The Southern Empire Trilogy
Book One – Fall of a Kingdom
Copyright © 2019 Michael Greenfield
Contact the author at [email protected]
Cover design by betibup33
Out of the Valley of the Fallen
Youth’s pure heart,
Knowledge of the Four Winds
Shield of the weak,
Bane of adversity
From the Claw of the Falcon,
Avenger of the Wolf
With the strength to face all,
In the dark before the dawn
Loves bloom to join with the Light.
Translation of six hundred year old Lighter poem.
Author unknown.
Ambush
They had been travelling across the flat, rolling hills of the northlands for the best part of three days now. The sixteen mounted soldiers all had short bows and cavalry sabres as well as the various supplies and equipment that soldiers in the field needed to make life at least tolerable.
Their clothing was all dark, all their own. There were no uniforms in sight, although any trained observer would instantly recognise them for what they really were. Their bearing in the saddle gave that away. That, and the way they constantly watched the countryside around them, not purely ahead as a less wary traveller might.
Their wariness was well warranted. These were not the most accommodating of surroundings. There were many thieves and vagabonds that made their home in this lightly patrolled part of the kingdom, but they were not the reason that the men were more on edge than usual. Besides, most groups of thieves weren’t stupid enough to take on a mounted squad of cavalry. The reason they were more nervous sat on the grey mare walking in their midst.
The figure wore a dark brown cloak over an appropriate set of riding clothes. It was not an outfit that the rider particularly liked, but the clothing she preferred was nowhere near practical for the journey that they were undertaking. Her favourite item of apparel was in fact in one of the saddlebags strapped just behind her. It was a beautiful rose coloured dress that had been cut in the latest style, and it was that which Her Royal Highness the Princess Myriana of Boraan fully intended to wear when they arrived at their destination.
Guard Lieutenant Dorrin, cousin of the Princess, and leader of the escort that was taking her to her destination, scanned the surrounding countryside. They had passed the last vestiges of what constituted civilisation in this area of the kingdom some days back. Now they were in territory where just about anything could happen and he was not happy about the situation. Not that there was a lot that he could do about it as he had accepted the command from Her Royal Highness’s father King Sielan of Boraan personally, but he would much rather that he had just been providing an escort to the neighbouring kingdom of M’Ur to the east.
They all knew the reason that they were taking the Princess north, but Dorrin found that there were some traditions that were best left to wither and die. This was one of them.
Whenever a Royal child reached their sixteenth year they were taken to the mountains situated on Boraan’s northern border to meet with one of the Seers. There, their life ahead would be reviewed to ascertain if there was anything that they had to do in order to help fulfil the destiny of the Kingdom, and also for the Seer’s to provide information as to who would make a suitable partner for them in married life.
Dorrin knew that he would never have liked to be put through such stupidity, but he had to admit that the kingdom had fared reasonably well over the last century or two.
Looking round further he decided that this was about as far as they were going to travel tonight, time to look for a place to stop.
Poor weather was starting to move in as the group finally found a suitable place to make camp. Dorrin immediately sent two of the guards to scout out the surrounding area before seeking Sergeant Olsen, the senior guardsmen. At three inches under six feet, Dorrin was not the largest man in the patrol, but he was well respected. He was known for his speed with sword and dagger as well as being an ‘Adept of the Magic Arts.’ His light brown hair made him look boyish, but his steel grey eyes belied the impression. The same eyes that were even now surveying what little could still be seen of the surrounding countryside.
“How much further would you say sergeant?”
The older veteran made a show of peering into the gloom intently. “Ooh… three, maybe three and a half days.”
“And you based that assessment on what may I ask?” Dorrin gave a lopsided grin. He had served with Olsen before out of the Holdur garrison and he knew that the man’s light humour disguised a sharp and experienced mind. Physically, they could not have been more different. Olsen stood a good few inches over six feet, and was bulky across the shoulders.
“The gully we passed a couple of miles back runs to only a few hundred yards from one of my grandpa’s old pastures. If he’d still been alive I would have suggested calling there to make camp, but he’s long gone, and so is his farm unfortunately.” He returned the officers grin. “Would have been nice to have gotten some mutton stew from him.”
“We can’t dwell in the past forever. At least we know we’re still heading the right way.”
The sergeant chuckled. “The river shouldn’t be much further. We’ll probably reach it tomorrow morning.”
Both turned as another presence arrived.
“My lady.” Dorrin bowed his head, Olsen bowed more formally before he nodded to Dorrin and left. “What may I do for you this fine evening?”
Myriana smiled. “Formal tonight cousin Dor?”
“Only before the troops.” He smiled back. “How are you holding up?”
“Apart from having a backside too numb for pain you mean?” Both laughed.
“It does get a bit arduous at times. At least we’re not on one of the patrols out of Miri heading into the Wastes. They can go for as much as two weeks before finding anywhere they can use for shelter. Tents don’t fare too well if the winds get up across the dunes.”
