Arrows of Ladis

by RG Long

  “Speakers,” Holve said simply.

  This made Jurrin stop short and resulted in Serinde nearly tripping over him.

  “Speakers?” Jurrin asked, stunned and tangled in the elf’s limbs. “I thought you said that the Ladis people hate magic?”

  “They do,” Holve said, helping Serinde to balance and putting a hand on her shoulder. He reached down a hand to make sure Jurrin was alright. “They hate them, but they live in castles and cities built by wise and skilled Speakers who walked this land nearly a millennium ago.”

  “But...but...”

  Jurrin's head was spinning. The people of Ladis ran out the people who made their cities and castles? Why would they do such a terrible thing?

  Holve gave him a rare smile.

  “Ladis has always had a complicated relationship with magic,” he said as he guided them onward. Jurrin looked ahead and thought he could see beyond the light of Holve’s torch. Maybe that meant there was an opening to the tunnel up ahead?

  “They feared the ones who could use magic. They ostracized them, pushed them further and further out. And then one day, he came along.”

  “Who?” Jurrin asked. His imagination was racing.

  “Decolos. The one that prophet said was a god. He was just a man. A man filled with hate and bitterness and a deep loathing for those who could use magic. He rallied the people of Ladis around him. Set himself up as an enlightened man and told the people that all their problems came from Speakers and Rimstone.”

  Holve shook his head.

  “He wrote down his ideas and his beliefs and had them spread all over the continent. The Faith of Ladism he called it. Ha! It wasn’t faith. It was a reason to hate and to draw others into his vile ideas of hating other people just because of what they were capable of.”

  There was a long pause where Jurrin almost interrupted, but then Holve continued on, in a much more subdued tone than before.

  “The people of Ladis nearly shoved them off the continent. They pushed and pushed until they isolated the Speakers onto one large island. Then they told them to fend for themselves and not ask for aid from Ladis any longer. They were isolated. Which is why they call their island Isol. They want a reminder about what had been done to them. And they seethe with bitterness themselves.”

  Jurrin ran his hand along the smooth stones of the passageways, trying to imagine what it must have been like. To build such beautiful cities using your gifts and talents and then to be told to leave. To be exiled from a home built by the power now hated.

  He shook himself.

  It felt awful.

  “But Ladis underestimated Isol,” Holve continued. “Thirty years ago, they rose up and sought to reclaim what was theirs. They went to war to regain their lost territory. The goal was never to eradicate Ladis. It was to establish a trade route through The Rift, an area where the continent of Ladis and Isol were close. Now, it seems, they’ve been at war down south for thirty years. According to Forst, it’s been a terrible conflict with neither side coming up on top.”

  Holve let out a deep sigh.

  “We were so close, too. So close to winning a victory. Then it was lost to us.”

  “You mean like Miss Yada said?” Jurrin asked, curiosity getting the better of his ability to stay quiet and listen. “With the comet and all? Did you really escape?”

  “The comet was a large factor,” Holve admitted. “But the last thing about that battle...”

  Holve went quiet.

  “What is it, Mister Holve?”

  “Shh,’ he said, sticking out a hand. Jurrin furrowed his brow. Did he hear something? Holve unwrapped his package and handed it to Serinde and Jurrin after removing a blade for himself. Serinde pulled out a similar blade to Holve’s, while Jurrin found two small knives.

  He sighed. He really wished he had found a sling or something similar. He liked fighting from a distance. Did Holve think they were going to fight?

  Jurrin strained his ears to hear what Serinde and Holve already had. The tunnel seemed quiet to him. Just small drops of water off in the distance.

  Then he heard it.

  Footsteps.

  38: The Fall of Many

  “You there!” the call came over the mass chaos that was the gates of Grellis. “Prophet!”

  Jerius stopped short. He had been fleeing the destruction on the wall and in the courts and had only narrowly missed being buried under the rubble of what was once a beautiful scribe’s tower.

  Now he was being hailed by the highest-ranking officer left, since both Prince Ditrus and Farnus were no more.

  A meager general of Ladis.

  “Come and offer a blessing to those about to greet death’s doors!”

  Jerius let his shoulders fall, only a fraction, but then turned around and marched back towards the general. A mass of soldiers had gathered at the gates of Grellis. The walls were coming down with each new magical blast.

  Isol had gained something terrible and powerful. Loath though he was to admit it, this new weapon of theirs would be the undoing of this once great city. It had been Jerius’ wish to someday visit the castle of Grellis, though he had hoped to do so under more peaceful times and to avoid prince Ditrus at all costs.

  Having seen both princes who had offered him little to no comfort fall in battle was payment enough for his grief thus far. He would bless these soldiers and then retreat back as far into the city as he could. Perhaps there was some way to escape, yet unknown?

  That, or he could barricade himself in the priest's temple for as long as the food there would hold out. He eyed Luca and his other guards.

  Sacrifices would have to be made, of course.

  “Men of Ladis!” he said loudly as he approached the general and his men. These were no fighters or soldiers. These were farmers and craftsmen and merchants. Armed with the leftover weapons that hadn’t already been shipped off to the Disputed Lands, they looked scared to death.

