A Rising Darkness

by Nikki Dorakis

  The king’s swords appeared twice more above the seething mass followed by several geysers of blood and then there was nothing until one of the legionnaires raised the fallen monarch’s head.

  Markos’ face went the colour of ash. “Korlaq, Zarin. Take them—I want them all!”

  The Morlan commanders barked a series of orders and wave on wave of hoplites and infantry crashed into the king-killers beating them to the ground with clubs and binding them one by one until not one was conscious or moving.

  “And the rest,” Markos shouted to his generals. “Kill every last one of them.”

  “I do not think he needs to give that order,” Dthor observed. “I do not think the treaty will serve for much with Markos in the frame of mind for revenge.”

  I did not think Markos was acting for vengeance, however. Something told me that Keelan had planned his own demise in battle to clear the way for his son and a new generation of government for Morla. The old king had been scheming—of that much I was certain; what irritated me was that I could not divine what the monarch might have had on his obviously complex and even more devious agenda.

  That Markos and the Morlans would completely destroy this arm of the Black Legion I did not doubt for a moment. There would be no opportunity given for surrender. Markos, if he was to take over succession from his father would have to show that ally or not, none would slay a Morlan king and gain anything other than a violent, painful death. Moreover, any who had share in that death would be held equally to account.

  So as the Zetans set to clearing the immediate area of threat the Morlans now under Markos’ command pushed on killing everything they could strike at.

  By the mid noon there was not a legionnaire left alive apart from the ones Markos had ordered taken.

  In the post-battle lull the men sang their songs to honour fallen comrades as they moved among the dead from both sides collecting up weapons, trophies and any coin or valuables they could find. None, though, seemed to take the customary pleasure from the process and few of the men exchanged comment on their fortunes as they came across strange or rare finds.

  And it was as the process of clearing the field was underway that a second wave of the Legion appeared over the crest of a hill some two cords from where we were resting.

  It was Polo who spotted them, sitting as he was atop one of the few trees that dotted the landscape. His rough, shrill bugle note brought guards and spotters running.

  The black soldiers were marching with purpose. It had probably been part of their strategy all along to sacrifice their four thousand-strong force to tire the advancing army and make them easier prey to a stronger attack. They would be on us in about four sectas given their current marching speed. It would give us a little respite, but even the men who had not been directly engaged in the first melee would still be hard pressed from the effects of the forced marching. Regardless of what my Consort might say about our army and its stamina, tired men were still tired men and could never hope to fight like men well-rested.

  Janir, Korlaq, Markos and Balten all turned to look at me as I sauntered up to where they sat huddled around a hearth drinking mulled wine and chewing thoughtfully on the field rations.

  “You have that look,” Janir said quietly.

  “Look, Your Majesty? What look?” I asked.

  “The look you are doing now,” the king replied with a slight smile

  “You do.” Dthor agreed. “It’s that horrible little-wizard-look thing you do that turns a man’s bones to ice just before you say “I warned you! Or worse—I told you so!”

  I grinned. “Well then, I suppose the look saves me the words.”

  Dthor grunted at me. “I know you, little dragon, you will not be content until you have spoken them.”

  “Well, I did.” I answered. “There. Happy now?”

  “No but it’s nice to have that out of the way,” Janir laughed.

  It had already been decided to take the men from the first melee and re-post them to the rear guard to give them respite. The men who had not fought at all in the initial fray would take point in the coming battle and we would use archers to the fullest extent at the outset and continue to fire until every last arrow was used if that was what it took to cull the numbers.

  “Do we have an estimate of numbers, Father?” Balten asked.

  “Lots!” Janir responded. “I doubt they outnumber us, but they are undoubtedly fresher and we have their damned armour to content with first.”

  “At least the archers will take care of much of that,” Markos said quietly. “If you will excuse me, King Janir,” The Crown Prince said rising, “I have arrangements to make.”

  “Of course, Markos.”

  The Crown Prince glanced at me. “Ez’n,” he bowed slightly, “Would you perhaps walk with me?”

  I glanced over at Janir who simply quirked an eyebrow to indicate his assent.

  As we left the hearth and passed between a couple of tents Tariq materialised beside us and casually took the prince’s hand in his. Markos laid his head briefly on the archer’s chest, said something in Morlan that I did not understand and then moved on. As we passed through the camp numerous soldiers of differing ranks approached the prince in the same way and each time he would touch his head to their hearts and theirs to his and move on.

  Eventually we arrived at the small marquee that held Keelan’s body. It was a sober little structure, not all what one would expect to hold the body of a king just fallen in battle. Fashioned from a plain and unremarkable rough woven canvass, the only indication that it might hold anything at all was the solitary and very plainly clad guard.

  The man wore no scarlet or gold but sported a simple black leather harness, the traditional leather battle girdle normally so disturbingly detailed and intricate had been replaced with a plain breech and loin cloth. He sported a simple bronze gladius, dagger and a bronze bladed spear.

  “We do not care to draw attention to valuable content,” Markos said as he noted my reaction.

  I nodded and followed him inside.

  The interior of the tent was an entirely different matter.

