handful of hours left.

  This time, instead of merely Kray and Padraig, every sorcerer who had a part in the upcoming assault was present. The overall commander was to be Koya Nes, a sorcerer second only to the ancient Vorse in seniority. The men he commanded directly were the finest warriors at their disposal – they would tear a hole in whatever defense the enemy managed to erect and savage their way into the fort. Should the attack fail, each and every survivor amongst these elites would be executed.

  Several sorcerers were arguing with the Warlord over exactly where to target the Firewalking spells that would deliver them into the area. The Warlord wanted to place them further from the targets, and the other sorcerers still did not understand. Traigan did not bother explaining, and the frustration of his subordinates had both him and Kray smiling.

  Kray was standing with the front echelon of sorcerers, much to his peers' further annoyance. The Warlord had insisted, in tones that brooked violence if any sought to argue. Once or twice, Traigan caught him looking at the golden circlet upon Koya’s head, but did not react. Koya saw this too, and did nothing but sneer at Kray.

  “The best route is to place the bulk of our forces here,” said one sorcerer. “Observe the land – they will be shielded from the
majority of archers and magical attacks from the fort.”

  “And leave the western approach free? We must have something to menace their flank!” said another.

  “Move them from the northern positions, then. That is the only area where it is difficult to maintain the Warlord’s desired distance.”

  “That would leave Padraig unsupported upon the road!”

  Padraig interrupted. “I need no support, you buffoons! No enemy will stand before me. The road will be secure as soon as I arrive.”

  The Warlord surprised them all with his next question. “Kray, what do you think?”

  The chamber fell silent as each and every man present – save for Kray, and the Warlord himself – suppressed the urge to laugh aloud. Most had been able to ignore Kray’s presence entirely until then. Consulting him about strategy seemed a delightful joke.

  Kray took a moment to consider the question. “We do not require the northern attack. The forts are less assailable from that direction, and as Padraig said, the road shall be secure. For at least two hours.”

  “Two hours? Have you picked up some gift for divination, mongrel?” one of the others scoffed.

  Kray answered him calmly. “Our northern positions are risky because of the marked enemy camp.” It lay between Nebeth and the forts they were planning to assail, and was sizable enough to pose a problem. “They have wizards there, and globes. They will contact Bastion, and if told to attack they will reach us in two hours at combat march.”

  The Warlord looked pleased, as the sorcerers present muttered to themselves. It was a good point, and they all recognized that – even if none would speak up to support it.

  “It will be thus, then. No attack from the north, those men will arrive to the west. If we do not hold the fort within two hours you, Greven, will lead your men north to the road and hold it along with Kray and Padraig,” The Warlord commanded. Greven, a younger sorcerer who was eager to please, nodded smartly.

  Kray, too, was pleased. Now there would be few warriors to get in his way, removing a complication from both his literal and metaphorical path.

  Before they could continue, one of the Warlord’s personal messengers arrived and beckoned him over. They, alone of all the people in Pyre, could do that at any time without fear. They brought important messages and the Warlord did not want such information delayed. Moving beyond the hearing of the sorcerers, he listened intently as the messenger relayed his news. Nodding and dismissing the man, he returned.

  “Darius was in the area south of Fortress Nebeth,” he declared without preamble. “Several days ago he butchered a scout force I ordered dispatched.”

  This set the entire group to muttering, save for Kray. He did not know who this Darius was, though he’d heard the name mentioned a few times. Some enemy, a wizard of great skill. He made the other sorcerers wary – and some were quite simply afraid of him.

  Kray waited until the planning session had ended and the other sorcerers exited the command chamber. He remained behind.

  Traigan saw that Kray had not left, and merely looked at him, his expression making it clear that he had no special words for the sorcerer and that he should leave immediately. Kray did not.

  “Warlord, who is this Darius?”

  Traigan looked surprised. Kray was shunned by the general community of magicians and was ignorant of many pieces of gossip, but that was one of the few things that slipped Traigan’s mind at times.

  “A wizard, Kray. He leads a small elite group of soldiers, called the Gryphons,” said the Warlord. “He comes and goes along the front lines wherever he pleases, and is exceedingly difficult to predict. He has caused us more trouble than any ten other men.”

  “Now he may be in the area of our attack? Do you think he’s guessed where we’re going to strike?”

  The Warlord nodded. “It is possible, Kray. The man has a talent for disrupting my plans. You’ll know his troops if you see them – they use red and blue dyes to mark their armor. They are very effective – they annihilated that scouting force with nary a survivor.”

  Kray frowned. “Then how do you know it was him?”

  This time, Traigan smiled. “To see his face is not the only way to identify a man, Kray. Have you ever paid attention to how you kill?”

  “Everyone knows how I kill.”

