Before the castle’s northern gate stretched the Square of the Empire, where the first Roland had declared himself the Emperor, and the Guardian Rilmael had appeared to instruct the men of the Empire in the Seven Spells and the dangers of the Malison. On the western side of the square rose the Imperial Cathedral, the primary church of the Empire, a building of white stone with a broad domed roof. Tyrcamber didn’t know what the church had originally been. The cloak elves had built it, and they had never bothered to reveal its function during their embassies to the Emperor’s court.
A broad flight of stairs led to the cathedral’s doors, and the chief lords and knights had gathered upon them. The Dukes and Counts who had brought troops to the Emperor’s muster stood there, flanked by some of their knights and men-at-arms. The Masters of four of the five Imperial Orders were already there – the Masters of the Order of Iron, the Griffin, of Winter, and the Third Eye. Tyrcamber spotted Sir Daniel standing next to the Master of the Order of the Third Eye, Sir Olivier of Falconberg with the Master of the Order of the Griffin, and numerous other knights he had met during the campaign against the Valedictor and the siege of Sinderost.
Tyrcamber’s father stood at the head of the stairs, frowning. But he always frowned. Chilmar Rigamond had iron-gray hair and a long beard of the same color and wore scarred plate armor that had been repaired numerous times. Other nobles wore armor inlaid in bright colors or adorned with jewels, but not the grim Duke of Chalons. Some of Tyrcamber’s older brothers stood near their father. They looked like younger versions of the Duke, with black hair instead of gray. Though his father looked stern and cold, while his brothers merely looked cruel.
The Emperor stood near Chilmar.
“Master Ruire,” said the Emperor Alarius Roland, “welcome.”
Ruire and the other Knights of the Order of Embers bowed to the lord of the Frankish Empire, and Tyrcamber followed suit.
Alarius Roland gazed back at them. He wore elaborate steel plate armor embossed with golden sunburst designs, and Tyrcamber knew that the armor had been enspelled by the master smiths of the Order of Iron. The Emperor had iron-gray hair and deep black eyes, his beard hanging to his chest. An ancient sword hung at his belt, a longsword of slightly wider and shorter design than common in the modern Empire. It was the sword Durendal, the sword of the Emperors, and the first Roland had carried it with him from Old Earth. According to the tales, the ancient wizard Merlin had imbued the weapon with powerful magic and given the sword to Roland. The power of the blade let it cut through anything, whether sword or shield or armor, though Tyrcamber had never seen the Emperor use the sword.
Tyrcamber straightened up, and behind the Emperor, he saw the Guardian Rilmael. The Guardian stood a little apart, both hands on his dragon-headed staff of red gold, his gray cloak stirring in the wind. His alien elven eyes, deep and silver, fell upon Tyrcamber, and the Guardian nodded. Tyrcamber nodded back. He had known the Guardian for years, even before the Valedictor’s invasion had begun, and Rilmael’s counsel had always warned against potential disasters.
Or helped Tyrcamber avert those disasters.
Though he wondered if anything would be enough to stop the catastrophe that threatened Sinderost.
“My lords and knights, welcome,” said the Emperor. “Now that we have all gathered, it is time to plan the defense of the city, and how to defeat the Valedictor and drive his host back to the Goblin Wastes.”
“My lord Emperor?” said Hulderic Grimnir, the Duke of Valstrasia. He was only a few years older than Tyrcamber since his father the previous Duke had been killed in the first weeks of the Valedictor’s campaign. Most of the Duchy of Valstrasia had been overrun by the Valedictor’s hosts.
“Aye,” said the Emperor. “We fight for survival in this siege. We have been fighting for survival ever since the Valedictor thought to claim the throne of his fallen master and invaded the Empire. Our situation has been dire, my lords. We know full well that if Sinderost falls, the Empire is doomed. Some of the duchies will survive for a time, ruled by their Dukes, and as will some of the Imperial Free Cities. But you know as well as I do that the Dukes and the Counts cannot cooperate without a strong hand to guide them.” Some of the gathered nobles looked offended by that, others amused. “It is before the walls of Sinderost that we must break the Valedictor.”