  The walls had been hung with tapestries depicting Keelan’s battles and some of his acts as King. These I recognised from his quarters in the palace at Kalina and again some of the others he had had placed in his rooms during our sojourn at Delos.

  A long trestle table had been set up at the head of his low catafalque draped in his royal scarlet brocade and covered with his various war and hunting trophies—a very small proportion so Markos told me. He reached down and picked up a small narrow blade that almost looked like a toy—that was until he drew it from the scabbard.

  It was a crystal blade unlike anything I had seen in the hands of the legionnaires for as he drew the tiny dagger it suddenly seemed to explode and all at once he was holding a sword and full scabbard.

  “This was the weapon that gave him that wound on his leg that you cured for him. It was how his would-be assassin managed to get it past the guards. Everyone though it was jewellery, you see. And then it was too late.” He slid the sword back into its scabbard watching in grim fascination as the weapon once more became a trinket. Markos took my hand and pressed the dagger into it. “Of course, he never told you how grateful he was when you took his pain and made him whole again. It was never his way. It is a tradition that we give valued and beloved friends gifts of meaning at these times. I believe father would have like you to have this—even if it is so that you can go on making these evil men suffer for their actions.”

  I smiled at the prince. “That would, I think, be very much a Keelan thing.”

  “Very much.” The prince agreed. He turned again to the table. This time selecting a scarlet leather battle collar overlaid with solid gold chainmail. The centre of the armoured piece had a large dark blue square cut stone set in white gold. The gem was so finely cut that it looked like the night sky and when the light caught it, it glittered as if the stars themselves have bee
n imprisoned within it. “This was my grandfather’s gorgette,” Markos said. “The stone we call Star Stone for obvious reasons it is only found in very deep mines. It has a legend that says for the rightful owner no man will strike him because the stars themselves will blind him.” He tossed the collar to me with a broad grin. “Give it to Golden Boy with my love.”

  He turned a third and final time. This time selecting a couple of identical rings holding similar but less spectacular Star Stones. “These are called The Twins. They are my mother’s and father’s betrothal rings. For the pair that are causing all the trouble,” and he laughed. “I cannot think of a more fitting home, and I think father would enjoy the scandal it will cause when the generals and Zarin see them. Father always enjoyed mischief and I see no reason to change that.”

  We turned then to the king the pair of us drawing up two stools to sit by him. He had been carefully washed and cleaned. His armour was polished highly enough to rival the sun. Even in the subdued torchlight the monarch seemed to glow. His skin had been anointed with aromatic oils in which had been mixed a quantity of gold dust that caused him to give off an almost mystical glow in the warm yellow glow of the flickering torches. His head, so cruelly hacked from him had been painstakingly sewn and with his battle collar in place if one had not witnessed the beheading it would never have been detected. The Morlan mortician who had done the work was a man of remarkable skill.

  “Woman,” Markos corrected me when I commented. “It was Karyn. She and Thaze did this. I wanted it. The generals hated me letting Thaze assist, but he has a good and honourable heart and father actually liked him.”

  I gave Markos a sideways look and he grinned at me “Yes. Probably because of all the names he called you. It really made him laugh when he heard of the incident. Especially after he met you.”

  “You father is a strange and remarkable man.” I said quietly.

  “Yes. Yes he is—was. Thank you.”

  We sat in silence almost half a secta just watching the light play over Keelan’s armour and skin. I reached over and took Markos’ hand. He smiled at me and rested his head briefly on my heart. “However things go from here, Meriq, you will always have my loyalty, my friendship—and my heart.”

  My stomach did something very strange—as if had somersaulted in on itself. Markos saw the change on my face. “Oh Meriq! Did you really think your diatribe all those months ago changed anything? I was smitten by you from the first moment and that has never changed. I will take myself a wife, father children—fine, strong sons—Morgul willing. And my first I will name for you. The only man I will ever love. By the gods how I envy Dthor!” He laughed heartily at how I must have looked. “I pledge you this, t’pahq, if you ever have need call and Morla will answer.”

  Whatever I might have thought to say in response to Markos’ revelation was interrupted by a scratching sound on the rough canvass door. It was the tent guard.

  “My lord, General Korlaq advises that the enemy is almost upon us and bids you make haste.”

  Markos gave a short shrug, offering his hand and pulling me to my feet. “Time to kill.”

  By the time Markos and I had gathered ourselves and joined the vanguard the Legionnaires were halfway across the shallow valley and as the battle standards went up to ready the men to engage a ghastly savage blast of horns sounded from the south. Maegor almost jumped out of his saddle making all of us start. “What in Zoar’s name . . . .” Dthor began.

  “Those are Kendirith battle horns.” Maegor said narrowing his eyes to see if he could get a better view.

  The sound came again and again come ever closer, and it seemed at ever increasing speed.

  Then we saw them. Dogs. Massive armoured hounds baying and howling as they broke from the cover of the tall grass and surged across the veldt. We had scarcely had time to process the sight when Aarin arrived on a pony that he had purloined from one of the artisans. He jumped off the beast and ran straight to Janir and Markos with very little sense of ceremony. “Mercy Lords!” he panted breathlessly. “But you must pull the men back now. They cannot be this near. They must go back.”

