by A R R Ash
“Your Majesty, I surmise Halura is the source. If you allow me to question Munar, before you kill him, I will learn the answer.”
Shayala nodded, fully confident in the spy marshal’s ability to extract a confession from the usurper.
“All secondary protocols have been enacted,” Lyan assured her.
Shayala nodded again, certain that Lyan had already taken all necessary precautions. “As the feral humans prepare to march, we must draw the gazes of Munar and that loathsome Yah’l away from the west and the north.”
“After the attack upon your refuge, Your Majesty, they seem to have drawn back. All patrols have ceased.”
Shayala leaned forward in genuine surprise at this information.
“Either he gathers his forces for a full incursion, or he pulls them in for defense,” Lyan speculated.
“They could not know of the impending attack,” Shayala said, more to reassure herself than to elicit a response from Lyan. “Only you and I are privy to the full design, so the usurper could not have learned of the attack from Halura or any other captured agents.” Shayala seemed as if she would continue, so Lyan remained silent, waiting. Finally, Shayala asked as if musing aloud, “Could he have pieced together the plan from disparate fragments of information?”
“I don’t believe so, Your Majesty, at least not in its entirety. No others were even aware of your existence until it became necessary. And if the usurper or his agents had learned of the transport of weapons, they would have intercepted those.”
Shayala considered this for several moments before nodding. Perceiving that Lyan had more to say, Shayala said with some irritation, “Speak, Lyan.”
“Your Majesty, our adversary in this is not the usurper, it is my counterpart; Munar is far too rash for such storied calculus. No doubt, his creature Yah’l suspects you have a greater design, but he cannot know the details. From the cache of weapons they captured in Hathaer, he doubtless suspects some form of attack, though he likely believes our numbers too diminished to pose a real threat.”
Finding no fault in the spy marshal’s reasoning, Shayala nodded her agreement. Asked she, “How goes the preparation?”
“All shall be in place. To avoid detection by the usurper’s patrols, we have been forced to use a more circuitous route to make deliveries to the feral humans, though they proceed unabated. On the chance Munar has indeed learned to countermand a thrall’s obedience, all agents have been commanded to carry a flask of the noxious human blood, with which to suicide rather than allow capture. Lastly, as she has assumed Volroy’s lands, the Countess will ensure the fringe along the hinterland remains clear for your passage.”
Shayala felt a surge of eagerness, ready to do battle and crush her opposition. She stood. “Then when next we meet, it shall be over the corpses of our enemies.”
Lyan also stood. “Your Majesty, I will make ready to depart upon first dark.”
The two gripped shoulders, and Lyan strode through the solitary portal of the cavern.
Day 33: Light
As Shayala approached, the Moroi Hunters’ encampment seethed with activity—preparation for war and migration. In the warm morning sunlight, with only scattered wisps of clouds or sporadic breath of wind to offer any relief, the humans perspired in their work: packing, carrying, loading. The animals sounded their calls, excited and agitated by the bustle. From above came the tweet and twitter of birds soaring in lively flight, uncaring of the transpirings of human and strigoi below. Already, many of the tents had been disassembled and loaded atop wagons; vast swaths of land lay empty, leaving expanses of brown, flattened tufts of grass or barren tracts of dirt to mark the former placement of tents.
Several inquiries directed Shayala to Aya, overseeing the preparations of the warriors.
Aya turned. “Shenla!” She moved quickly and embraced Shayala. “We were worried. We expected you days ago.”
Shayala’s body stiffened at the affectionate greeting. She disengaged herself and replied, “I was delayed.”
Expecting a warmer reunion, Aya sputtered, “Ye-yes. I’m pleased to see you’re well.” Her smile was genuine. When Shayala made no reply, Aya becalmed her expression and continued stoically, “We make ready to march. Ryz’k still recovers from his injuries and will oversee the exodus of the Hunters after our departure.”
“The other tribes?” Shayala asked.
“With exception of the Black Fangs, all have pledged their support and have been provided with quantities of the blood and weapons.”
