Dragontiarna

by Jonathan Moeller

  She would make him care before she was done with him.

  “My lords,” said Merovech. “You have no doubt all heard the news by now. The army of High King Arandar Pendragon masses near Rhudlan. Very soon, they will march to Castra Melidern, and we will face them in battle.”

  “What kind of numbers can we expect?” said Sir Gereon, his perpetual scowl deepening.

  Merovech looked at Aeliana. “You are familiar with the realm of Andomhaim, my dear. Why don’t you enlighten Sir Gereon?”

  “The false king Arandar will have gathered the full strength of Andomhaim,” said Aeliana. “Or as close to it as he could manage. With the allied orcish kings, we can expect him to have between twenty-five to thirty thousand men, and another eight to ten thousand Anathgrimm soldiers.”

  “With the reinforcements that have come through the gate,” said Rhellgar, “and the mercenaries that the Rzarn has brought to our cause, we can match those numbers.” He frowned. “I’m afraid the match is quite close. All our soldiers can use magic, of course, but the Magistri of Andomhaim can neutralize our spells, and their Swordbearers are a formidable force. Though of course we have the power of a Dragonmaeloch on our side.”

  “I would suggest bleeding them as much as possible before they finish crossing the river,” said Malvaxon. He had learned the Frankish tongue with startling speed. “The weaker they are when you face them, the better. Knights may enjoy valorous battle, but better to face a damaged foe. I suggest inducing the Mhorites to attack.”

  Merovech grunted. “The damned green apes are busy fighting to the north.”

  Aeliana repressed a grimace. For whatever reason, Merovech had decided that he detested orcs. He didn’t like goblins or ogres or gnolls, but no more than he disliked anyone else. Orcs had earned his special loathing, and he made no effort to hide his disdain for them. If he wasn’t careful, he would turn the Mhorites against him. Alarmed at the prospect, Aeliana had started speaking with the Mhorite headmen herself. She had been part of the Red Family, a cult devoted to Mhor, so she knew just what to say to the Kothluuskan orcs to spur them to action.

  “But there are many ways to hinder an advancing army,” said Malvaxon. “Numerous advantages rest with the defender.”

  “One wonders if you will prefer the defender,” said Aeliana, “or if you will change sides for the correct price.”

  Malvaxon’s void-filled eyes shifted to her. Aeliana, unimpressed, met his gaze without flinching. She had looked into the eyes of the Warden, feeling the terrible aura of his power. Even someone as powerful and wealthy as a Rzarn of a dvargir Great House was nothing by comparison.

  “The destruction of Andomhaim would work to the advantage of the dvargir, if you have doubts, Lady Aeliana,” said Malvaxon. “We would prefer a friendly neighbor in Duke Merovech.” Aeliana resisted the urge to laugh at the thought that anyone would consider Merovech a friendly neighbor. “And we would also prefer the opportunities offered by the current situation.”

  Which meant, of course, that the dvargir would prefer an Andomhaim thrown into chaos, a place where they could raid and take slaves with impunity. Barring that, they would try to extend the conflict as long as possible, taking as much gold and as many slaves from Merovech as they could. Of course, this war wasn’t about conquest or gold or slaves, but opening the Great Eye.

  As Malvaxon would learn the hard way.

  “This is our opportunity to destroy the army of Andomhaim with one stroke,” said Merovech. “A battle of annihilation. We shall draw them in, and pin them against the walls of Castra Melidern. Once we do, we…”

  The doors to the great hall swung open. Merovech broke off in mid-sentence, annoyed that someone would presume to interrupt while he was speaking, and then his burning eyes narrowed. A murmur of surprise went up the table.

  The Theophract strode into the great hall, swing his dark staff in his right hand.

  The murmurs turned to silence as the Theophract walked up the length of the table. The dark elven sorcerer wore his usual blue armor, his face concealed beneath a masked helmet wrought in the shape of a snarling dragon’s head. A great black cloak hung from his shoulders, and the cowl had been pulled over his head, shadowing his mask. Aeliana idly wondered how the Theophract could see and hear in the helmet and cowl, but little evaded his attention. The strange dark staff in his right hand was neither wood nor metal but something else, some strange and alien material. It looked like a vertical slash in the air, and it seemed to shiver a little, like a bowstring just starting to quiver.