“And how shall we accomplish that, my lord Emperor?” said Alaric Chevalreaux, the Duke of Talgothica. Like many of the other eastern lands of the Empire, much of Talgothica had been overrun and laid waste by the Valedictor’s hordes. The remains of Duke Alaric’s forces manned the walls of Sinderost. “We have enough strength to hold the city, but only just.”
“Especially,” said Duke Hulderic with a scowl, “since the western dukes have not deigned to return to us yet.”
“We have a plan, my lords,” said Duke Chilmar in his harsh voice. “The Valedictor’s strength appears overwhelming. But in warfare, the initiative lies with the attacker, but often the ultimate advantage rests with the defender. Sinderost is a long way from Urd Mythruin, and the Valedictor’s lines of supply are stretched thin. Additionally, the Valedictor rules over a motley assortment of goblin, ogres, and muridachs, all of whom hate each other almost as much as they hate humans. If we deal them a solid enough blow, they will turn on each other, and the Valedictor’s army will crumble.”
“All that is true enough,” said Duke Alaric. “But we are not in any position to deliver that blow.”
“Not yet,” said the Emperor. “But we soon will be. What is not yet known to you is that the western Dukes have gathered a new army accompanied by ten thousand gnoll mercenaries, and they are marching to our relief even now.” A stir went through the nobles, and Tyrcamber blinked in surprise. The Dukes of the western Empire had been forced to return to their lands to raise new troops and resupply. More than a few of the eastern and southern nobles grumbled that the westerners had abandoned the fight at the first opportunity, preferring to tend to their own castles and towns rather than facing the foe that threatened the entire Empire. “Master Erchwulf?”
The Master of the Order of the Griffin was a wiry, leathery man with skin creased from too much time beneath the harsh light of the sky fire. His gray hair receded from his scalp, and he had an enormous bushy mustache the color of iron. He stepped forward, cleared his throat, and looked over the assembled nobles and knights.
“My lords,” said Erchwulf. “As you know, the griffins of my Order have been flying patrols over the countryside, keeping watch to make sure the Valedictor isn’t sneaking another army to Sinderost. It’s our great advantage over him. A griffin can’t take a dragon in a straight fight, especially an older dragon, but our griffins can fly faster and are more maneuverable, and a dragon cannot catch a griffin-mounted scout. Anyway, the army of the western Dukes is marching hard through the valley of the River Nabia, under the command of Duke Merovech Valdraxis of Swabathia. They should arrive tomorrow if all goes well.”
A murmur went through the lords and knights. The Emperor let it continue for a few moments and then spoke.
“When our reinforcements arrive, they will cross the River Nabia, and we will attack,” said the Emperor. “Caught between a wall and reinforcements is one of the worst possible places for an army to be. If we strike boldly, we can smash the forces the Valedictor has north of Sinderost. At the very least, we will force the Valedictor to retreat across the River Bellex, and we can begin the campaign to retake the eastern duchies from a position of strength.”
“How will our reinforcements cross the River Nabia?” said Hulderic. “A contested river crossing is one of the most difficult maneuvers to manage in warfare.”
“If Merovech did his job properly,” said Chilmar, “his army ought to have built rafts while they were moving through the forests of Roxaria. Pine logs aren’t good for much, but they will float.”
“They are carrying rafts with them, my lords,” said Erchwulf. “My scouts have seen them. Probably that is what has slowed their p
rogress so much.”
“All of you, make your men ready for battle,” said the Emperor. “Tonight, we shall attend mass and ask for the aid of God and the Dominus Christus in the battle to come. Tomorrow, when Merovech begins his river crossing, we will launch sorties to support the western army. And once enough of our reinforcements are across the river, we shall attack the Valedictor’s siege camps.”
Tyrcamber said nothing. It was a bold plan, and it could easily fail. Yet half of the Valedictor’s strength was camped north of Sinderost, and the other half was on the far bank of the River Bellex, building rafts and preparing to attack the eastern walls of Sinderost. If the knights of the Empire struck boldly, they might be able to break half of the Valedictor’s horde. If God and fortune favored them, they could even get a chance to strike down the dark elven lord himself. If the Valedictor fell, his army would disintegrate into a rabble of squabbling goblin tribes and ogre chieftains, and the men of the Empire would push them back to the Goblin Wastes.