  “Yes, and it marks you out. When the enemy die with sand in their eyes, an observant man will know that you were around. When sneaking about, Darius kills often by beheading his foes. The sentries of the scout force were beheaded, and all were still at their posts. There are several wizards whose movements I track thus, Kray. No detail about the enemy is too small.”

  Traigan looked up at the north wall of the chamber. “I had thought the man was still within their city. Supposedly he had been kept there by direct order.”

  Another puzzled frown from the sorcerer, and Traigan held up his hand to forestall the question. “You do not need to know, Kray. I have my ways.”

  Kray nodded to show that he understood the lesson; and understand he did. The Warlord had just given him much. Warnings, clues, and most importantly of all – the final pieces to his plan. Everything had fallen into place.

  Traigan gave a gesture of dismissal. “Go, Kray. Rest before the attack. If all goes well, your life will change drastically at the end.”

  “Warlord, that is my most fervent wish.”

  ***

  The Gryphons had slowed their pace. They no longer needed the haste that had been so important before – they were now out of reach of the Enemy at Fortress Nebeth. They were closer, in fact, to their own comrades, being on the edge of the region known as the Shambles.

  To the north, the terrain formed the foothills of the Green Mountains. After a short expanse of flat grassland which the Gryphons were now crossing, the land once again became uneven. These hills were not like their kin to the north, though. The soil was loose and sandy, the hills steeper.

  The Gryphons had been traveling with little sound or talk for days. Darius knew that the silence would be wearing on his men – and in truth, it was wearing on him as well.

  “Pollis!” he called.

  The man in question answered back with an “Aye captain?”

  “My ears ache from lack of use. Give us a song!” Pollis, a veteran of the Gryphons since their organization, had an excellent voice and knew many soldiers’ songs from bawdy to somber to macabre and back again.

  ***

  Kray stood with the soldiers and watched Padraig. Always before the spell was worked by two sorcerers, but Kray was too weak to aid it. He was no more use than any of the nearly two-thousand brutes behind him. Padraig would cast the spell alone, once the final component had been delivered.

  Both of them felt it coming closer. Warriors stepped aside to admit two more sorcerers carrying a stained wooden box. Even to Kray's weak senses, the box radiated untold power – the life energy of two dozen hapless peasants, sacrificed to further the War.

  Kray was close enough to eavesdrop on Padraig and his two deliverymen when finally they rested the box on the ground at the great sorcerer’s feet.

  “This is it, Padraig,” said one unnecessarily. Padraig nodded.

  “You must do as you were told, Padraig,” said the other. “No deviations, no changes. Whatever you think of your skills, this is a matter of utter importance. The Warlord will do worse than kill you should you fail.”

  For once empty of bravado, Padraig nodded again. His voice was serious and he did not sound so much like the man Kray hated. “I will do exactly as I was taught.”

  “Good,” said the first. Then he turned to the soldiers. “You men!” and out of the corner of his eye he glanced at Kray, as if to imply ‘and you, runt.’ “You are great warriors, every man strong and brave, and you will soon spill blood in battle!”

  There was a roar of acknowledgment from the soldiers, who were, in fact, all experienced warriors.

  “But for all of your bravery, there are things e
ven you must fear. Listen well: Once the spell is open and you run through, close your eyes. The man who does not will never see again, for in between this place and the next, you will cross through Hell itself.”

  Kray’s ears perked. Hell itself? He did not know exactly what they meant – surely the sorcerers couldn’t be speaking literally. Even with that thought, he resolved to follow the advice.

  His heart began to beat faster. Suddenly he realized – he was here. This was the moment. His mouth went dry, and in the next moment became wet again as he salivated at the thoughts of a future so near.

  The other sorcerers departed, leaving Padraig to work the spell. His ridiculously short robes blowing in a light wind, the man stood perfectly still. Unlike many sorcerers, Padraig scorned hand gestures or motion of any kind when he worked. Even this near, Kray could not feel the beginning. Padraig evoked a whisper of magic that fed on his memories of another place. It reached out and, with a surge that Kray did feel, connected the two points.

  Padraig moved at last. Raising one hand, with his other he drew a small dagger from his belt and cut his arm. Drops of blood spilled onto the stained wood lying in the dirt. Kray was stunned by the power that leapt forth, and even had he been yet weaker he could not have mistaken what came next.

  With an iron will and a grimace, Padraig called forth fire from the air, and tore a hole in the world.

  ***

  Pollis knew what kind of song his commander wanted. He looked at another soldier nearby and whispered the name. The man smiled wide and nodded, reaching as he did to a long case kept strapped to his sword like a second scabbard. From within he pulled a flute.

  “I’ll need a walking beat, lads! Start it up!” Pollis called. The veterans around him started immediately. As more and more soldiers joined in, their footsteps started to synchronize, with some men stomping their feet more forcefully on the left and some on the right. This produced a heavy clomp to the tempo of their steps.