Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “My greenies,” offered Ferl, his voice betraying a hint of pride.

  The units reached the breach, and the center man in each unit—excluding the barefoot one—took a knee and dug their hands into the ground. Around them, in a growing circle, the grass and trampled wheat began to wither and darken. Some circles were no more than a few feet across, while the barefoot man’s—wait, woman’s—circle grew to nearly twenty. The kneeling men stood, and the bodyguards parted, creating a clear path to the enemy. This all happened in a matter of seconds.

  Then, Pandemonium was unleashed.

  The leading Rostanians were torn to bloody shreds. Power shot from the hands of the greenies, slightly different for each. Two tossed spinning blades of emerald power, slicing through armor and skin, limbs and decapitated heads falling to the ground. Another seemed to be shooting small green and yellow spikes, which lacked the bloody visual impact of the blades, but were just as effective. The barefoot woman simply launched a sustained, white beam of energy, tearing through flesh and baring wet, dripping internal organs to the open air.

  Oh, cocks. Fucking cocks. Emma tossed aside her eyeglass and vomited, as did Captain Braston. Escamilla was white and breathing rapidly, but she did not tear her gaze from the battle. The command post was near silent as the leaders of the army observed the outcome of their decisions.

  “This is an abomination!” roared Ignatius, his face messed up with anger. “This must be stopped, at once. It is written that “the powers of the earth shall never be used to shed the blood of man!“

  Ferl sneered. “It’s our blood or theirs. What do you think we are here for?”

  “No wonder you scavenging pieces of human filth manage to win an occasional battle,” spat the Silver Lady. “I’d heard rumors, of course, but discounted them. But, now it finally makes sense how such a useless man can—”

  “Commence bombardment!” bellowed Guy Empton, his voice cutting through the arguments and the awe and the disgust.

  At the sound of the subsequent trumpet, the archers, who had previously appeared routed, darted forward and formed a line two hundred yards back from the magic-ravaged Rostanian forces. With the Army of Brockmore now split cleanly in two, they were easily able to target the massed Rostanian forces without much danger of hitting their own men. The greenies continued to blast the front ranks, moving on to untouched vegetation and spreading their destruction. Three of the them had collapsed in exhaustion, while a fourth had retreated. Two, including the barefoot one, pressed the attack. The greenies had done little real damage, considering the size of the enemy force, but the psychological damage on the Rostanians was immense.

  Emma heard a low moan, and glanced at Merigold. The girl was was pale and shaking, silent tears streaming down her face. She was tugging on a sapphire stud in her ear. Emma could only imagine the thoughts running through the girl’s head, given that she had recently murdered a couple of mercenaries in the same way.

  The Rostanians were breaking. Beset by unknown and devastatingly violent powers, cramped together and unable to defend against the rain of arrows, the conscripts could not take it anymore. But, they had nowhere to go.

  “Wait, what’s that?” asked Morgyn, gesturing at the Rostanian camp, having grabbed Emma’s eyeglass. Emma, steeling her stomach, snatched it back and held it to her eye, examining the enemy fortifications.

  The enemy camp was an ants nest. On the north side, the Rostanian calvalry was attempting to mobilize, largely unsuccessfully. Perhaps due to carelessness or conceit, few of the animals were saddled, and soldiers and grooms were struggling to ready the creatures. Emma saw little threat, there. But, on the southwest side of the camp, a pitched battle was being fought. Their allies had finally struck!

  The gold coats of Florens were visible, and they were tearing through the engineers and laborers, burning rafts and onagers. So distracted were the Rostanian forces by the battle against Escamilla’s army that Malless’ forces had managed their surprise attack with only token resistance. However, the career Rostanian military was mobilizing against this threat, with surprising quickness, and beginning to bring the fight to the Florensians.

  The signal for retreat sounded over the din, officially recalling the already-routed Rostanian infantry conscripts who’d still been struggling to extricate themselves from the Army of Brockmore.

  “Forward, cavalry!” shouted Empton to the bugler. Several clear notes rang out.