But while Master Erchwulf’s griffin riders made superb scouts, dragons could fly as well, if not as swiftly. Tyrcamber had seen smaller dragons circling overhead, ridden by umbral elves and lesser dark elven nobles. They stayed well away from the city for fear of ballistae, but they soared over the surrounding countryside. The Valedictor had to know that the western Dukes were coming with reinforcements. Surely, he would not simply sit here and wait for his enemies to smash him.
None of the nobles opposed the Emperor’s plan. They, too, knew that they had to act or be overwhelmed by the Valedictor. The discussion turned to the practical details of strategy, logistics and supply, and Tyrcamber listened with half an ear. All that was beyond his authority. His task would be to command a deputation of serjeants and men-at-arms and hold a section of the wall or to ride out with the mounted sorties when the Emperor moved to help the army of the western Dukes.
The council of war ended, and the Emperor led the way into the cathedral. The lords and knights of the Empire would attend mass on the eve of the great battle, asking for the favor of God and the saints before taking up arms. Tyrcamber wondered if God was listening. Of late, it seemed that heaven had abandoned the Empire to the iron rod of the Valedictor.
“Sir Tyrcamber.”
The familiar voice, deep and a little hoarse, shook Tyrcamber out of his dark musings.
The Guardian Rilmael stood next to the double doors leading into the great cathedral. He wore his usual gray cloak, but ever since he had come to aid the Emperor against the Valedictor’s invasion, he had also worn a cuirass of overlapping plates of golden metal, the steel of the cloak elves. He had been in the thick of the fighting for the last several years, and often his magic had been the deciding factor between victory and defeat for the Empire’s forces, and several times his power had been the only thing that kept defeat from becoming a total crushing rout.
Over the years, a few of Tyrcamber’s friends had speculated that the real reason the Guardian aided the Empire was to use humanity as a shield to protect the cloak elves of Cathair Kaldran from danger. Tyrcamber supposed that was true. Cathair Kaldran had only sent a few thousand warriors to face the Valedictor, though they had fought well. But Rilmael had been in the thick of the fighting again and again, and no man could accuse him of cowardice.
“Guardian,” said Tyrcamber. “Do you think we can win tomorrow?”
With anyone else, it would have been idle speculation. But Rilmael had the power of the Sight, and that sometimes let him glimpse the shadows of the future or at least potential futures. Tyrcamber had been relieved to learn that the future was not written in stone, or at least that it was in constant flux.
Because if he had to guess, he would have said that the Empire’s defeat was inevitable.
“The toss of a coin, I think,” said Rilmael. “We shall see on what side the coin lands tomorrow.”
“Cheering thought,” said Tyrcamber.
“The Emperor’s plan is sound,” said Rilmael. “It might smash the Valedictor’s host and force him to the eastern side of the River Bellex. Of course, the Valedictor’s plan is sound as well. Tomorrow we shall discover who is right…and not even the Sight can see what will happen.”
Tyrcamber let out a breath. It had been seven years since he had first met the Guardian on the road to the town of Tongur, and Tyrcamber had seen unceasing battles since. Or at least it felt that way. Seven years ago, he had wanted to win glory and renown as a knight of the Empire.
Now he just wanted to rest.
“I suppose it is in the hands of God,” said Tyrcamber at last.
“Aye,” said Rilmael. “God, and the hands of the men of the Empire. And perhaps a small number of the men of the Empire.”
Tyrcamber felt a chill. “Tomorrow will be…important, then?”
Rilmael had warned him of coming events before – at Tongur, at Tamisa, at Falconberg. Every time, the Guardian’s warning had foretold a conflict with the Dragon Cult, and disaster had barely been averted.
“It will be,” said Rilmael. “For obvious reasons. One way or another, the future of the Empire will be decided.” He hesitated. “And I think you will stand in the heart of that storm, Sir Tyrcamber.”
“Is it the Dragon Cult?” said Tyrcamber, alarmed.