  Except one.

  One man, save for the general, held his head high and did not cower at the sound of crashing walls and crumbling stones.

  Jerius fixed his eyes on him.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the man.

  “Octus of Fray,” he said. “I fought in the first Rift War and then the Veiled Ones who invaded our homeland afterwards. I am not afraid of this battle.”

  “Octus?”

  “Octus!?”

  “Of Fray? Did he say Octus?”

  The murmurs reached around the group that had been gathered at the gate.

  Jerius was unfamiliar with this man and his wars, but he was glad to see several of the others looking encouraged by the presence of this warrior.

  It meant they would fight longer and give him more time to work out a strategy.

  Remembering the speeches he had read of the old battles and the prophet who had given them, he recalled the words of one who had written out his speech to the men who would all die at the hands of the traitorous Isolians in a particularly nasty battle.

  It seemed fitting to recite here. He mustered himself and made his voice as loud as he could.

  “You are brave and faithful! Servants of Ladis, you will see death’s doors opened wide and willing to accept those who fought against the traitor and the heretic! Send back the pagans who use darkness and magic to deny us a decent life! Cast out doubt and fear! Replace it with a righteous fury! Show the heretics what true faith looks like! Give them death! And in return, gain death’s greeting yourself! For glory! For Ladis! For death!”

  With each line, more and more men of Ladis looked up at Jerius. He swelled with pride, thinking that as they saw his faith, they themselves believed his words.

  “For Ladis!”

  The cry was echoed across the gate.

  “For death!”

  A louder cry came back as the men and general and his commanders echoed it over and over again.

  “For death!”

  “For death!”

  “For death!”


  Jerius folded his arms, smiled, and took three steps backward. Before the general had turned, he was already walking away towards the Temple of Ladis. He would preach that others should seek a noble and honorable death.

  He, meanwhile, would seek to preserve his life a little longer.

  So long as he could help it.

  His guards followed him obediently, even as the cheers increased in volume and the men beat their shields and lifted high their spears. Jerius turned a corner just as another blast hit the walls of Grellis, right at the gates of the city. The force of the explosion sent Jerius and his guards sprawling across the street. Rubble and debris rained down on them. Jerius was first on his feet and began running as hard as he could towards the temple.

  He would not be caught unprepared for what was to come. Though he was unfamiliar with some battles, the tactics of invading armies on cities was not lost to him. Especially when those armies were Isolian.

  During the first war, Jerius had read about their ruthless tactics. He had seen the results of their destruction: cities leveled, countrysides turned to ash and dust, mountains made smooth with unnatural fire.

  No, Jerius would make sure he survived this battle. At whatever cost.

  Soldiers and other men were running in the opposite direction. The gates of the city must have been weakened to the point of needing to reinforce them with bodies. If that was the case, the Isolian army would be upon them soon.

  Jerius ran until he found himself out of breath. He leaned against a large chunk of stone that had landed in the street. It must have come from the tower that had fallen. More magical bolts shot over the city. Sometimes they clipped rooftops, sometimes they overshot and went far past Grellis.

  Then, other times, they hit in exactly the same spot as another one had.

  The bolt came flying over Jerius’ head without warning. It sailed passed the tower its brother had destroyed and, instead, exploded over another such structure. This time, the palace of the Prince fell to its demise. The temple and palace were not very far from one another and to get to his destination, he had to come this way.

  Jerius felt the ground beneath him quake and shift as the palace collapsed. One of his guards let out a shriek as she fell, not to her knees or the ground, but through it. A part of the street was opening up as cracks ran from the palace that was breaking apart.

  The woman disappeared completely into the hole that opened up beneath her. Jerius held on tightly to the stone he was leaning against and sought to ensure he didn’t follow her. The ground shifted under him, however, and he felt his feet begin to slide towards the opening.

  “Death awaits us all,” he muttered to himself, thinking of the soldiers who must now be crashing through the gates of Grellis and the opening pit that lay before him. “Death before and death after.”

  The stone he had clung to came loose of the ground and sank into the chasm below.

  Jerius fell with it.

  HE WASN’T SURE HOW long he laid on the cool ground, covered in dust and rubble. Once he awoke, he found that he wasn’t stiff and had no broken bones.

  Rising to his feet, he looked around to see that some of his guards had fallen through the hole with him. He looked up and saw that they had fallen about the height of two men before finding this ground to lay on. He was surprised he didn’t feel more pain from such a fall.

  “Luca!” he said, pushing her with his foot. The woman lay on the ground nearby, unmoving but breathing. “Get up and help me!”

  With a few more proddings of his foot, the woman stirred and groaned.

  “If you had more strength and faith, you would be beyond such pains,” Jerius growled. Then he saw it, down along a path. A light.

  “Luca!” he hissed. “A light burns further along the path! Go and see what it is!”

  Slowly, she stirred and got to her feet. Slowly and using her hand against the wall to hold herself up, she trotted off the way Jerius had indicated.

  Having sent her off, he began to inspect the area. He had expected to see rough walls, like those of a cave. Instead, he was greeted with stone walls of excellent design. Above him, the hole that had sent him and his guards down to this tunnel, was blocked by the massive stone he had leaned against. Only a small space that allowed a narrow shaft of light opened up to the street above. Jerius could hear the sounds of battle raging over his head. Isol had broken into the city.