Shayala nodded, pleased. From her scrip, she retrieved a scrap of parchment and handed it to Aya. “There are those among your tribe who can read.”
Although it had not been intoned as a question, Aya nodded.
“Instructions how to prepare vials to store the creatures’ blood. Without this method, the blood becomes ineffectual after a single day.”
Surprised into speechlessness, Aya only nodded. Regaining her voice, said she, “I will see it finds the right hands.” A brief pause. “I have some matters to attend to.” Then, with a smile, “But don’t wander off. We march shortly.”
Several hours later, Shayala rode northward, alongside Aya and two thousand human warriors.
Day 35: Night
Crossing the Accord River over a balustraded arch bridge, the train of King H’shu entered the territory of the former Court of Queen Shayala—but not before scouts had inspected the bridge for sabotage and investigated the water and environs for ambuscaders. The peaceful river appeared gray in the cloud-obstructed moonlight.
“Where is Tah’sin?” Goy’ul, the austere, implacable captain of King H’shu’s personal guard, asked when one of the scouts failed to return for a scheduled report. The sinewy captain wore a baldric, to which was fastened a buckler and assorted daggers. He carried a silver-bladed scimitar, and his gorget bore the insigne of King H’shu. His fervent, dark green eyes blazed with the passion of singular focus.
“We do not know, Captain,” answered one scout.
“Rather than responding with an answer I know, go find the answer I need,” Goy’ul growled.
Five scouts withdrew immediately to locate their missing cohort.
Goy’ul called a halt to the train and moved to report to his king. He rapped rhythmically upon the door of the king’s coach.
“Enter, Goy’ul.”
The captain opened the door and stepped within but did not speak until given leave.
“Why have we stopped, Captain?”
“Your Majesty, one of the scouts failed to report, so I thought it prudent to learn the reason before we continue.”
“Captain Goy’ul,” Princess H’shu began, “surely some slight tardiness is no cause for such alarm.”
King H’shu silenced her with a glance. “Prudent indeed,” agreed the king.
“If it is a matter of mere tardiness, he will be dealt with, Your Majesty.”
A low humming suddenly filled the night air, followed by the thud of scores of silver-tipped arrows striking the train of coaches. Without hesitation, Goy’ul leapt from the coach. After closing the door behind him, he drew his scimitar and slid the buckler from his baldric onto his left arm. Glancing along both directions of the caravan, he saw several arrows had found their marks. Although the arrows should not have proved fatal, the struck soldiers lay still. He ordered two guards to stand sentry without the king’s coach while he moved toward the fallen. Kneeling beside a slain soldier, Goy’ul immediately noted her face was frozen in the midst of a painful convulsion.
“’Ware the arrows!” Goy’ul called.
Calls of “Queen Shayala!” and “For the Queen!” were heard before the second volley, but the soldiers of the king’s guard, including Goy’ul himself, were already dispersing into the surrounding forest. The attacking archers dropped their bows and fought with swords and axes. Hardly slowing his stride, Goy’ul cut down one and quickly moved to the next. He saw several other isolated skirmishes but not nearly the numb
er of attackers to account for the rain of arrows.
We are being drawn deeper into the forest, away from the caravan, Goy’ul realized. Quickly finishing one opponent who thought to steal upon him from the side, Goy’ul turned and ran toward the train.
*
Without knocking, a soldier whose gorget bore the mark of King H’shu opened the door to the king’s coach. “Your Majesty, Goy’ul has sent me to get you to safety. You must come quickly.”
Princess H’shu began to follow, but King H’shu made no move, only looking impassively at the soldier.
“Your Majesty, please, we must get you to safety,” implored the soldier.
“Father, we must go,” urged the princess.
But the king still made no move.
Eyes of king and princess focused upon the red-coated tip of the soldier’s blade. King H’shu underwent a physical transformation, his body turning translucent and insubstantial. The soldier thrust his sword into the ethereal shape that had been the king, though the blade passed through and struck the far wall of the coach. The soldier retracted the blade just as a sword from behind severed his head from his body.
Goy’ul’s took the place of the soldier, whose body lay beside the two slain guards. King H’shu resumed his corporeal form as quickly as he had completed the previous transformation.
