The Black Imelin stepped lightly across the freshly fallen snow, practically walking on air in his passing. What amounted to a near permanent scowl was affixed to his face. One severe enough to keep most away. All knew, save perhaps the darklings in their savage, primitive thought processes, the source of his vehemence. What they didn’t know was how he failed to understand how so small a band was capable of stealing the Staff of Life and eluding his pursuit at every turn.
Detaching from his thoughts, he turned to see Barathis heading his way. The young soldier, once pure and almost innocent in his approach to life, was now a bloodied warrior, sworn to the Black. Imelin needed more like that, if his vision of tomorrow was to become reality.
“Ah, Barathis. Good news, I trust?” A lie. A false hope that matters were improving.
Barathis shook his head. “They have beaten the northern detachment and burned the bridge. The grohl we deployed was killed by the giant with two swords.”
“Enemy casualties?”
“A hundred at most. Certainly not enough, considering the amount we sustained.” Disappointment collided with frustration, blending into a most foul mixture.
To his surprise, Imelin waved a nonchalant hand. “A hundred here, a thousand there. Each man we kill is one less to face when open conflict is joined. Worry not over our losses. They are insignificant compared to the size of the army the darklings bring.”
“What of the hundreds killed by the Staff bearer?” Barathis asked. Bittersweet thoughts of revenge clouded his judgment.
Imelin chose to keep his old hatreds tucked away. “Let me handle him. Barathis, summon Gulnick Baach and Duoth N’nclogbar. There are issues requiring my personal attention before I can focus on the Staff bearer.”
He left at once, forgetting what he’d planned on saying. The Black clasped hands behind his back and watched his chosen successor, should Barathis prove worthy, go about his task. A chill went down his back. Not even the magic of a wizard was enough to keep the cold away. He regretted, for an instant only, the timing of his offensive, but the dreams had been most adamant. And it proved they were correct, for the young lordling Aron Kryte was already proving a worthy opponent.
Stalking like a spider across the snow, Imelin parted the heavy wool curtains of his command tent. Fashioned similarly to his comforts back in Meisthelm, before he destroyed them, of course, he found peace of mind in the almost Spartan conditions. Odd, considering how traumatic his life had become. A small fire burned in the middle, providing just enough warmth to keep his mind off the deepening winter. Taking a seat on the one crudely constructed chair, he leaned back and closed his eyes.
The obscene scent of a darkling creeping into the tent not soon after stirred him. Although expected, the darkling’s stealthy ability caught him slightly off guard. Snarling, Imelin said, “The promises made under the Drehenzia at Mount Dominion are not being fulfilled. Please tell me why.”
Duoth snapped his jaws shut. Ropes of saliva flew. “We do what is asked, black wizard.”
“Are the mighty hordes of Duoth N’nclogbar so afraid of a tiny band of men, that after a three day chase they fail to kill a single one? More importantly, fail to secure the Staff? Perhaps I’ve chosen poorly in your race, darkling.”
Normally ice colored eyes flared hot red, as if the pits of the underworld burned in his soul. Steam rose from the squat darkling in response. Both knew that any confrontations would get them nowhere, save dead.
“We kill humans and get staff,” Duoth snarled.
Imelin laughed, a terrible howl sweeping across his armies far and wide. “You’d better. Fail me and I will personally remove every last one of your foul kind from the face of the world. Destruction so fierce, you can only dream.”
He paused when Gulnick Baach stepped in. From the look on his haggard face, he’d been listening outside. “Do join us, General.”
“I feel as if I already have,” Gulnick said, caution lacing his tone.
No surprises there. Imelin had noticed that Gulnick was steadily declining in his will and ability to perform to standard. His attitude worsened and he was drifting. Something was going to be done before too long.
Imelin wet his lips, staring thoughtfully at his chosen companions. “Events have forced me to change my plans for the coming campaign. These,” he paused, “foolish little people have stolen the Staff and bear a strange power I failed to anticipate. An all-out offensive against Galdea will accomplish nothing aside from unsubstantiated deaths. The Staff will disappear and it might take years before we find it again.
“Tomorrow night, under the cover of darkness, half of the army will strike south at the point where the twin rivers meet. There they will cross into Trimlon. Duoth, you will lead. I want you to link up with Denes Dron and his Rovers. Dron will then assume command of the entire army.”
Duoth, to his credit, stormed from the tent without a sound.
“I don’t know why you tolerate those worms,” Gulnick sighed, once they were alone. “He’ll turn on you the first chance he gets.”
“And you, my dear general? What will you do when I give control of the northern army over to you?”
The Black’s eyes regained their natural color.
“I will do my job,” Gulnick replied, with a hint of insult.
“I wonder,” Imelin mused, while warming his hands over the tender flames. “I leave tonight, to go south and meet with Dron. If this new plan is to succeed, the Rovers must be in place with their objectives secured on time. Our numbers, combined with the Rover army, are vast enough that those fools in the Twins won’t notice how many are actually missing.”
“Is that wise? The Staff is here.”
“I shouldn’t be gone for more than a day. You need to be at the river bank and in position to begin the assault upon my return. Take control of the army, you’ll have the rest of the men from Meisthelm to maintain order. Break the Galdeans, Gulnick.”
Gulnick accepted his charge. His face was passive, emotionless, despite the enormity of what he was being asked. “Just like the wars in Aragoth.”
Imelin gave a cruel smile in remembrance of the bitter string of battles between Dal Toran and the Hierarchy’s ultimate victory at Krim Salat. Thousands of men, and women, too, died for dreams never realized. It was there, in the ashes of conflict, that Imelin discovered the potential in his magic and was awakened to his true path.
The general left him. Imelin didn’t notice.
EIGHT
Ambushed
Less than two days ride from their current location stood the ominous Grimstone Mountains. A vast expanse of rugged foothills lay at their base, barely visible through the midafternoon haze. Sylin had never seen a more majestic or impressive range. Not even the Mountains of the Fang, legendary roost of dragons, compared. Only the stain surrounding Suroc Tol were said to be more oppressive.
He’d found himself deep in thought about minor factors of life. Until now, he hadn’t realized how many simple pleasures missed or tender moments not shared the life of a councilman endured. Time, he mused, the one thing there was so little of. Ironic and tragic at once.
Gul Killingstone eased beside the westerner. “He’s back there again. I can’t say how far, but he’s definitely one of them.”
Camden Hern kept riding, though his gaze shifted to the taciturn dwarf. “Anyone with him?”
The dwarf shook his head. “Hard to say. I’d guess no, but he’s too far back. A clever one, this fellow. I think he’ll catch up to us once we make the foothills. We can either kill him or lose him, your call.”
“I could kill him now. Won’t take but a half a day to circle around,” Camden said.
“No. I’ve got a better idea,” Sylin snapped.
Mutual plans of murder were abandoned, as both men were willing to hear what the diplomat had in mind.
“Dremmin Giles is worried over the imminent goblin invasion. We have the enemy on our trail already. If we can draw him and whatever force he co
mmands into the mountains, we might delay a major piece of the goblin force,” Sylin theorized.
“We need to scout the area ahead. Unless we know exactly how many are hunting us, we could well be killed for our efforts,” Camden said.
“Precisely the reason you shouldn’t double back. I’ll not have another unnecessary death on my conscience.” Not while I can avoid it.
Gul said, “He talks sense, but precautions are needed. I have no desire to awaken to a slit throat because we failed to take into account this watcher might not be alone.”
“There are no goblins from here to the mountains,” Garin added. “Those behind us are not goblin either.”
“Oo Ynlon,” Camden confirmed with disgust.
Sylin offered his best political face. “We cannot be sure. They may only be a scouting party. We are faced with too many uncertainties.”
Disapproving, Camden snarled. “You can be sure of one fact. We are going to be attacked before we make it to the foot hills.”
All fell silent and continued the trek.
A freak thunderstorm rolled in from the east. Dwarves, being naturally superstitious, assumed it was the works of the gods abandoning them. Lightning hurled down from the skies to strike the daunting peaks of the Grimstones. Showers of rock and sparks cascaded down the slopes. The noise was infuriating. Horse and pony pranced nervously. It was all their riders could do to keep them under control.
Still far enough away to be physically untouched, the little band overcame their difficulties and entered a small grove of acacia trees. The rains soon followed. Wave after wave of waist high plains grass was flattened by the storm’s intensity. Even the trees seemed to bend. Garin ordered tarps strung between the trees to give them all adequate shelter from what was a worsening storm.
“I’ve not seen a storm so fierce since I was but a lad in the Drear Hills,” Garin grumbled between thunderclaps. His legs were drawn up, thick arms wrapped around his knees. Water dripped from his poncho. “Old Grim hisself stalks us this night.”
“Ill to speak of him like that,” Gul said.
“Ill or not, his grey blade is swinging tonight.”
“To reap the world as it lays before him,” Sylin whispered. All eyes fell on him, causing him to blush slightly. “It’s a poem I learned when I was young. I’ve often wondered what the whole thing meant, though I must admit it’s all becoming much clearer the older I get.”
“What’s the name of it?” Garin asked.
The sword master/statesman said, “A Mother’s Love.”
A tear slid down his face. “It’s taken me this long to fully comprehend the truth strung out in the words.”
Sylin’s thoughts drifted away from the camp to a time when life was… easier. He saw his mother standing in their kitchen. She was long dead now, but not a day went by where he failed to regret not being able to tell her how much he loved her one last time. Word of her passing reached him during a minor border war in Guerselleorn during the heat of summer. Not a council member at the time, his commanding officer reluctantly approved his leave. To this day, he didn’t know what kept him in the south. He had every right and reason to ride north and attend to her affairs of state.
She’d been alone for so long. His father passed twenty years earlier from the blood cough. An iron shod woman, his mother raised the family and provided as best she could. He was the result of that strength and was immeasurably grateful. Another blast of thunder tore him from the past. The sympathetic faces of his companions resonated in his heart.
“Go to sleep now, Sylin Marth,” Garin said gently. “Nothing is going to happen tonight.”
Even before he could manage a reply, Sylin felt the first fingers of sleeping stretching forth to claim him. The storm rumbled on.
Though the storm had passed, they moved with less speed and efficiency than before. Most of the dwarves were trackers, after a fashion and warned that their pursuit would easily take up the trail. The sheer amount of rainfall made their tracks easily discernable to even the untrained eye. Foul moods hung like palls over them as they carried forth. It was well after noon before anyone spoke.
“Not much longer,” Maric said in a vain attempt to lighten the mood. “We should make the foothills by morning. Midday at the latest.”
“Barring uninvited interruptions. What do we do when we get there? It’s either a nation of goblins to avoid or a rogue dragon. Which shall we contend with?” Sylin asked. No matter what was discussed, he maintained his reservations about the safety of their quest.
Taciturn, yet remarkably resourceful, Gul Killingstone’s coal black eyes stared hard into the darkness. The company kept no fire. No cackling flames to illuminate his position. Dwarves had been positioned around the perimeter in the hopes of discovering their pursuers in time to sound an alarm. Thus far, the night proved highly disappointing. Gul wished the Wylin, or goblins — he still wasn’t convinced of Camden’s suspicions — would make his move. He was tired of skulking about the prairie. What he needed was to swing his axe and be rewarded with a mug of warm ale. Those simple pleasures inspired him.
“Anything yet?” Garin asked, as he slid silently beside his friend.
“Nothing. It’s almost too quiet. An ill wind blows from the east. It won’t be much longer before I fall asleep or they strike.”
“I wish we knew how many. Twelve against the world isn’t exactly the sort of odds we need. We might as well be marching into Eleran.”
Gul shivered, involuntarily, at the thought of entering the heart of the goblin empire. It made as much sense as a small company of goblins charging into the Drear Hills. Only death or worse could come of it.
“I suspect they will oblige us before dawn,” Gul said.
Garin agreed, though he wished it were otherwise. “Get some sleep. I’ve got the watch.”
Never one to pass on the amenities of not being in command, Gul burrowed down into the sand-dirt mixture and pulled his cloak over his head.
Sylin awoke to the gentle shaking by Garin Stonebreaker. Sleep clogging his eyes, he was disturbed to notice he’d been the last roused. The dwarves were already armed and moving by the time he propped himself up on an elbow. Even Camden had his sword drawn.
“What’s all this?” Sylin whispered.
Camden lowered his sword. “Battle. We’re about to get hit.”
“Is there time to get out of here? If we can ride out and arou…”
“There’s no time. Here we stand and fight. Better strap on your sword and calm those nerves. The fun is about to begin.”
The dwarves drew together in a tight circle, close yet far enough apart to wield their weapons without fear of striking each other. One guarded the mounts corralled in the center, though Sylin couldn’t see the dwarf’s face, he knew it must be etched with contempt for being excluded from the battle.
Crickets and nocturnal birds sang their eerie songs, oblivious to the ministrations of those below. