by David
A march-weary rest preceded the second day of travel, which was little different from the first. Gradually birches to the right of the column disappeared. Then elms and oaks dwindled, until they at last failed altogether. The road before them began to slope steadily downward at a gentle grade. Aside from geographical changes, only weather was different from the previous day. Although it was still cool, it remained dry.
Aldric spoke with Loric as they rode, commenting, “It seems that Lord Garrett has been asking about you.”
“Indeed?” Loric questioned. “What has his lordship been asking?”
“He is interested in knowing everything about your stay in Taeglin--who housed you and where they can be found, who your friends were and whether or not you have a love interest there.... things like that,” Aldric replied.
“If only he would ask me, I would gladly tell him myself,” Loric said with a chuckle.
Aldric grinned.
There was silence between them, which the younger man broke, asking, “What do you
expect will be the outcome when we meet Turtioc’s forces?”
“All will go well, of course. In fact, I met with Lord Garrick last night to discuss our battle plans,” he added. “All is ready. In two days, we should reach Stone Keep. We sent out scouts overnight. Unfortunately, those men have yet to return to me.”
Loric’s dreams had told him a different story. He had foreseen disaster and chaos in the night. He wanted to speak of it, but he could not. No one outside of Taeglin could ever know of his weird dreams that came to be. Instead, he asked, “Should the scouts not have reported already?”
“That they have not come back fills my heart with foreboding,” Aldric admitted. When he read Loric’s face, he added, “It could be that their road was more dangerous than we anticipated it to be--and so, they were forced to take longer routes back to us.”
Even as Aldric finished speaking, a rider came into view from the north. He was pushing his foamy mount to the point of exhaustion and beyond. Even before he veered toward them, Loric noted that he wore the woodland colors of Egolstadt. The scout thundered up before Aldric, dismounted with a toss of his blond braids and offered a slight bow in hurried salute.
Loric still did not know what to make of the rider, although he had met him before. His hair was wild and falling out of braids that hung down his back. There was a small scar just below his left eye, which was part of a vibrant blue pair. He was shorter than the average man was, but he still sat tall and proud in his saddle. There was arrogance, or perhaps just tremendous confidence, in the way he carried himself. He was Nyck the Storyteller, whom Loric had met at Taggert’s Pub; he was also Warnyck the Scout, the man Loric had rescued from a Bushubu Tribesmen on the road to Moonriver Castle.
“Milord,” the man gasped, “I was set upon by outriders of Nindronburg.” He drew a deep breath and continued, “But not before I discovered that Turtioc himself has gathered his hordes, with whom he rides to meet us on the open field. I was spotted as I withdrew from my
reconnaissance, but I led the villains a good chase.” The messenger smiled proudly, adding, “I think I lost them near the eaves of Dimwood Forest, whereupon I returned with all possible haste.”
A flash of surprise showed in Aldric’s eyes as he received this message. “How great is Turtioc’s host?” he asked.
“It is no small number!” the scout exclaimed. “I should say at least five thousands, but scarcely five hundreds of the wild men ride.” The scout grimaced and shook his head, before he spoke on, saying, “They are skilled in their craft, for I have traveled far bearing these.” As Warnyck rotated and tilted his torso toward them, Loric saw broken, splintered shafts of two arrows protruding from the back of his left arm and shoulder respectively. “I snapped them off on the run,” said the scout, with a wince. “It was ride or die for me, milord.”
Lord Aldric ordered Loric, “Ride to the rear and fetch this man a fresh horse. He continued,
“Tell Elberon that we have a wounded soldier, just returned from the border. Tell him we need him to come and tend injuries.”
Without another word, Aldric spurred Snowstorm forward and raced to the head of the host.
Loric wheeled Sunset about and sped off in the opposite direction. He passed Elberon along the way and relayed Aldric’s message to him. Elberon--one of the late arrivals to Moonriver Castle, under Captain Hauldren’s command--hurried ahead as ordered, ever eager to make use of his skill in treating wounds.
