Defenders of the Valley

by K. J. Coble

  “Unless we smash whatever they throw before us on the lakeside,” Morug stated. “How much longer before we clear the woods?”

  “At the current pace, I’d say another five days.” Lonadiel stood and kicked the rock aside. “That’s a lot of time for an enemy force to gather. They can ferry troops across the lake from Eredynn in no time. And if we are facing the Valley Legion, out in the open, these barbarians have little chance.”

  “You worry too much, elf,” Morug said with a chuckle. “All is proceeding according to plan.”

  “Is it?”

  Morug glared at Lonadiel, the liquid flow of his eyes stilling. “Yes, it is,” he replied coldly.

  Lonadiel refused to back down from the man’s stare. “I had expected some sort of sign or aid from our Dark Patrons, by now.”

  “Oh,” the wizard said with a distant expression, “fear not. You will have it.”

  THE REMORDAN VALLEY Assembly met in a domed chamber attached to one side of the Imperial Palace. Sunlight beamed down through stained glass panes in the roof, refracting and coloring the gathered dignitaries with speckles of rainbow. The Speakers sat on stone benches ringing an open floor, the arrangement harkening back to the glory days of the early republic, suggesting power that even the Strategos, perched on a throne at the north end overlooking the floor, had to give its due.

  Jayce sat between Illah and Vohl among the citizens crowding the upper tiers of the chamber, merchants, farmers, and even a few vagrants just come for show. The air stank of sweat and bodies packed too closely together. Jayce glance around with bemusement at frontier government. In Verrax, he recalled distantly, the lord of the land was the Annointed of the Gods and, though the high priests had leave to debate the state of the kingdom – and did so often with heat to shame the blazing desert sun – the Dawn King’s word was final and divine.

  Vennitius struck a gong suspended at his side to officially open proceedings. After a brief introduction, he bade Arlen Fletcher to take the floor. At his side, Kodror Aigann turned over an enormous, golden hourglass, allotting the Speaker his time, set by Assembly by-laws.

  The skinny Fletcher, clad in formal robes of white that clearly made him uncomfortable, stepped to the center of the chamber and began to recount the fate of Edon Village and the size of barbarian host that had consumed it. His voice shook as he spoke and he paused to gather his thoughts often, occasionally wiping his brow clear of sweat.

  Jayce felt sorry for the man.

  The Speakers listened intently, sometimes growling amongst one another at the recitation of the Skinners’ horrors. Jayce eyed Dodso, seated at the lowest tier of benches with a cautious smile on his face. He seemed as confident as he would have been on a tabletop in the Loving Imp.

  Jayce nudged Vohl. “I had expected Dodso to be stealing the show already.”

  “Me, too.” Vohl grunted. “Don’t worry; I’m sure he’s got something planned.”

  Jayce glanced at Illah, leaning against a column on his other side with a sour expression. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

  “People are dying and you Imperials debate.” She shook her head disgustedly.

  “They don’t call them Speakers for nothing,” Vohl said over Jayce’s shoulder.

  The hourglass only halfway emptied, Fletcher already appeared to be wrapping up. He glanced Dodso’s way, noted the gnome’s nod and said, “As is...uh...my right as Holder of the Floor, I’d like to concede the remainder of my time to the Esteemed Speaker from Kobolon.”

  Ah, I see, Jayce thought, glancing at Vohl’s knowing grin.

  A titter ran through the Speakers and the crowd. Aigann leaned close to Vennitius to whisper something but the Strategos waved him away. “I will allow it,” Vennitius said.

  Fletcher returned to his seat and Dodso rose to stride to the center of the floor. Cheers erupted from the upper tiers. Dodso grinned, his teeth gleaming from a beard freshly oiled and plaited for the occasion. He gave a single turn with arms upraised to his audience before seriousness retook his face.

  “We all know why we’re here,” Dodso began. “My honorable colleague from Edon Village has made it plain. But I stand before this body now to see to it that something is done about it.”

  “The Speaker from Kobolon suggests nothing will be done?” Vennitius asked from his throne, clearly enjoying that he could look down his nose at the gnome without giving obvious disrespect.