  And they were safe. At least relatively, down here in these tunnels. And, perhaps, they could find a better hiding place here than one afforded to them at the temple. These tunnels were unknown to Jerius. He had never read anything about them when Grellis was mentioned. Perhaps they were unknown to the rest of the population as well?

  His other guards were beginning to stir. They got to their feet slowly and with some effort, but managed to stand up and look around, as he had. One of them, a woman named Gratta.

  “My Prophet, how did we get down here? Oh no! Cera!”

  She moved as quickly as she could over to the woman who had fallen first. Unlike the rest of them, she hadn’t stirred.

  “I can’t feel her heart, My Prophet!” Gratta said as she felt the chest of the other guard. “She isn’t breathing! We need to get her help!”

  The woman was becoming loud and was gasping for air. She was bent down over the other guard, calling to her and pleading with her not to leave to death’s door just yet. Jerius raised a brow. Were these two friends? He didn't know.

  He also knew they didn’t have time to linger if the city was falling to Isol.

  “We can get back up there!” Gratta said as she looked into the shaft of light. She was approaching hysterics and panted as she spoke. “We could climb, go ask for a healer or some help! Please, My Prophet! Help me!”

  “I will help you, faithful servant of Ladis,” Jerius said, kneeling down to her and holding her head in his arms.

  A swift movement, a crack, and Gratta’s body went as limp as the other’s. Jerius laid her down gently.

  “May you guide us better in death,” he said, standing up and eyeing the last guard who stood a few steps away.

  She was trembling but said nothing. She only nodded and gritted her teeth. A single tear ran down her cheek, but Jerius allowed the sign of weakness. For now.

  “Be strong, my child” he said.

  She nodded more vigorously.

  “Y... yes, My Prophet,” she said through chattering teeth.

  Luca returned, holding a torch. That had been the source of the glow from further down the tunnel. She held it up and looked back and forth from Jerius to the other one. What was her name again? Jerius couldn’t remember.

  “It is time for us to depart,” Jerius said, turning from both Luca and the other woman. He grabbed the torch without thanking her for completing the task he had set her and stalked off down the tunnel.

  He didn’t know where it would lead them.

  Only that he had no business being where it had left.

  39: Bravery

  “Steady!” the call came from the general at the forefront of the line of spears. “Brace for the charge!”

  Octus set his face in grim determination. He had always hated this part of the battle. When he was a part of a proper troop fighting down in the Disputed Lands, receiving an enemy charge was the worst part of a battle.

  He would rather be the yelling, charging, emboldened attacker than the steady, shield bearing defender. But it was never his place to choose his role in battle. He was a soldier only. No commander post for him. He never wanted to be in charge of the troops. It was much more comfortable for him to obey.

  Many men faltered as they prepared to receive the incoming forces. The gate had crashed to pieces with the last blast the magical canons had fired. No more arcs of power flew at them from the bewitched weapons. The army was approaching. Isol didn’t want to accidentally strike its own force.

  The men of Ladis stood in the gap. In the very front, men with shields were on one k
nee, while, right behind them, men with spears held them out just beyond the wall of defense. The pattern was repeated twice, until the bridge appeared to be a dangerous black flower, with deadly spikes protruding from blossoming leaves.

  Octus stood on the first row, his spear held tightly in his hand. Men beside him kept casting him glances. He was, after all, something of a legend. He had taken out an entire company of Speakers in the wars to the south by himself.

  Such a feat had never been done and had yet to be repeated as the years of the war dragged on and on. Men praised him for this act of bravery, but the night still haunted his waking dreams. He’d rather not dwell on his past deeds. Instead, he looked outward.

  Isol commanded most of the horizon. Their numbers swelled and came to a head at the bridge that connected the plains to the castle of Grellis. The great canyon that separated the castle walls from the grass out there was huge and could withstand any bridge or rope that was put against it.

  Octus gritted his teeth.

  They were coming.

  “Trebuchets!” came the distant cry from behind them. The Isolian army was finally in range of the machines that hid behind the walls of Grellis. Rocks began to fall from the sky as they were catapulted out of the city. Some of the missiles hit their mark, taking with them rows of enemy troops.

  Most did not.

  Behind the front lines that stood on the canyon’s edge, Octus could just make out the shapes of men and women in robes. With their hands outstretched, some seemed to guide the rocks to fall into the canyon, though their flight should have taken them deep into enemy lines. Others stood and sent magical blasts, much smaller than the ones that assaulted the castle, towards the incoming rocks. When they collided, the stones were obliterated and came down as harmless dust.

  The Speakers were as effective as they were hated by the men of Ladis.

  Octus was no exception.

  “Hold the line!” he yelled to his fellow soldiers as the army of Isol came ever closer to the bridge. He could see them beginning to form their assault teams. Down in the Disputed Lands, sometimes Isol would send in armored horses first, in order to smash Ladis lines. At other times, warriors in armor that glowed with Rimstone would assault them. They were slow, but they were strong and deadly.