“Tah’sin, Your Majesty. The missing scout,” Goy’ul explained.
Princess H’shu, appearing stricken, settled back upon her seat.
Unperturbed, H’shu merely nodded.
Goy’ul closed the door to the coach and began shouting commands for his soldiers to return to the caravan. The nearby guards relayed the message down the ranks, and soon the surviving soldiers mustered about the captain. Goy’ul arrayed them around the king’s coach before ordering two squads to reconnoiter the forest to either side of the train. He also ordered crossbow-armed soldiers to positions atop the coaches immediately in front and behind that of the king. Goy’ul himself leapt atop the king’s coach.
The too-quiet night kept the soldiers on edge: They gripped their weapons tightly, and their eyes darted about, while they waited for the scouts.
Upon their return, the scouts reported that they encountered several attackers, though most seemed to have fled.
Goy’ul took account of the battle: only five of his Majesty’s soldiers dead, while no less than double that number of the ambushers lay headless. He recounted the tally to the king and added, “Three fell in the initial barrage to envenomed arrows.”
“A clumsy ambush indeed, all but trifling, if not for use of the poison,” King H’shu noted.
“Were she not dead—they all wore the gorgets of Queen Shayala,” Goy’ul observed.
“Whatever else I think of her, she was not so foolish and careless,” H’shu explained.
“Then who?” Princess H’shu asked, hoping her anxiety would be mistaken for concern.
“Several come to mind,” King H’shu replied. “The arrows suggest certain parties, but of course, that may be a subterfuge. Nevertheless, do not doubt, the perpetrators shall be revealed before long. The larger question is: How did they manage to infiltrate the guard?”
Did he glance at me as he spoke? Princess H’shu could not be sure.
Goy’ul knelt and offered his sword to his king. “My carelessness nearly cost you your life, Your Majesty. I offer you mine in exchange.”
King H’shu made no move to take the sword. “Nonsense, Captain.” H’shu laughed. “I was never in any danger. Spies and counterspies—and so on—that is the game. I haven’t ruled for centuries without understanding that.”
“Your Majesty, I—” Goy’ul began, still proffering the sword.
“Enough, Captain,” H’shu interrupted. “We go.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Goy’ul acceded. “I will double the scouts and place archers and guards around your coach in the night.”
“They will not try again,” H’shu assured his captain. “But do take your measures.”
Day 36: Night
The host of Silver Blades had ridden quickly throughout the day. Sar-Kyul’s injuries remained persistent, though he did not believe they would diminish him greatly in the coming battle, especially while he was under the double influences of the blood and his surging excitement at the impending war. Once the Silver Blades had experienced the effects of the monsters’ blood, they came to fully embrace its use. Despite the historic rivalry and, to some extent, animosity between the Moroi Hunters and Silver Blades, he swelled with pride at the accomplishment of uniting them in purpose. An accomplishment that would not have been possible if not for Shenla.
He was struck by a sudden revelation: that he felt more confident, near invincible, in partnership with his inhuman ally. The revelation both awed and disgusted him. I cannot allow such an insidious weakening of my resolve; regardless the outcome of this temporary alliance, neither human nor monster will ever accept the other as equals.
Sar-Kyul and the Blades encountered patrols of vedettes and pickets before attaining the appointed rally along the meandering bank of the Pale River. They found the field firelit by a legion of small blazes and torches. Sar-Kyul led, followed by Vartan and Walyr, and trailed by the combat arms of Sho’voth, Sigryf, and Toth. The host crossed the field, the banner of the Silver Blades held aloft by a standard bearer. Rel’gor’s absence and Sar-Kyul’s presence in the vaward was the topic of many a whisper among the assembled tribes.
Sar-Kyul halted before the enclave of the Moroi Hunters, where Aya stood to greet the procession. Sar-Kyul alighted, and Aya strode forward, the two ending in a companionable embrace.
They separated, and Aya said, “I hope you’ve not abandoned the Hunters.”
With an earnest gaze and tone, Sar-Kyul replied, “Never, Aya. Never.” Clearing his throat, he asked, “How many warriors do we have?”