Loric moved to the rear of the column, where the army kept spare mounts. He removed
excess baggage from one horse and tossed it onto two others. He lashed the bags tight and proceeded back up the long line with a fresh mount for Warnyck.
Loric found Warnyck and wizened old Elberon stopped alongside the road. There, the
primary physician of Aldric’s host was examining the scout’s wounds with many an, “uhuh,”
and, “aha.” Elberon spotted Loric and requested his help removing the darts from Warnyck’s arm and shoulder, so he obliged to hold the scout down while the physician tortured him. That was how it seemed to Loric, as the graybeard worked the remains of each arrowhead free from Warnyck’s flesh. Then Elberon bound his wounds in cloth.
Elberon showed Warnyck a gap-toothed smile when he was finished binding him and
assured him, “I am done with you for now, but when we make camp, I intend to burn the fever out of your wounds with a hot iron.”
Warnyck grimaced sourly at the thought, but he nodded in agreement. “Thank you,” he
offered gratefully.
Loric helped Warnyck climb astride a fresh horse. Then he rode alongside the scout and the physician. When the three of them arrived at the front of the column, Aldric was waiting for them. They were eager to know Garrick’s reaction to Warnyck’s findings, but their leader volunteered nothing on the subject. He did not look at them or acknowledge them, but rather stared at the space between Snowstorm’s ears, as though he were concentrating on the sights of a crossbow.
“Lord,” asked Loric, “what does this mean?”
“It means we are poorly positioned,” answered Aldric, “but not as poorly as we would be, fighting at the base of Stone Keep. This was unexpected, to be sure. Now, we must push on until dusk, ere we make our battle camp. Let us hope we reach the fords across Moon River before nightfall or we will still be at a disadvantage on the morrow.” The upturned corners of his mouth were sources of hope to his men as he shared, “Turtioc has made a terrible blunder by coming out of his castle to meet us in the open. It is up to us to make him pay dearly for his mistake.”
“Let us hope we do so, my lord,” said Loric, swallowing the consequences of the alternative to his statement. “If we do, we will soon be discussing our victory over full tankards.”
“That would be nice,” Warnyck sighed contentedly, as if he were already lifting his brew.
“Aye,” said Aldric and Elberon in unison.
A devilish grin contorted Warnyck’s features as he added euphorically, “While that sounds tremendous, I should much prefer the company of a buxom wench to fierce warriors like you.”
They all chuckled at Warnyck’s remark, but then they fell silent, considering all that might happen in the battle ahead. Each man knew the Soul Snatcher was waiting to collect His dues.
They waited to twine fingers with Him to dance, and the dance could be their last, each and all of them.
The army veered north of the King’s Way Crossing, prompting Loric to inquire why they had left the road when haste was their goal. Aldric quietly informed his pupil in command that they were avoiding Shadoc’s Creek, which he pointedly referenced as both a, ....deserter’s paradise, and, ....an army leader’s worst enemy, because of its alluring taverns, with their,
....casks of romance, and, ....their serving girls, who look more attractive and more in need of a husband with each pint gone. Loric nodded, his mind distracted by his own love interest
back at Moonriver Castle. Only by sheer force of will did he beat back the image of Lady Hadelia, who had somehow lodged herself into his daily thoughts as well.
Will I ever escape your kiss, Hadelia? Loric questioned inwardly. My heart belongs to Avalana. With a touch of the bracelet she had given him, he bent his heart and mind to accepting that resolution.
Loric was still wrestling with his unwelcome thoughts of Hadregeon’s cunning niece two hours later, when the host regained the road. The army marched on without rest until the sun dropped below the horizon. Aldric informed Loric that Garrick had decided to push on to the fords, which provided the most defensible terrain from which to protect Durbansdan’s western border. Ahead, Moon River bent to the north, where it channeled wider. There, the army would wade across the shallows. Garrick’s intent was clear. He wanted to arrive at the fords before Turtioc’s barbarians could establish a firm foothold on the opposite side.
Loric was nearly nodding off in his saddle by the time the army at last achieved its goal.