  From behind the command post, previously hidden by a small crest, over a thousand mounted men began to trot forward on their mismatched horses, heading toward the devastated Rostanian forces.

  At a hundred yards, they readied their lances. At fifty yards, the horses were spurred into a thundering canter. A number of the untrained horses balked, and riders were left clinging to the rearing animals or were flung to the ground and crushed beneath the charging hoofs. But the larger portion of horses continued to roar forward, now at a gallop, further mixing up the bloodied sludge of the battle into a reddish-brown slurry.

  They slammed into the backs of the fleeing Rostanian soldiers, impaling dozens on the tips of lances, trampling the fallen and the wounded. Few fought back, having already lost their spears and their nerve. The cavalry soldiers, however, were ill-trained for the realities of a concentrated charge, and several fallen horses caused the animals behind them to trip while others were just barely able to stop. The writhing mass of horseflesh and humanity was awful to behold.

  Somehow, Emma found the plight of the horses more painful to watch than that of the men on either side of the fight. The horses, it seemed, had had little choice in the matter of this slaughter.

  Despite the losses to the Brockmore cavalry, the damage was done. The conscripts fled the field in their remaining thousands, tossing aside weapons and sprinting toward their earthen fortifications under a hail of covering fire.

  “Stop march!” growled Empton, his voice having lost some power from shouting commands for the last… had it only been a couple of hours? The sun was not even fully overhead yet, but so many had already died. Emma tried not to look closely at any of the bodies.

  Meanwhile, the Florensians continued to fight through the southwestern edge of the Rostanian camp, meeting stiff resistance from the experienced Rostanian military. However, they slowly neared their destination.

  “They will have done a great deal of damage to the war preparations. Soldiers can easily be replaced, but engineers are invaluable,” said Escamilla, her voice tight. “We have won the day, but the war is far from over. Tomorrow will be far more trying.”

  Tomorrow would, indeed, be more trying. Emma knew, from the war meetings, that they had little strategy planned beyond the first engagement. But, at least things had gone near perfect, today. The calculated “retreat” was convincing, the greenies were devastating, and, though the cavalry charge suffered from many self-inflicted causalities, it at least further shaved down the number of their enemies. Even the Florensians did their part. Emma continued to watch the gold standards move their way through the Rostanian camp toward their destination. Wait… wasn’t the bridge to the city supposed to be extended by now?

  “Escamilla, I think there’s something wrong!” said Emma, her voice cracking.

  Malless and his men—seven thousand strong—had sailed under the cover of darkness to a position well west of the Rostanian camp. They’d managed to conceal themselves until early morning, aided by the distracting Army of Brockmore and a force of a thousand or so that had been left behind in Florens to make loud and visible preparations. The attack had been meant to destroy the siege preparations, targeting the engineers, and then create as much death and havoc as possible, depending on the Rostanian response. Then, they’d intended to cut through the enemy, ending at the floating bridge that connected the mainland to Florens. The bridge, of course, had been partially retracted in advance of the siege, but at the beginning of the surprise attack that morning, the token force in Florens had been meant to exte
nd the bridge, and cover the retreat back into the city from the shore and from several ships.

  However, what Emma had seen was that, though Malless’s forces had begun to cut through to the bridge, leaving burning siege equipment and bodies behind, the bridge had not been extended! There was fighting at the city end of the bridge, near the great white marble towers that welcomed visitors to the city. And the ships! The ships were firing crank-bows and ballista bolts at Malless’ forces!

  “General! What is happening?” demanded Escamilla, grabbing Empton’s plated arm.

  “I… I… don’t know,” said Empton in a hushed voice. His now-colorless face was shiny with perspiration.

  “There is fighting at Floren’s gates! Someone is preventing the bridge from being extended,” said Trina Almark, pointing at the fighting that was raging in the city. “Those poor fucking Florensians are trapped.”

  “Without the bridge, Malless and the Florensians are doomed.” Ferl agreed with the Silver Lady, his regularly-smug expression replaced with one of concern. “The Rostanians must have had sizable forces within the city to pull something like this off. More likely, they had some help, and some insight into our strategy. Someone on the inside, maybe a confidant of Penton.”