  “I suggest nothing of the sort. But we all know how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy turn.” Dodso paused for affect. “I ask—no, I demand—that my fellow Speakers pledge their support to mobilization now!”

  The crowd bawled its approval. Fletcher was already on his feet, promising what few Edonites remained to the cause. The Speakers of Koen, Graystone and Tilalol, all of whose settlements lay in the barbarians’ path, shot to their feet, as well.

  “Well?” Dodso asked, staring at those Speakers not yet standing.

  “Threshold promises its strength,” the Speaker for the northern trade town said, standing. “Though all here know how long it will take our forces to arrive.”

  “We’ll take them!” Dodso boomed. “What of Andenburgh, Eredynn, and Candolum?”

  “Andenburgh is at your side, Speaker Dodso,” the elderly representative for that city said.

  “And Eredynn—” Tenhas, the Speaker for the district capitol and a political hack, rose with a sideways glance at Vennitius, who didn’t bother to hide his nod of ascent “—will also send its allotment to the Thematic Levy!”

  “Candolum?” Dodso demanded.

  “Our men are needed in town,” Candolum’s representative said with a quaver. “Signs of ill omen have led to civil unrest and keeping the peace has become...difficult.”

  “Civil unrest?” Dodso snorted. “What, by the gods, do you call this juggernaut come to smash us?” The Speaker of Candolum began to offer a protest but Dodso waved him off contemptuously. “I do not see a representative from our noble kin in Norothar, but I have little doubt the hot-blooded dwarves will join in for the fun!”

  Aigann turned over the hourglass and set it down again with a deliberate crash, letting Dodso know his borrowed time was up and he was on his own.

  “Very well,” Dodso hurried to continue. “You have it before you, noble Strategos; a petition from the majority for mobilization. Now, we all know mustering the Thematic Levy without Imperial Decree is illegal. So, I must ask the question: do the people of the Valley have your permission to defend them selves?”

  Jayce noticed that Vennitius smiled slyly as he replied, “Speaker, the word is given.”

  The chamber rang with cheers while Dodso pumped a fist into the air. He let the sands run through the hourglass for a full minute as the cacophony continued, then with an agreeable smile waved his hands for quiet.

  “The Skinners are a wild, degenerate, cannibal folk, my friends,” Dodso proclaimed. “Though I doubt not our eventual victory, it will be a hard-fought affair. Certainly, with our glorious Legions at our side, perseverance over this menace can be guaranteed?” He turned to stare at Vennitius.

  The Strategos glanced at a figure in full lamellar armor with a helm bearing the red-crest of command cradled under his arm. “Praetor Paelito?”

  Paelito, commander of the Valley Legion stepped to the side of the throne, a stiff-backed, hawk-nosed man with iron-gray stubble glinting along his scalp. “As the Speaker from Kobolon is no doubt already aware, the XXXX Legion is badly-dispersed.”

  Dodso’s grin slipped for the first time. “Certainly, Praetor, you do not suggest that the Legion will not aid the people who pay for its existence?”

  A hint of annoyance marred Paelito’s tight visage. “I am merely pointing out a logistical fact, Speaker. Two cohorts are stationed at Threshold and will encounter the same impediments the Levies from said city will. Another cohort is in—”

  “What of the cohorts in Eredynn?” Dodso interrupted. “I saw some of their fine lads, last night in a ce
rtain tavern.” Laughter purled from the crowd. Vennitius started to say something but Dodso waved off his own statement. “I retract that. If I may, as Holder of the Floor, call for a testimonial?”

  “What is this?” Kodror Aigann could be heard hissing.

  Vennitius glared the Procurator into silence. He turned back to the Assembly, eyeing Dodso. “Who would you bring before this body, Speaker?”

  “Why, a most noble guest of the State.” He turned and looked towards Jayce, Vohl, and Illah. “Could I ask the Lady Ilanahl Aloicil to join me?”

  Jayce looked at the half-elf maiden, whose eyes narrowed to fury. Vohl chuckled at Jayce’s side, elbowing the wizard and saying, “Oh, he’s good, isn’t he?”