  “The boy is mad,” Korlaq scoffed lashing out at Aarin with his boot.

  “Your pardon, lord, but I am not mad. Those are Kal-tzarrak—soul stealers. They are battle dogs and they will kill anything in their path. They do not know your men as friends and if your soldiers are in their way they will die.”

  Having witnessed the altercation Maegor broke ranks and cantered over to the Council. “Majesties, you had best listen to this boy. I have seen what these dogs do. They can only be stopped by killing them and that is no easy feat—even I suspect with a crystal blade. Listen to him and back the men away.”

  Korlaq stared back towards the field and the look of shock and almost horror that washed across his face was worth half the royal treasury. “By Morgul there are thousands of those brutes.

  “Each of our warriors has two.” Aarin stated, “though why my people should be here and here now I have no idea.”

  Janir gave the boy a warm smile. “That was about to be my next question.” He said. “Signal the men back.”

  As we pulled back down the rise the Black Legionnaires cheered and yelled taunts seeming not to care over much about the advance threat on their southern flank. The council and Kyr-Garrin remained on the hilltop for a while observing as a battalion of legionnaires turned south to engage the advancing Kendirith. It was at that moment that they realised the dogs had gained ground and in that moment too that they were facing an inevitable passage into the realm of death.

  The densely muscled dogs hit the soldiers in a solid wall of flesh and fang. Screams when they occurred were brief and bubbling. Limbs were torn off and tossed into the air discarded like so much refuse and the beasts did not even break stride. As the legion’s commanders came to the conclusion that there was an actual threat from their southern flank, the whole of the legion turned south.

  By now the Kendirith warriors were well within striking distance. Spears launched from throwing sticks—the niallira—so Aarin told me had an enormous range when thrown by skilled spearmen. He gave me a weak smile. “But I confess I do not know what good that will actually do—we have wooden spears.”

  “I suppose they will get in some lucky shots,” Faedron offered.

  Aarin grinned. “Romantic one, if a Kendirith aims for an exposed spot rest assured he will hit it.”

  “And that’s not wrong, “Maegor said pointing to the carnage. “I swear I just saw armour explode.”

  Orrin who had appeared suddenly in his usually silent and disturbing manner laughed. He handed me his long-eye—the device he used to view over distance. “That is because they appear to have dipped their spearheads in gold. I wonder how they knew to do that?”

  We all turned to Aarin. The boy looked genuinely shocked. “Lord Ez’n, you know I have had no contact with my people since I came into your service. I truly do not know how they know.”

  Janir and Markos sat looking stunned.

  “I simply cannot fathom how they are here and from that direction. The gorge runs right from Delos to the Sleeping Sea.” Janir shook his head in disbelief.

  “They must have come through from Delos and marched along the rim.”

  Aarin started to laugh. “They built a bridge.”

  Janir gaped. “You are telling me that your people bridged the great gorge. What with?”

  “Rope and wood probably,” Aarin said simply. “We may be a desert people but we are not without skill and sometimes to travel we need to bridge gorges—even in the desert.” Aarin glanced back at the battle. We followed his gaze.

  The kal-tzarrak had swamped over half the soldiers who were now starting to panic as they realised their deaths were one bite away. Spears continued to rain down as the Kendirith warriors advanced and their squires resupplied their weapons.

  “We would do well to pull back now,” Aarin counselled. The dogs may catch our scent and turn a
side.

  “And that would be a bad thing.” Markos stated.

  “A very bad thing,” Aarin agreed. He turned to Janir. “Majesty when my people and the dogs come you must make sure that the men do not have the blood of the enemy on them. Tell the men they must be clean. Their armour and weapons must be clean.”

  “Your dogs attack just like that?”

  “No, majesty. The dogs will only normally attack when commanded. Some, though, after battle are like men—a little blood-crazed. It takes them a little time to come back to themselves. There are sometimes accidental bites—a bite from a kal-tzarrak will crush a man’s arm.”

  Janir turned to Balten. “Send out a couple of heralds had get that seen too. I don’t want my men surviving a battle just to end up as dog food!”

  “At once father,” Balten nodded, saluted and rode off.

  Janir gave me a foreboding look. “Oh, Ez’n, I really don’t like what you’ve done to my eldest son. I preferred him belligerent and defiant.”

  “I have merely pointed out to him that any man who wishes to rule must learn to obey.”

  “I somehow doubt it was as simple as that.”

  Of course it was not that simple, but I was not about to let Janir in on my plans. The less the king knew from this moment onwards the better. At least when the time came for me to act and bring my sworn duty to an end I could be certain that the reactions of everyone involved would be genuine and, that being the case, things were less likely to go awry.

  Faedron suddenly drew a startled breath. “Listen.”

  Maegor frowned. “I do not hear anything.”

  Faedron groaned. “Exactly. You can be such an ox.”

  As one man we all turned our mounts and headed up the rise. Dthor reached down and pulled Aarin up on to his cantle. The Council and groups of curious infantry followed us up to the crest.