Heavy fog was spreading over both banks of the river, but there were no visual or audible enemy contacts in the area. All was proceeding in accordance with Garrick’s plan. He had averted the disaster he had most feared. Turtioc’s forces had not yet crossed the river. Neither were they entrenched on the eastern shore.
Lord Aldric’s companies camped north of the King’s Way Crossing, which the Lord of
Egolstadt foretold as the toughest ground to defend in the event that Turtioc should strike first.
Garrick’s host settled to each side of the road, by halves, with those companies to the north forming central command. The southernmost of those forces remained under Garrett’s authority.
His men were arrayed along the river bend, there to serve as the right flank of the entire host.
It was a long watchful night in camp, but there was little to see. Fog dropped over the area like a heavy curtain. One could only see a few feet ahead, and then with much difficulty and uncertainty.
Aldric spent much of the night in Garrick’s war tent, where leaders discussed the morrow’s battle strategy. Loric and other men waited out long hours in anticipation of dawn. The Squire of Egolstadt tried to rest, but he lay huddled sleepless in his bedroll. An outbreak of fighting in the deep night aided his sleeplessness, when Turtioc’s columns finally announced their arrival by blundering into Aldric’s skirmishers on the eastern shore. Loric raced to the site of that deadly exchange, his heart double-thump pounding with excitement, but the melee was over before he arrived. Aldric’s men were falling back to the western bank, where their fellows gave them superior numbers over their foes. Turtioc’s men withdrew to the water’s edge, chased thither by angry shouts and rude gestures from Men of Egolstadt.
King Avalar nodded his approval and smiled.
Loric returned to his tent, where his thoughts turned from the skirmish, to the battle before him, to the lady left behind. King Avalar’s presence constantly reminded Loric of the lovely maiden awaiting him at Moonriver Castle. In turn, thinking of Avalana brought his thoughts back around to the coming battle. It was an endless cycle.
Loric abandoned his attempt to sleep and rose from his tent. No fire burned that night in camp for fear that Nindronburg archers might send forth arrows in the direction of those lights.
Despite the lack of warmth and illumination, scores of sleepless men sat upon logs and stones in the mist. Loric moved to join them.
As the squire sat sharing in the hopes and fears of his fellow soldiers, he caught peripheral views of two moving shadows. A hard look revealed that one was Captain Dundrick, a man directly under Garrett in the chain of authority, and Loric believed the other was the cruel prince in command of that captain. Dundrick confirmed the identity of his companion as he bowed and broke away, making for the cluster of men seated around Loric.
“Good evening, Captain Dundrick,” Loric offered.
Without meeting Loric’s gaze, the officer returned his greeting, muttering, “Evening.”
Dundrick addressed a pair of his lieutenants. “Harrett, Yaric.” Those men rose and stood at the ready, awaiting orders. “Come with me. Our lord has a special task for us.” With that, three men departed.
When Loric returned to his tent later that night, he saw the captain and his entire company saddle up and gallop away from camp. They dusted away at breakneck speed. Oddly, they were going back the way they had come, rather than moving toward the either flank of the enemy before them.
Perhaps Lord Garrick has reconsidered the Bushubu Tribe. The morrow may tell what his lordship’s whims may be.
Loric returned to his tent, but he slept little that night. When he did sleep, his nightmares disturbed him. Although he could not remember the content of his dreams, he felt soulless when he woke up the next morning. He was dripping with sweat. His heart was racing. Worse still, his stomach was turning inverted somersaults through intestinal hoops.
Loric stepped out of the tent and into the first gray light of dawn. The fog was swirling, and it was lifting. The chill air refreshed him as he stood by and observed the scene. His breath rose before his eyes, only to disappear amidst lingering morning mists.
Loric ducked back inside his tent. He paused, stricken dumb, as the dull light of morning poured into his shelter in a triangle, where it fell upon a red shield and the quilted folds of a matching surcoat. The shadow of a knight decorated both items. Loric stared at the returned items of Logant, wondering, Does Aldric wish me to wear these? The logical answer came to him, whereupon he determined, Aldric said he would keep them safe for me until we ride into battle, far from Moonriver, so clearly he wishes this. Otherwise, why are these things here, and how came they to be here? The son of Palendar shrugged.
