by Mark McCabe
At first, Golkar had been visibly shaken by their presence. The fact that Kell could appear unheralded at his door had clearly unnerved him. For him to be accompanied by a mature gryphon, a fearsome creature at the height of its power, had clearly also been more than he had bargained for. It was only a momentary lapse, however. He had grown in power much more than Kell had guessed and the conciliatory tone he had initially adopted had merely gained him the time he had needed to prepare for the vicious onslaught that quickly followed.
Without warning, Golkar had initiated a furious assault on the pair of them, bringing to bear an impressive array of offensive spells that had put Kell immediately onto the backfoot. He wasn’t to be so easily overcome, however. He had also prepared for this battle. Though it had been a close thing, Kell had somehow managed to weather that early storm. The incredible speed and agility of the gryphon had then come into its own.
It had been Golkar who had been hard pressed then, desperately erecting barriers to fend off both the physical and magical attacks which had rained down on him, allowing him precious little time to continue the offensive he had started. At one point, he had staggered under the weight of the dual assault, and Kell had thought that the battle was his. Golkar’s defensive shield had been weakened for an instant as he had attempted to regain the offensive and Thyfur’s deadly claw had sliced through.
Though the opening in his shield wall had been repaired in a twinkling of the eye, the damage had been done. The gryphon’s claw had struck home, rending flesh and tearing sinew as it sliced through Golkar’s shoulder like a knife through goat’s curd. For Kell, it seemed that time had stood still. Golkar had stumbled to one knee, with one hand clutching his gaping wound.
An uneasy silence had fallen across the field of battle. The gryphon has settled to the ground a safe distance away from the stricken Guardian and Kell had watched from his position astride the beast, debating whether to call for his foe’s surrender or to end it then and there. While he deliberated, Golkar had dug deep into his reserves. In a moment, he was up again and the battle resumed. The chance had been lost. Kell wondered now if the fate of all of Ilythia had hinged on that one moment.
He knew that Golkar would never have hesitated had it been his opponent who had been so exposed. He would have pressed the advantage relentlessly. He would have driven him down until there wasn’t a breath left in him. He would have killed Kell without a moment’s hesitation.
But not Kell. He had hesitated. What had he thought at that moment? Was it compassion or foolish hope? Or was it simply blind stupidity that had fuelled his vacillation? It didn’t matter now.
Golkar had regained the initiative from that point and he had never relinquished it. When he had unleashed those infernal lightning bolts, Kell had known that the battle was lost, though he had been reluctant at first to acknowledge it. They were like nothing he had ever experienced before, drawing on some unnatural source of power that was out of Kell’s reckoning. Even then, if he had broken off the fight at that point he would still have achieved what he had initially sought to do. Golkar would have won that round, but it would have been a hollow victory. Kell would have escaped unscathed and Golkar would have been left to lick his wounds and wonder at the closeness of the contest.
Instead, Kell had fought on, unwilling to acknowledge the recklessness of his lapse and allowing Golkar to clearly establish his supremacy. Though the latter had been wounded in the encounter, in the end, it had been Kell and Thyfur who had barely escaped with their lives. They had thrown everything they had at the fiend, and still he had rebuffed them. What choices were left to them now?
Kell continued to torture himself, going over and over the battle and cursing himself for his missed opportunities, until his friend finally interrupted his mental self-flagellation.
Despair is the cloak of the lost, mage, came a clear thought from Thyfur as they made their way eastward. You said that the goal was to unsettle him, if for no other reason than to draw his thoughts away from the Algarians. We achieved that. We wounded him into the bargain. He bested us, but he knows not the extent of his victory. He has not followed us. Whatever his plans were, they are now awry. Take heart, mage, all is not lost.
Kell smiled grimly. You are right, as always, friend Thyfur. We have bought some time. We did achieve our goals, though at great cost to ourselves. My fear is that the battle may well have been our last real chance to defeat him.
You are wounded, as am I, replied Thyfur. And you are not used to battle. We will find better counsel after we have rested.
Yes, thought Kell, after rest. The throbbing in his head was muddling his thoughts. I must rest, he thought, as he clung tightly to Thyfur’s neck. Then perhaps I’ll know what to do.
Chapter 6
The commanding officer’s cane rapped against the vellum map around which the small group of officers had clustered. Fintan couldn’t resist his usual bit of theatrics, even though the gravity of the occasion was such that he had no need for props to secure his men’s attention. It was a habit of his, one he had picked up from old Greshel back at the academy. He saw no reason to drop it now. Neither he nor his classmates had ever dared interrupt Greshel when he had the floor, and that was the way Fintan wanted it to be for him as well. ‘Mark my words,’ old Greshel used to say, and Fintan always had. He expected the same respect now from the men serving under him.
Fintan scanned the faces of his officers, and what he saw pleased him. They were excited, nervous, apprehensive; some were even scared. The tension in the room was palpable. Whenever he paused, as he did now, an unearthly silence descended upon the room, only to be broken when he commenced speaking again. Fintan was gratified at the way his audience collectively held its breath, hanging on his every word. He had trained them well.