“How much further to the Sanctum?”
“A little over three days according to the good sergeant. Then you can pull out that fine dress you’ve got hidden away and really give the men something to ogle at.”
Myriana laughed at the idea, even though she knew that it was probably true. “And wouldn’t you ogle, my favourite cousin?”
“Why should I? I’ve already seen it all anyway when we used to share a bath.” He wore a comical, cross-eyed expression as he pantomimed ogling the slim figure of the young lady in front of him. Her crystal blue eyes widened beneath her pale blonde hair.
“You bastard!” despite the shocked exclamation, the young princess laughed loudly at the statement. “I couldn’t have been more than two years old when we last did that.”
“Ah, but I have a long memory.” Dorrin joined the laughter. “I think that you’ll find that the men have erected your tent my Lady.” Performing a perfect court bow he pointed toward the tent in question that had obviously been set up by the men before they began to turn toward their own shelter for the night.
“Then I should be off to thank the men.” She paused for a moment. “Dorrin?”
“Yes.”
“How safe are we out here?”
“Honestly.” Dorrin took a moment to stare out into the gathering gloom. “As long as we keep clear of the Shaler settlements to the west of Needle Lake we shouldn’t encounter any problems. We’ve a large enough force to scare off most robbers in the area, and any that are stupid enough to try will soon discover that the men are more than capable of looking after themselves.”
“What about looking after me?”
Dorrin’s expression took on a mischievous quality. “I supp
ose if we have to we might find the time to look after you whilst we’re at it.”
The princess giggled. “I was right, you are a bastard.”
Guardsman Fred Turney slowly edged through the bushes toward the side of one of the nearby hills. He had only been a guardsman for a little over three years, but was already considered a prospect for the future, perhaps even good enough for officer training. It was not fluke that had brought him this assignment. He was one of the best that the garrison of Holdur had to offer.
His dark cloak blended well with the rough foliage as the gloom gathered. Earlier he had thought that he heard the sound of muted voices, but he was unable to determine where exactly they had been coming from. Now he was almost certain that he could see movement ahead leading round the lower edge of the hill.
Quietly he moved forward. There it was again. About forty yards ahead of him he was sure he could see something, but he was still uncertain what. Probably bandits that had checked out the group setting up camp behind him and come to the conclusion that the party was too well defended for them to take on. A sensible and preferable choice in his own opinion.
There was a small clearing amongst the bushes ahead. As he came into view of the gap he saw a prone figure on the ground. The figure appeared to have been wearing the guardsman’s helmet now lying on the ground next to him.
Gods, Kellett! Turney dashed across the open and quickly knelt next the figure, noting that the ground around the figure appeared to be wet. Not water, he realised. It was blood.
He rolled the body over and saw the surprised look on Kellett’s face. The staring eyes above the dark line that crossed his neck. If it had been light Turney knew that the line would be crimson in colour.
A whisper of sound behind him.
Turney was good, but he had lost a vital moment being distracted by his fallen comrade. Rough arms grabbed him as another figure materialised from the bushes in front of him. He felt a thump against his chest, but surprisingly little pain.
Staring down he could see the handle of the hunting knife protruding from his chest, blood seeping round the blade, escaping from the stab wound. He looked up again and found himself staring into a pair of totally lifeless eyes. Whether it was the effect of the failing light, or whether it was the true nature of his attacker’s eyes, he would never know. A violent twist and Turney let out a final gurgled sigh before slumping down to the ground.
Olsen looked up from the meal he was preparing as Dorrin came striding across the small campsite. He could tell from his posture as he strode that something was not right.
“What’s to do sir?”
“Have Kellett and Turney reported to you yet?”
“I didn’t know that they were back.”
“They’re not as far as I’m aware. That’s why I asked.” His eyes travelled around the perimeter of the encampment. “It shouldn’t take that long just to check the immediate area.”
“Perhaps they’ve come across someone’s trail. You know as well as I do that there could be a dozen different reasons as to why they’ve not returned yet.”
“Maybe. But I get the feeling that we’re being watched. If there was a group close enough to do that, then they should have reported back immediately.”
Olsen gave his commanding officer a long look before replying. “I’ve heard talk of your abilities in the mystic arts, is there some way that you could use them to scout the area for them?”
Dorrin chuckled. “If there were, I would not have needed to send the two of them out there. If I had a Farglobe with me, it would be easy, but I was told only to bring essential equipment and I don’t think the Masters at Holdur Keep would have appreciated my deciding that their only Farglobe was essential for our mission.”
Olsen nodded his understanding. “Probably. If they’re not back within the half hour, then I think we need to consider the fact that there’s possibly someone else out there that we might not want to meet.”
“The thought had crossed my mind. You might want to mention to the others to be ready to move quickly.”