  A crimson sword hung on his left hip, and Aeliana recognized the dark soulblade Ghostruin. She felt a flicker of surprise. The Theophract had carried Ghostruin with him the last time he had visited Castra Melidern, and he had said that he planned to give the sword to a new bearer. Perhaps the Theophract hadn’t found the new bearer yet, or perhaps the bearer had proven unworthy.

  Malvaxon watched the Theophract, his caution plain. Aeliana had the impression that the Rzarn was fingering a weapon beneath the table. She hoped that Malvaxon attacked the Theophract – watching the scheming dvargir get torn to shreds by the Theophract’s magic would be most entertaining.

  “Lord Theophract,” said Merovech, gazing at the sorcerer. There was just a hint of an amused smile on his face, but Aeliana knew Merovech well enough by now to see the wary tension in his posture.

  “Heralds,” said the Theophract. The masked helmet made his voice metallic and hollow. “I will speak with you.”

  “All of you, out,” said Merovech. “Wait in the courtyard until I call you back. We have a battle to plan.”

  Obediently the lords, knights, and captains rose to their feet and filed out of the great hall. Malvaxon hesitated as if affronted at being asked to leave. But the Rzarn’s survival instincts proved stronger than his pride, and he joined the others in the courtyard.

  Soon Aeliana and Merovech were alone in the great hall with the Theophract.

  “I hope you have some good news for us, my lord Theophract,” said Merovech. “The entire strength of Andomhaim has come. We are more evenly matched than I would wish. I wouldn’t mind a great bloody slaughter, but we might not have the strength left to take Cintarra and seize the Great Eye.”

  Aeliana hadn’t expected Merovech to have such a solid grasp of the strategic situation. Once again, she reminded herself not to underestimate him.

  “Fear not,” said Theophract. “You will not face the full strength of Andomhaim, and their army shall likely be destroyed in a matter of days.”

  “Well, that will be useful,” said Merovech.

  “How will such a feat be accomplished?” said Aeliana.

  “Agravhask’s fleet has left the Isle of Kordain,” said the Theophract. “It is only days away from making landfall near Cintarra.”

  Aeliana remembered Agravhask very well.

  At least, she thought she did. Aeliana’s memories of her years inside Urd Morlemoch, learning at the feet of the Warden, were not as clear as she might wish. The Warden could never leave Urd Morlemoch (not yet, anyway), but within its boundaries, he was all-powerful. He could control the flow of time within the citadel as he wished. Sometimes Aeliana thought she had only spent a few years inside Urd Morlemoch. Other times she was certain she had spent centuries inside the Warden’s fortress, and it changed even as she tried to focus her memory upon it.

  But she did remember the other Heralds. They had all come to Urd Morlemoch for their own reasons. Aeliana because she wanted the power to revenge herself upon Ridmark Arban for all that she had suffered. The Theophract had brought Merovech to Urd Morlemoch because he loved power and wanted to destroy things. Vhalmharak the ghost orc had been a religious madman, convinced that the goddess Shalask had deceived his people, and desired the power to destroy her. The bitter necromancer from the Frankish Empire had been much like Aeliana, filled with anger and a desire for vengeance.

  But Agravhask…

  The other potential Heralds had come to
Urd Morlemoch out of rage and lust for power. Agravhask had come because he wished to destroy and rebuild the world. Aeliana and the others had learned the truth of the Warden’s vision for the cosmos during their tutelage in Urd Morlemoch. Agravhask had seemed to understand it even before he arrived.

  “So the great red ape has finally stirred himself to action, eh?” said Merovech.

  “When we meet him again,” said Aeliana with exasperation, “you should probably let me talk to him instead of you. The last thing we need is to offend a man who commands tens of thousands of soldiers and thousands of warships.”

  Merovech scoffed. “Assuming he does not first get himself and all his soldiers slain attempting to take Cintarra.”