“It is here we can expect them to strike,” stressed Fintan, continuing with his speech. “The sligs’ve done little to conceal their troop movements. They’re obviously massing for an attack on Landorion. My analysis of the scouts’ reports is that we have three, possibly four days, before they launch their assault.”
He paused to draw in his breath and let what he had said sink in. This was what he had been waiting for. All those years at the academy would pay off now, for all of them. For him, it would not be before time. Maybe now, finally, he would get the recognition that was his due.
Fintan’s mind inevitably went back to his final year at the academy. How many times had he gone over that dark period in his life? His father had been so bitterly disappointed at his results; not for himself, he said, but for the family, for the Hayachek name. Theirs was a long and proud tradition of exceptional military achievement; they weren’t accustomed to mediocrity.
Mediocrity. Fintan despised the word. His father’s word, not his. It was the way the old man said it that really wounded, the deep sense of revilement that came out with the syllables, as if it was a placard that Fintan should wear around his neck, as if he had some kind of disease. ‘Watch out for the leper,’ it might as well have said. Then his posting to what everyone thought was a backwater up here in the northernmost reaches of the empire had only served to deepen the old man’s shame, leaving Fintan no choice but to put a brave face on it.
The empire needed good men everywhere, not just in the heartland, he had said defiantly to those who would listen, though not to his father. Give him time, he had said. He knew he was destined for great things. His chance would come. He would cover the family’s name in glory, just like his forebears, he was certain of it. In the end, he had been glad to go, glad to be out of Keerêt and away from the stinging rebukes of his father.
That was six years ago. Six long years that had all but drained his ardour. Oh yes, thought Fintan, he’d had more than his own share of doubts, there was no use denying it. At first, he had hoped that the posting would only be a temporary one. Surely his father’s analysis of his performance had been overly harsh. A man with his skills would obviously be needed elsewhere and som
eone high up would realise that soon enough. But they hadn’t, and the long-looked-for recall to a more favourable situation was now long overdue. How could he hope to prove his worth if they wouldn’t even give him a chance?
But now, all his doubts were gone, evaporated, as quick as a summer morn’s fog. Such fogs were ever the harbinger of a beautiful, warm, cloudless day; and so this would prove to be, he was sure. His true destiny now lay before him. Mishra had heeded his call. He could feel it deep within him, right down in his soul. She was calling to him, calling him to arms. Why, the fate of the empire might very well hinge on what happened here under his command. This would be his hour. He was as certain of it as he was that the sun would set in the west. This was the moment his whole career had been leading up to.
Fintan could feel the adrenaline coursing throughout his system, fuelling his self-assurance. He felt more alive than he had done for years. Unconsciously, he clenched his left hand, feeling the muscles of his upper arm flex in response. By Mishra, he would show these sligs what they were dealing with. These were no farmers he led. These were highly trained Rangers in the prime of their lives. Fintan gazed at the map before him, picturing the troop movements he would order, the units which would need to be moved, defences that had to be strengthened, until a discreet cough from one of his men brought him out of his reverie.
Quickly dismissing a momentary feeling of embarrassment, Fintan slid easily back into the persona of the experienced commanding officer, straightening his back and glaring fiercely at the man who had coughed. Dravid, of course. He was a weak link that one. Have to watch him, thought Fintan. A bit too uppity for his own good is that one.
Fintan had every reason to be confident. He knew there would be no debate when he issued his orders. His officers were raw and inexperienced. The ‘old man’ they called him. He couldn’t suppress the flicker of a smile that crossed his face at the thought. The ‘old man’! Why, he was no more than a decade older than the youngest of them. It was a mark of respect though; he could see that. They looked to him for leadership and guidance, and never more so than now.
They were watching him now as he began to speak again. Some nodded in agreement, others he could see shuffled from one foot to the other, nervously sneaking glances at their comrades, trying to gauge their reactions to his orders without revealing their own anxiety.
“We must concentrate our forces to defend Landorion. That is where this issue will be decided. The recruitment and training of the farmers will continue, of course. Gemir and Telpor, you will continue with that task. We will give the semblance of strength along the length of the frontier to mask our plans, but Landorion is where we will focus our efforts. We will move at night. We don’t want them knowing we’re on to their plans until it is too late for them to change them. We won’t make the same mistake they have.” Fintan paused and smiled reassuringly at his men. “Never underestimate your opponent,” he confided, allowing his voice to soften and lose some of its formality. “Remember that, if you remember nothing else. The sligs are vicious fighters. This will be a tough fight. Don’t expect anything less. But remember, we have the advantage now. Our scouts have given us that, let’s not waste it.”
Fintan knew they would heed his advice. They respected him. His family history was well known. Their confidence in him was absolute and that was how he liked it to be. A firm but fair leader, aloof perhaps, but with just a touch of tactical brilliance. That was how he saw himself, and he didn’t doubt for a moment that his men shared that view.
“Your written orders are there on the table. Let’s be at them men, and may Mishra guide your path. Dismissed.”
Almost as one, the small group of officers came to attention and saluted their commanding officer, clicking their heels together in unison as they did so. The formalities done with, they silently filed out of the room, each taking the small envelope labelled with his name as they exited by the only door.