“Three thousand, perhaps five hundred more. Many tribes did not commit their full strength, wanting to maintain a protective force during their travels.”
Sar-Kyul nodded. “I bring two thousand.” It was significantly less than the eight thousand for which he had hoped, but there was nothing to be done about it. “Once the Blades have made camp, we will call a council of war.”
Aya nodded. “I’ll inform the others.”
Later, within an enclosed pavilion, Sar-Kyul—flanked by Aya, Shayala, Vartan, and Walyr—stood with the other twenty-two tribal chiefs. The pavilion was unadorned and meagerly furnished, with the only light from a quartet of braziers.
Sar-Kyul surveyed the warrior-leaders arrayed before him and saw curiosity upon many of their faces. He began brusquely, with no suggestion of braggadocio, “To put the matter to rest, I know most of you have heard Rel’gor is no more. I lead the Silver Blades.”
Thus came the expected questions: “How?” “What occurred?” “How’d this come to pass?” “What of the Moroi Hunters?”
Sar-Kyul understood that many, if not all, shared the concern that this union portended future consolidation of the free tribes. No single tribe, no four tribes, could oppose the combined Moroi Hunters and Silver Blades. Had Rel’gor been the victor, such concerns would have undeniably been warranted. Sar-Kyul, however, had no designs to rule over the collective, and, with the imminent conflict, such concerns were premature. Many, if not most, here will not survive the war.
Sar-Kyul addressed the unspoken concern, “Once the monsters are defeated, we will look to the organization of the tribes. However, if I survive, I will abdicate leadership of the Blades. Until then, Aya commands the Moroi Hunters.”
This seemed to appease most of the chieftains, though some did not bother to hide their continued distrust.
Some may even think to challenge me, but they dare not do so openly, especially upon the eve of war. No matter; nothing more can be done now to assuage their concerns.
“The night grows long,” Sar-Kyul said. “Let us discuss more immediate matters and find rest before daybreak, when w
e resume our march.” When no objections or complaints were offered, Sar-Kyul continued, “In three days, we bring war upon the monsters. Shenla has arranged access to their castle.”
This comment elicited dubious and suspicious glances, all focused toward Shayala.
Once more, predictable responses followed: “How?” “How is this possible?” “She leads us into a trap!”
Not wishing to dwell upon the details of this integral part of their strategy, Sar-Kyul said with purposeful vagueness, “Shenla has human allies within the castle who have arranged it.”
Yet before Sar-Kyul could press on, Grolin, the young warrior of the Scaled Daggers stepped forward, asked, “And if they don’t?”
Shayala answered for him: “It will be done.”
From his intake of breath, the parting of his lips, and his slight lean forward, she knew the foppish young man would not so easily be put off.
With the ever-present threat of violence underlying her husky voice, she added, “I can gain access if necessary.”
“Then why—” Grolin began, though Sar-Kyul’s booming voice eclipsed his tenor.
“Each tribe will fight under its own leadership. However, we are stronger if we are united and fighting under a coordinated strategy. To that end, the Silver Blades and the Moroi Hunters will lead two advances, with the other tribes distributed behind these vanguards. Both will infiltrate the castle through a separate entrance and converge upon the throne room, regrouping before the final push.
“In but a few days from now, the free tribes will stand triumphant, and the threat of the monsters will be but a memory. Nothing but a bedtime fable for our children.” He drew and raised a khopesh, shouting, “Victory for the free tribes!”
He was answered by an echoing call and the clanging of weapons.
Day 36: Light to Day 38: Night
As the woodnote of songbirds faded into the crepuscular calls of nighthawks and swifts, then to the nocturnal hoots and hisses of owls, the human army continued under Shayala’s sure guidance. That army, the first such host to be recorded in the history of the free tribes, traveled eastward, passing through a sparsely populated reach of the forest, along the northern fringe of the Court, before traversing the craggy foothills of the Northern Inland Mountains. To her private abasement, Shayala was forced to subsist upon lower animals, which she would catch at night while others slept.