Loric stepped inside his canvas dwelling and drew the flap shut behind him. He dressed quickly in the hope that he might recapture his lost warmth, but his shiver and chill had as much to do with his excitement about wearing his proper colors and insignias as it had to do with the morning air. He girded himself with items of Logant, and cast a thick woolen cloak over his garb for added protection from the prickly air. Then the squire made off to retrieve two stallions from their rope enclosure. He prepared Sunset and Snowstorm for the turbulent ride ahead of them and led the animals to the tent of his liege lord.
Aldric was already up and ready for the roaring tempest to come. He stood in front of his shelter in his shiny plates with the sword Judgment hanging threateningly at his side. Loric could tell by the smoldering fire in his eyes that they would erupt in a raging inferno today.
“Good morning, my lord,” Loric hailed him.
“What in the name of the Great King are you doing?” Aldric begged to know.
Loric was confused. He shook his head, utterly at a loss for words.
“You should not be garbed as a Logantian Knight! Go and change-”
An ox horn interrupted Aldric, telling them to mount stallions.
“It is too late for that now,” Aldric decided. “You must ride as you are. You and I have much to discuss after this battle.”
“It is a magnificent day for battle, is it not?” asked a passerby with a unique accent. It was King Avalar of Regalsturn.
“This is my first, so I must trust your good judgment, Majesty,” Loric replied amicably. “It is an excellent day for His Lordship of Durbansdan to defeat Turtioc on the field where he is assembled.” Loric gazed toward the opposing army. The fog lifted. He pointed out a fierce-looking figure in the midst of the barbarians and ventured, “Unless I miss my guess, there he rides.”
With the fog vanishing, as by a sorcerer’s magic, the foamy waters of Moon River were unveiled in majesty. The army of Nindronburg, which was more like a horde than an organized fighting force, was milling about on the far bank, hurriedly preparing to meet Garrick’s army.
There was a huge man riding amongst those chaotic masses. He wore a dark metal breastplate and a frightful helmet, the latter of which was the l
ikeness of a dragonhead. Protruding from the mouth of that steely beast was the scarred, war-hardened face of Turtioc. He bore a shield with a great hooked horn in its center and he clutched a two-handed sword in his other fist. Each hand was fitted with a spiked gauntlet. The rest of his body remained unprotected, except for the scant defense afforded him by his sparse covering of animal hides.
This was the first time Loric had ever seen the brutish King of Nindronburg, but there could be no doubting who he was. Shouts of exultation from men around that fearsome rider and the manner in which he carried himself were indicative of his superior rank. Usurper or no, he looked like a king, behaved like a king and his men respected him as a king. Loric shuddered. He suddenly felt sick at his stomach.
“Yes, that is Turtioc,” Aldric confirmed. “So the stage is set,” he said, with a trace of anxiety shading his voice. “We will meet our enemy upon Darbin’s Field, where King Lornigan fell.”
“Good hunting, lords,” Avalar wished them, as he rode along his way.
About that time, Marblin jogged his piebald up beside them. The old guardsman looked like Loric felt. Either he was about to be sick, or he had already purged his fears upon the dewy grass.
He dismounted, bowing low before Aldric to say, “Lord Garrett sends me to remind you of your objectives.”
“Tell his lordship I have not forgotten my responsibilities,” Aldric assured him.
Marblin dutifully spoke them anyway. Afterward, he requested, “Lord, would you be so
kind as to pass along my good wishes to your squire-”
“I am here,” Loric called, lifting his visor for his friend to see his face. Marblin hesitated.
His face was ghostly white. Loric extended his hand and encouraged him, “Do not be afraid, my friend. We will carry the day.”
Loric was not sure whether his words or his smile shook the confidence back into Marblin, who briefly clasped his hand and murmured, somewhat uneasily, “May the Great King watch over thee, friend.”