“No, I do not think so,” said Rilmael. “The Valedictor regards the Cult as a useful tool and nothing more. He will work with the Theophract when convenient, but the Valedictor intends to put Sinderost to the sword. Any cultists in the city will die alongside the innocent. We do not face any treachery from the Dragon Cult.” He took a deep breath. “But be ready, Sir Tyrcamber. The battle will be challenging.”
“I will do what I can,” said Tyrcamber. Inside the cathedral, he heard the priest call the congregation to order. “The mass is starting. I need to go.”
Rilmael inclined his head. “Go. May God be with you.”
Tyrcamber nodded and strode into the church.
###
Rilmael walked away from the cathedral and into the square, gazing at the slender white towers of the Imperial Palace.
It hadn’t always been the Imperial Palace. Rilmael could remember when it had been the seat of the King of Cathair Sindar, the heart of a powerful kingdom of the Liberated. But the Dragon Imperator’s armies had crushed the strength of Cathair Sindar and slain its last King, and the survivors had fled to the refuge at Cathair Kaldran.
Cathair Kaldran, which guarded the door that must never be opened.
Which, Rilmael supposed was the entire reason that he was here.
That, and he wanted to help the humans.
He hadn’t expected humans to come to this world, but they had, and they had all but exploded across the world with strength and vigor, establishing their Empire and battling the armies of the Dragon Imperator. They were capable of such violence and cruelty…and at the same time some of them possessed the capacity for profound valor.
Tyrcamber Rigamond, Rilmael thought, was one such human.
And a heavy fate awaited him tomorrow.
Rilmael gazed at the towers outlined against the sky fire, wondering what to do. He had seen more of the future than he had told Tyrcamber. It wasn’t the soldiers of the Empire who would decide the fate of humanity.
It was Tyrcamber Rigamond himself.
Somehow, the choices Tyrcamber made tomorrow would decide the fate of the Empire. Rilmael didn’t know how, but he suspected.
And because he suspected, he hadn’t told Tyrcamber the entire truth, because the complete truth might make the young knight kill himself in despair.
Rilmael could hardly blame him for that.
He would help Tyrcamber to survive the storm to come.
If he could.
***
Chapter 3: The Fall of the Empire
The blast of trumpets jerked Tyrcamber out of sleep.
He blinked awake, trying to clear his head. Sleep had not brought him rest for weeks now, and his bones felt as if they had
been made of lead. The dark shadow of the Malison flickered at the edges of his thoughts, and Tyrcamber shoved it away on reflex. He had been using so much magic for so long that a constant edge of dull fatigue seemed woven into his flesh.
For a moment, Tyrcamber could not remember where he was or how he had gotten there. He was lying on the floor in the great hall of a merchant house, a half-dozen knights wrapped in their blankets nearby. The air smelled of sweat and oil and leather.
Then his mind snapped back into focus.
Sinderost, he was in Sinderost. The city was filled to overflowing with knights and men-at-arms, and the soldiers were billeted wherever they could find room. Tyrcamber was a Knight of the Order of Embers, and his rank meant he had to share a room with only six other men, instead of sleeping on the streets or in a tent.
“The call to arms!” said one of the other knights, sitting up.
Alarm burst through Tyrcamber’s mind, and he surged to his feet, his fatigue forgotten.
The trumpet was the call to arms at the northern wall.
The city was about to come under attack.
The hall of the merchant’s house exploded into motion as the knights got to their feet and armed themselves. Tyrcamber pulled on his armor and sword belt in haste, checking the straps as quickly as he could manage. In less dire circumstances, a squire should have helped him, but every boy old enough to hold a spear or a bow had been recruited into the defense of the city. He’d heard some of the other knights complain incessantly about the lack of servants, and Tyrcamber supposed that even in the face of the destruction of the Empire, some nobles would never surrender their pride.
The trumpets rang out again, and Tyrcamber forced his mind to stop wandering, turning his attention to his armor. He checked the straps one last time and then joined the other men as they hurried into the street and dispersed to their stations. It was just a little past dawn, the sky fire brightening from blue to the harsher yellow-orange of daylight, and shadows lay heavy upon the streets of the Imperial capital.
Malison: Dragon War Page 3