  “The Heralds of Ruin shall cooperate,” said the Theophract, his voice hard as iron. “When Agravhask makes his landing, the High King will have no choice but to march south and face the soldiers of the Heptarchy. Agravhask will destroy the army of Andomhaim and take Cintarra. When he does, the armies of the Dragon Cult will march south and join the Heptarchy’s forces. The five Heralds of Ruin shall gather, and together you will open the Great Eye. The assault on Cathair Kaldran will begin …and you will open the door that must never be opened. The cosmos shall be remade, and our lord the Warden’s vision shall be realized at last.”

  “Sounds like it shall be a splendid fight,” said Merovech.

  “Even you, Merovech Valdraxis, shall have your fill of blood,” said the Theophract.

  Aeliana frowned. “Without the Key of Tarmyntir,” the loss of it still enraged her, “we will need all five Heralds to open the Great Eye?”

  “To its full power,” said the Theophract. “I shall bring the bearer of Shadowruin to Andomhaim myself.”

  “And Ghostruin?” said Merovech.

  “We cannot help but notice,” said Aeliana, “that you still carry Ghostruin. Another bearer has not been found for the sword?”

  “I did choose a new bearer for Ghostruin,” said the Theophract. “He destroyed himself swiftly.”

  “Ah, well,” said Merovech. “Competence is ever a rare quality.”

  “I doubted he would last,” said the Theophract. “Weaknesses riddled his mind, and the power of Ghostruin swiftly consumed him. But his death weakened the cloak elves of Cathair Kaldran, and so served its purpose. The new bearer of Ghostruin will weaken the host of Andomhaim.” He paused. “Assuming, of course, anything remains of it once Agravhask is done.”

  ***

  Chapter 8: Sinews of War

  The day after Arandar’s council of war, Ridmark and Calliande crossed the River Cintarra to Rhudlan.

  Arandar and Accolon both wanted the Shield Knight and the Keeper to be among the first of the army to ferry over the river. Merovech had proven himself to be a canny tactician, and if he wanted to do something to stop the crossing, this was the time. Men on rafts were vulnerable to arrow fire from the riverbanks. For that matter, Merovech could simply take dragon form, swoop over the river, and set the rafts and the men upon them ablaze.

  If Merovech showed himself, Ridmark and Calliande had the best chance of stopping him. For that matter, the Anathgrimm under Hhazakar’s command were among the best soldiers of Nightmane Forest, and if Merovech sent a force to attack Rhudlan, Hhazakar’s soldiers could counter them.

  So Ridmark gathered his men and headed to the ferries.

  Lhanwyn Corinium had possessed several large rafts and teams of men to row them, and after his death, more had been built. Two dozen rafts moved back and forth across the river, each one large enough to carry a hundred men and their animals. Ridmark and Calliande crossed first with Hhazakar and a century of Anathgrimm troops, and when the raft reached Rhudlan’s harbor, they scrambled onto the stone quay. The instant the last Anathgrimm put foot upon shore, the raft pushed away, the watermen’s oars lashing at the river. They had a lot of men to get across the water, and little time to waste.

  “Go outside the walls and check with Queen Mara and Lord Captain Qhazulak,” said Ridmark. “They will have a campsite in mind for you, a place we can fortify and use as a fallback point if the Dragon Cult attacks in sudden force. I will send the rest of our Anathgrimm to you as they arrive.”

  “It shall be done, Shield Knight,” growled Hhazakar. The bone masks of the Anathgrimm added a peculiar vibration to their voices. The Anathgrimm marched from the quays, past the castra, and into the streets of Rhudlan, making for the town’s western gate.

  Under other circumstances, Ridmark supposed, it would have been a fine day. The sky was clear and blue, and the early summer weather was mild. Rhudlan was a pleasant sight, with its tall wall of stone, its whitewashed houses of brick with their roofs of fired clay tiles, and the strong towers of the castra overlooking the river harbor. It reminded Ridmark of a larger version of the town of Castarium, the benefice he had accepted as a favor to the High King.