  “They’ve… we’ve been betrayed?” Empton was rubbing his eyes, as if unable to comprehend. “What do we do now? What… now?”

  “You’re the fucking general, Empton!” snapped Emma, risking a glare from Escamilla that never came. “You tell us what to do.” Empton didn’t respond.

  Braston spoke up. “We need to retreat! Our strategies hinged on Malless and the Florensians. If they are gone, then the city is gone. If the city is gone, we’ve nothing to fight for.” He waved messengers to his side, his gestures urgernt.

  “It is because we resorted to the use of dark powers!” said Ignatius, his voice oozing with sanctimonious judgment. Two of the captains—Quentin and Ezram—were nodding their agreement, making the sign of Yetra in the air. “As it is written in The Book—”

  “Ignatius, now is not the time!” Escamilla cut in. The chaplain strode toward her in response, his orange Yetranian stole askew, his face crimson with fury.

  “Now is the only time! You have greatly blundered, you ignorant fool. You have angered Yetra—”

  Emma slapped him full in the face with her good hand, sending him reeling to the side. “Shut your mouth, old man!” She grabbed at his collar, bringing her face very near to his. “We tolerate you as a military strategy, as a way to boost morale and give the men some faith. But you will not speak to my lady that way! You will never speak—”

  “Enough, all of you! Enough!” Escamilla’s voice broke through the panicked cacophony that was the command center. “You speak as if our defeat is a foregone conclusion. It will be, if we simply languish as the men of Florens are slaughtered. Shall we retreat, leaving these brave warriors to meet their deaths at the shores of the Ingwine, victims of betrayal and our cowardice? Or, shall we act, protect our ally and protect our country?” Escamilla met the gaze of each officer, and some, including Braston, had the decency to look abashed. General Empton was staring dully at the enemy camp, eyeglass shaking. Ignatius, however, met her gaze solidly, and ripped out of Emma’s grip. The man had grown obstinate and strong-willed since he had grown in power and spread his faith among the men. His false humility may have fooled others, but not Emma.

  “We have a tired, but freshly-victorious army still on the field of battle. An army fortified with faith.” Escamilla, ever the politician, nodded to Ignatius in obvious appeasement. “The Rostanians are disorganized and afraid, and our hope lies in creating a united force. We must shield our allies!”

  For her part, Emma felt bolstered by Escamilla’s speech, and she felt a surge of pride for her lady and friend. Other officers gave a ragged cheer, though Empton was still gazing across the battlefield in glassy astonishment.

  “General Empton?” Emma asked, bringing the man back to the moment.

  “Yes?” His tone was flat.

  “What are your orders to provide relief to the Florensian forces?”

  “Um… we must… ahem…” He was holding his left arm, and his face was strained, as if he were holding a great weight above his head.

  “Empton? Guy? Are you okay?” Escamilla asked irritably. Empton collapsed with a metallic clatter, his great sword coming loose from the scabbard as he pitched forward. Officers and Apple Knights rushed to his side.

  “Oh, cocks,” swore Emma before she could stop herself. The other officers, and even Escamilla, were struck with a visible uncertainty laced with a splash of fear. Why now? And what now?

  Anew Opine spoke first, the third son of the baroness and most junior member of the command. “Guards, to me! We must form a corridor along the Ingwine before it is cut off by the Rostanians. Cavalry shield to lead the way, reinforced by Ultner’s Fist on the southern flank, all with covering fire from the archers. Hopefully, Malless has the sense to cut toward us in response to this betrayal. I will gather the cavalry reserves and deliver the orders myself!” All of this from Captain Anew Opine, third son of the baroness. He didn’t wait for permission, but instead dashed to waiting messenger horses, followed by several Apple Knights.

  “Ambitious, but rude,” murmured Emma to Escamilla as she watched the rest of the officers finally find some semblance of control over the deteriorating situation.