  Illah shook her head at them. “Imperials...” She sighed. “Very well, if this is how things must get done.” She hiked a leg over the barrier separating the upper tiers from the Assembly level and leapt down to the benches, parting the yelping Speakers of Candolum and Eredynn. She strode to the floor and came to stand at Dodso’s side, offering the gnome a lethal glance.

  Dodso, clearly enjoying himself, said, “Lady Ilanahl comes to us from the Order of the Yntuil. My Lady, could you tell us something of your experiences?”

  Illah looked up at Vennitius, her hand going to her hip where habit would have it rest upon the hilt of her saber, left behind at the Loving Imp, as none but the Legions could bear arms within the Assembly chamber. “My Order in the Valley has fallen to treachery—” Jayce noticed a momentary wince “—save for me. This attack has been carefully-planned at the calling of some more malevolent purpose. If any of you believes that this attack will be put off by some token display of force, then you are fools.”

  Laughter and catcalls issued from the crowd and Dodso smirked.

  “What’s more, I understood that the Thyrrian Empire was in the habit of honoring its agreements with allied powers,” Illah continued. “As sole remaining representative of my Order and the fey nations of Mauvynn in the Valley, I call upon this body to offer up the force needed to put down this invasion decisively.”

  The cheering started up again. At Vennitius’ side, Aigann whispered something and gestured furiously at the now-empty hourglass. Vennitius seemed not to hear his subordinate. He finally nodded to Paelito. The Praetor bowed and said to the gathering, “The Fifth Cohort is being held in reserve. I can promise you them and a detachment from Engineering Cohort.”

  “We will have victory!” Dodso shouted. His voice echoed against the dome before being drowned out by the crowd, coming to their feet and applauding. He turned with arms upraised, drinking in the adulation.

  “Well,” Vohl said to Jayce over the din, “he’s done it.”

  Vennitius hammered at the gong, going red in the face as he pummeled it and the crowd back into silence. Dodso began to return to his bench, pointing for Illah to return to hers.

  “One moment, Speaker Dodso,” Vennitius called. Dodso halted, looking up with his brows furrowing. “As always, this body thanks you for your impassioned oratory.” Vennitius gave an unpleasant smile that set Jayce’s skin to tingling in alarm. “And since you have been so persuasive in moving the Assembly to this most honorable and necessary course of action, I think the people would not disagree when I order up an Imperial Commission for you to command this, our Remordan Valley Expeditionary Force!”

  The crowd went volcanic, blasting to their feet in applause, roaring Dodso’s name. Dodso blinked, for a moment did not appear to have heard. He turned, regarding the people and the Speakers clamoring to clap in on the back, his hands hung limp at his sides, none of the theatrics now. He looked up to Vohl, eyes flashing in sudden panic.

  “Does that mean what I think means?” Jayce asked resignedly, putting his hand to his brow.

  “Oh,” Vohl barely managed, “oh, damn...”

  Chapter Ten

  Shadows Gather Anew

  Torchlight flickered across ash-gray shapes crowding the center of a circular, columned chamber, picked out details that set Sarcha’s skin to crawling. The skeletal figures were vaguely human, contorted in apparent terror and agony with misshapen jaws stretched wide, bony hands fused to skulls or plastered around one another, some on all fours in vain supplication. One rose from its knees near another statue-flanked doorway, its arms up, frozen in a plea to forsaken deities, tatters that could have been either the remnants of a cloak or shreds of desiccated meat set to fluttering by the movement of the intruders to this long-dead place.

  Sarcha’s torch picked out a pair near her foot, an adult figure wrapped around a smaller shape in the fetal position. She gulped and looked away.

  Clegg and his dwarves cast about in silence, tools dangling to the floor. They had broken through to this room only minutes before and the word had spread up the tunnel to summon Sarcha.

  “Some...some kind of art?” Clegg asked in a barely audible voice.

  “No,” Sarcha replied. “These were people; priests and—” her eyes went to the parent-child pair again “—others...”

  “What could have done this to them?” Clegg asked.

  “I...I don’t know.” Sarcha suppressed a shudder, knowing she was very likely viewing what would have been the Vullians’ last moments as the wrath of the gods overtook them for their heresies.