Fintan stood with his back to his officers as they left. He paid no attention to their chattering as they went. His thoughts were already elsewhere. As he gazed through the window of his office at the compound beyond, he considered the words of his own commanding officer. The message had come in by Imperial Messenger a little less than a week ago now. No written orders these, that was too risky. The Imperial Messengers were trained to repeat their messages word for word, no matter how long or complex. The Marshal’s message had been neither. It was typically brief and to the point.
“Look to your frontier, Commander,” he had ordered. “If the sligs attempt to open a second front then they must be held. Prepare your defences and use your scouts. Let reconnaissance be your foremost strategy.”
The orders had been followed to the letter. While the garrisons had been put on high alert, Fintan had put all available scouts into the field. Their reports were back in now, and they all told the same story. The sligs were massing in the mountains here in the north, as had rightly been anticipated by the high command. The enemy’s goal was clear, Landorion, an obvious choice and fortunately the first that Fintan had moved to strengthen. There was still much more work to be done, but Fintan was confident he and his men could hold it.
Landorion was strategically situated, guarding as it did the only passable ford on the whole of the northern reach of the Balan River. The Balan, a broad, swiftly flowing river for most of its length, formed a natural line of defence here in the northern provinces. Though it was bridged in two places, Fintan knew that his men could bring the bridges down quite easily, and he had already dispatched a brigade to do so. The sligs would know that as well. That left the ford at Landorion as the only viable spot for the sligs to bring horsemen across the river in great numbers. The small garrison town on the eastern side of the ford was ideally situated to deter any such attempt.
That was where Fintan would hold them. That was where he would earn the respect that was his due.
~~~
Grartok held the large pewter bowl high above his head and slowly tilted it forward, allowing the liquid within to spill out in a long, scarlet stream, straight into the open cavity of his waiting mouth. As the warriors around him began to chant their encouragement, the slig leader gulped greedily at the seemingly endless stream of liquid, feeling it sliding, hot and potent, down his throat and deep into his belly. A cheer went up around the campfire as he flung the empty bowl into the crackling flames.
Throwing back his head once more, Grartok let out a mighty howl which quickly became a deafening roar as his voice was joined by those of his companions, each emptying his lungs and casting his voice skywards in honour of Zar, the great God of Battles. The bloodcurdling clamour sped out into the night air like some maddened beast in search of its prey.
Here and there some small animal, nocturnal in habit, heard the cry and stopped whatever it had been doing, looked up and sniffed the air, seeking the danger the commotion presaged, or flattened itself to the ground in instinctual response. Rodents frantically sought for their burrows. Birds screeched in panic as they wheeled desperately away from the source of such a deathly din.
One by one, each warrior finished his cry and fell silent. Grartok, the first to begin, was also the last to be done. The night fell stonily silent. Not a living thing dared to stir till Grartok’s guttural laugh broke the silence once more. “Let the Algarians hear that and shake under their beds.” The image drew a similar response from his companions.
Grartok felt good. The First Warrior of the Sagath could feel the potency of the fluid he had just consumed flowing throughout his body as his companions returned to their feasting. Idly he glanced across at the body of the Algarian ranger that lay just beyond the circle of seated warriors, sprawled on its back, its limbs twisted crudely, its chest ripped open to expose the organs within. There was no greater pleasure, thought Grartok, than to drink the blood that’s just been squeezed from the still-beating heart of your enemy.
He also knew that such a drink was said to be the most powerful of
aphrodisiacs. Pity in some ways, he thought, that Mardur is bearing such precious cargo. If she weren’t, he’d have her and the rest of the baggage train much closer to the front than they were. Still, he thought, they’re not so far away that a visit wouldn’t be possible on the morrow. Things were going well enough for his army to do without him for a day.
Grartok was pleased with the progress of the campaign. Brorgar had finally taken Kurandir and the Sagath were now advancing steadily across Algaria with little hindrance from their foe. Having taken one stand and lost it, the Algarians seemed incapable of rousing the heart to resist the invaders’ progress further. More importantly, though, not one of the Guardians had made any attempt to intervene.
Though it was some time since Grartok had spoken with Golkar, the wizard had obviously been successful in diverting the attention of the other Guardians from the slig offensive. But what of Norvig, and Hrothgar? Had they found the human girl-child that Golkar sought? Surely they must have completed that mission by now, mused Golkar; they’d had ample time to complete such a simple task. And what of Kell and Tarak? How had the Master of Cloudtopper taken Norvig’s news, wondered Grartok. Surely that would have unsettled even him. Were the wizards at each other’s throats yet? Was that why there’d been no intervention from the Guardians?
Grartok knew that these were events about which he could do nothing but wait and see. In the meantime, he meant to press the advantage he had been given for all it was worth. The Algarians were floundering now; their forces were in complete disarray. A little more pressure from the Sagath and they would crumble like dried brugon’s droppings. The time was ripe for Nargal to strike. Once their northern frontier collapsed, there would be nothing the Algarians could do to avoid their fate.