  To Ridmark’s surprise, he felt a pang of homesickness. He had never thought of Castarium as home, and indeed ruling the town and judging its cases had been one headache after another. The townsmen seemed willing to sue each other over every damned thing. Yet whenever Ridmark had gone there in his role as the Comes of Castarium, he had taken Calliande and the children with him. He remembered teaching Gareth the sword in the courtyard, his eldest son’s face tight with concentration. Or taking Joachim for a walk along the ramparts. And the day when Rhoanna had warned him where the dragon would land upon the keep, her little face solemn. She had the Sight, and Calliande had said that Rhoanna possessed it more powerfully than anyone she had ever met. Ridmark feared the effect that would have on Rhoanna’s mind as she grew up, though he wondered if she could control it. Was she watching her mother and father even now?

  “You just sighed,” said Calliande.

  “Did I?” said Ridmark. He forced himself out of his reverie. “Lost in my thoughts, I suppose. The danger of getting older. You collect more thoughts in which to lose yourself.”

  “I was thinking about my father,” said Calliande. She smiled. “He always took his fishing boat out on the sea, never the river.” She had grown up on a small fishing village near the sea, across the River Moradel from the walls of Tarlion. “Sometimes he used to mock rivermen, saying they weren’t real fishermen, and couldn’t handle their boats on the open ocean.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t get into a fight over that,” said Ridmark.

  Calliande shrugged. “I think my father and the other fishermen and the ferrymen liked to get drunk together at the end of the day.” Now it was her turn to sigh. “And I don’t think my mother ever spent as much time away from me as I’ve spent away from Gareth, Joachim, and Rhoanna.”

  “Your mother wasn’t the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Ridmark.

  “No.”

  “And the children are safer in Tarlion,” said Ridmark. “If your father had been called up to serve as a militiaman when you were six or seven years old, would he have taken you with him to war? He would have missed you, aye, but he wouldn’t have taken you with him to the battlefield.”

  “No,” said Calliande again. “My mind knows what I must do, but my heart rebels against it.” She offered a sad smile. “Haven’t we had this conversation many times before? I miss the children, and you cheer me up.”

  “It’s barely two hours past dawn,” said Ridmark, making a show of looking around the harbor. “I suppose if we can find a tent and a blanket to lie upon, I could cheer you until…”

  Calliande blinked and then burst out laughing. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Though when you try to cheer me up, we usually wind up doing that, which I suppose cheers you up.”

  “You’ve never complained,” said Ridmark.

  “I have not,” said Calliande. She blew out another sigh, though not one as sad as before. “I suppose what I want is to live quietly with you and the children…but that was never going to be our lives for long, is it? Not for the Shield Knight and the Keeper.”

  “No,” sa
id Ridmark. He gestured at the vast host gathered on the eastern bank of the river. “I don’t know if it will help or not…but we’re not the only ones separated from their families. Not by far.”

  “Then we have all the more reason to win the war quickly,” said Calliande. “If we can.”

  Sir Niall and Sir Ricatus came over next with some of the men of Cintarra. Ridmark directed them to the camps outside the walls, and Niall and Ricatus led their men into Rhudlan proper. He was pleased to see that Niall and Ricatus were not quarreling for once, which usually happened if too long passed without a fight. Though it was early yet. And Ricatus was usually the one to provoke the quarrels, but perhaps he feared looking bad under the eyes of the High King and so many Duxi.

  Once the soldiers headed into the town, Ridmark and Calliande found their horses and headed west, joining the throng passing through the main street of Rhudlan. Men filled the street, marching to the western gate, and a short time later, Ridmark and Calliande reached the gate and proceeding into the countryside. Ridmark saw the scars of recent battle upon the walls, the marks left from where flights of arrows had hit the stonework, or from where spells had struck the battlements. The corpses had been cleared away and buried in pits, though here and there the wreckage of the Dragon Cult’s siege ladders and towers remained.

  Army camps spread west along the countryside. Part of Ridmark’s mind regretted the loss of so much fertile farmland. The lands outside of Rhudlan ought to have been growing crops, not trampled beneath boots and steel-shod hooves. The rest of his mind noted the proper location of the camps, and he saw Hhazakar’s men hard at work digging a trench and ditch. The Anathgrimm insisted upon fortifying all their camps, something which had proven useful to Ridmark more than once.