“What about Her Highness?”
Dorrin considered it for a moment. “Make sure that she only unpacks a bare minimum, but keep quite as to our suspicions. No need to worry her unnecessarily.”
Olson nodded slowly. “You could be right, but I’ll need to tell the men something.”
“Just tell them that ‘that damn fool officer’s nervous’.” Dorrin smiled wryly.
Olson chuckled quietly in return. “That’ll probably work.” With that the stocky sergeant started to turn. Then, as an afterthought he faced the young lieutenant. “You’re going for a look aren’t you?”
“Of course.” He grinned. “Just don’t tell the Her Highness.”
Olson grunted once before heading back to the assembled tents that were now almost fully erected.
Now he was alone Dorrin started to stare intently into the twilight. Where to start looking for the two men. The best choice would be to use several of the others and set up a proper search pattern, but due to the importance of their charge, there was no way that he could even contemplate that idea. His only real option was to use a single man to conduct the search, but to use one of the guardsmen would only prompt questions amongst the others that he really didn’t want to answer. That only left himself. Olson could easily cover for him if anyone short of the Princess asked where he was, and if she asked it shouldn’t prove too difficult to come up with some military chore that he was carrying out about which she would know no better.
Just a short distance away several figures used the darkness that was now gathering to move through the undergrowth to within sight of the small encampment. Each stood clearly over six feet. Clad in dark grey clothing they blended into the failing light almost perfectly.
Two groups had approached the area where the humans were. The first was now in position and the low hoot of an owl told the leader of the band that the others were also in position on the far side. To the western edge of the collection of tents he could see one of the humans moving of into the foliage on his own, probably to tend to his own personal needs, he thought.
He could see four sentries but it was plainly obvious that all but one of the rest were also men-at-arms. A few could even be seen checking and cleaning their swords, or making sure that bowstrings hadn’t received any water damage. Good troops, he mused, well trained and disciplined. A pity really, that would cause problems for his own troops, but that didn’t really matter.
He silently motioned for one of those nearest to him. “Tell Horla that we go when he hears the call of a Felljar.” The language he spoke was harsh and guttural. Many of those that lived throughout the northern reaches just below the mountains would have recognised it for what it was. Shaler! The language of Elven kin, but much harsher than any of the true ‘Fair Languages’. There were several barely recognisable replies from his immediate vicinity, then silence.
Dorrin peered intently at the ground in front of him. The slightest indentation in the moist earth at his feet betrayed the passage of something in this direction, although it could still be any one of several possibilities. He knew that it was likely that there would be a Shaler hunting party somewhere around here, but they would stay clear of any band the size of the one he was leading.
Although they were ferocious warriors, the Shalers for the most part kept to themselves, only attacking if you strayed into what they saw as their territory. Something that they were a few days clear of yet. In fact, if they ran across two bands of Shalers they were more likely to be spectators to the fight than to get involved in it. Most of the clans would attack the others on sight, which was a good thing given the numbers that they could put in the field if they ever did decide to band together.
He turned his attention back to the footprint, because that was what it was. It was too elongated to have been made by any of the animals that inhabited this region. Possibly it could have been made by a lone hunter up from one of the vil
lages to the west of Holdur, it was just impossible to tell.
Silently he rose from the crouch that he had adopted whilst he had studied the trace of a track. He had to be a half mile out from the camp by now, better think about bringing his route round and back toward the eastern flank. He had only taken a dozen steps when he entered a small clearing amongst the bushes. Lying face down were the two missing guardsmen, although unlike Turney, Dorrin had no need to get close to see that they were obviously dead. He did move to the bodies however, as he had seen a glint from the fleeting moonlight that had started to make itself known between the sporadic breaks in the cloud.
He knelt beside Turney and rolled the body so that it was flat on its back. Protruding from the chest was an exquisitely handled dagger. Why anyone would leave such a weapon was beyond Dorrin until he tried to remove the blade himself. It was firmly lodged in the sternum of its victim and short of hacking the body up to get at it, it would not come free.
He studied it as carefully as he could under the circumstances but with the darkness that surrounded him he was unable to make out more of what the design actually was. Sitting back on his haunches he reflected what he knew. Two of his men were dead, and whoever had attacked them had no compunctions at leaving behind a dagger that would undoubtedly fetch a pretty penny at any armourers in a town. They must be moving quickly, in need of getting to wherever or whatever they were after as quickly as possible. Not even able to spare a few minutes. The Princess!
Olson reached for his tin cup that he had set next to the fire in order to keep the broth inside warm as long as possible now that the temperature was falling rapidly. He had dragged a broken branch across to the fireside to use as a seat and had just managed to make himself comfortable when he heard the distinctive call of a Felljar. Unusual to hear one this far north, he thought. Not unheard of, but definitely unusual. The next sound he heard was not that of a small bird.
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