  A breeze from the open passage behind them tickled the back of her neck, carrying with it stony chill. But, within this chamber, strange warmth emanated from the stonework and the air smelled of moisture, heated rock, and old, old death. By the flickering light, Sarcha noted trickles of water glimmering from cracks in the walls, running down along the columns in black patterns like fresh blood. She looked past the pleading figure to the doorway before it. “What is through there?” she asked.

  Clegg nodded to a pair of his people nearest the entrance and they cautiously moved into it, torches outlining their stocky figures. Sarcha heard scuffling and the ring of a tool against rock. A moment later, one of the dwarves re-emerged. “Blocked a few yards down,” he announced.

  “Well get back to work, then!” Clegg barked. The dwarves responded sluggishly, unwilling to get too close to the time-frozen dead. Clegg touched Sarcha’s arm as pickaxes and spades clanged against stone. “They’re spooked,” he whispered. “Hell, I’m spooked!”

  Sarcha was saved a reply by the appearance of a dwarf rushing from the upper passage. “Elder Greatclub!” he called and paused to catch his breath. “Sir, the lookouts have spotted something above ground!”

  Clegg glanced at Sarcha then trotted after the messenger. Sarcha followed, easily keeping pace with the shorter beings’ stumpy strides. They passed other work crews, shoring up support timbers and excavating side passages, some emerging with enormous smiles, baubles of gold, priceless carvings of gilded ivory and gemstones the size of fists clenched in grimy hands. Torch- and candle-lit gloom gave way to yellow-white openness ahead. Sarcha emerged from the dark into brilliance, cursing as the sun savaged her eyes and shielding them from the glare.

  Dwarves were piling rocks into a crude palisade in a semicircle around the cave mouth, she saw as her eyes adjusted. A clear sky flared to rich red above, the hard light of a setting sun picking out details of the surrounding mountains and the ravine below the cave. She saw nothing in the rock-strewn gorge. But a breeze carried the faint beat of a drum to her ears, occasionally broken by a shrill horn blast.

  “The vermin are back,” Clegg said. He stepped to the side of Vors, who apparently had the watch and had unslung his arm, was working it in slow circles. “Where?” Clegg asked the young dwarf.

  Vors pointed downhill with his good arm. “Down near where we camped before.”

  Sarcha knelt behind the rock barrier at Clegg’s side, staring into the slowly-darkening gorge. She heard the patter of loosened pebbles then saw movement, a dark shape momentarily flashing the sparks of a yellowy gaze her way. She looked at Clegg. “How many do you think?”

  “It’s a war party,” Clegg answered. “At least
three hundred, probably the balance of the tribe we slogged through on our way here. They’re emboldened, now, what with us cornered in here.” He struck a stone from the palisade with a curse.

  “It may be more than that,” Vors said softly, standing atop the barrier and glaring into the distance. “There are campfires further off to the southeast.”

  “They know that if we’re here, so far from Norothar, we must have been drawn by riches they didn’t know of,” Clegg growled. “The rats have come to steal our claim!”

  “You can beat them?” Sarcha asked. They don’t need to beat them, exactly, but they do need to keep them at bay until I have finished here.

  “We have the position now,” Clegg said gruffly. “I’ve never heard of goblins forcing a dwarven line before; and this won’t be the first!”

  Every dwarf within earshot barked their approval. But Clegg leaned close to Sarcha as their cheers faded. “My lady, if it is more than a war party, we’re already low on water.”

  “There was moisture below,” she replied. “There must be an underground spring.”

  Clegg nodded in agreement. “Yes, but our salt-pork is more than half gone. If we hadn’t lost so many packs with the mammoth in the fens it would have been better. But, what I’m saying, my lady is that we’re not provisioned to stand a prolonged siege in this remote place.”

  “Then you have my permission to detach work parties to seek an alternate route out,” Sarcha said. “There have been numerous side-passages below; certainly, one leads to another egress?”

  Clegg stared into her eyes. “What if there isn’t one?”

  Sarcha searched his fiery eyes for a sign that her charm still held. “You must believe, Clegg Greatlub,” she whispered.

  Glassiness slid over the flame of Clegg’s resistant irises. He blinked and frowned, seemed to recognize something had happened. His voice rang with slight suspicion as he asked, “If we find another way, do we then make off with what riches we’ve uncovered?”