  “Smart, though, and manners matter little in moments such as this. Let’s hope he is the hero he fancies himself to be. If this works, then I will grant him general’s pins myself.”

  “And, if it doesn’t?”

  “Then we had best follow Ignatius’ example and pray.”

  Chapter 36

  Hafgan and his budredda sat crossed-legged around a great bonfire, Derek turning a make-shift spit to roast a wild pig that one of the men had stumbled across earlier in the day. The thing was old and gamey, but the smell was mouth-watering, and the anticipation of relief from the tasteless dried meat and iron-hard bread to which they were accustomed of late was almost too much. Hafgan had eaten well during his time with The House and had grown used to richer food. His men were similarly anxious, the entire group silently watching the slowly spinning meat like sailors gazing at a harbor after months at sea.

  The anxiety, of course, was not solely due to hunger. Word had come, late in the afternoon, that the Rostanian military had engaged with the forces of Lady Escamilla and Florens. Despite the overwhelming numbers of the Rostanians, the Army of Brockmore had managed to secure a notable victory, easily outsmarting the overconfident conscripts. The Florensians, on the other hand, lost a major piece of their army, and that army was now outside of the city. Duke Malless had apparently organized—rather successfully—a surprise attack with the goal of destroying the siege equipment and rafts, as well as killing as many engineers as possible. Lieutenant Itham, the officer of the engineers corps, had fallen in this attack.

  But, the Rostanians had allies inside of the city who took this opportunity to stage their own attack, preventing Duke Malless and his forces from escaping back into the city across the bridge. If Hafgan were a betting man, he would wager that this was the work of Recherche Oletta. The conversation he had overheard between Penton, the Patriarch, and that woman seemed to indicate that Recherche Oletta had fighters in Florens. Trapping most of the Florensian army outside of the city, surrounded by Rostanians, was likely too delicious of an opportunity to overlook. As a result, thousands of Florensian soldiers were lost, trapped between the river and their enemies.

  Even so, the Florensian army could have been destroyed completely, had not some quick-thinking officer from Escamilla’s forces created an effective cavalry screen to allow Malless and his forces an escape route. Half of the Florensian soldiers had been killed or captured, but Malless was not counted among the dead, and the Florensian forces remaining in the city had managed to overcome the presumed Recherche Oletta fighters. The result was a larger combi
ned force and a still somewhat-defended city, and the Rostanians had no siege weapons of which to speak.

  But, the Rostanian forces still outnumbered their enemies more than two to one, though, and most of their losses had been poorly-trained conscripts. The enemy—the Army of Brockmore and Florens, rather—still had little chance at being ultimately victorious, especially now that they were in the open field.

  Hafgan sometimes caught himself actually thinking of Escamilla’s forces as the enemy, and he even felt a catch in his throat when he found that the Rostanians had been defeated on the field of battle. It wasn’t right, though—he was working to undermine the Rostanian armies. Or at least, he had been until he’d lost all contact with The House. Simply put, Hafgan currently had too many masters, and none had his best interests in mind. The officers in the Rostanian military would just as soon see him dead, as the Wasmer were disposable fodder. Tennyson saw him as a useful tool, certainly, but one that could be replaced for a sack of yets. Hafgan wondered, again, why he remained loyal to any of these people.

  His immediate superior certain did not instill loyalty. Captain Yanso had summoned him hours ago to reluctantly share news of the battle for Florens and to distribute new orders. The muscular, hateful captain had handed him a missive and given him a few moments to read it, to take in the details of the battle, the disposition of the enemy. Then, the conversation had gone something like, “You and your fucking Wasmer will march tomorrow morning. Hit the flank. Rest up. We’re done here.”

  The big man had then entered the compound near sunset, taking four of his guards with him. All of them, including Yanso himself, had seemed reluctant to enter—particularly as the wooden gates had only eased open a couple of feet, and there’d been no gatekeeper to be seen. It was now an hour after sunset, and none had yet returned.

  But, there were more horrible, intermittent noises coming from the compound. Noises that his budredda were trying to ignore.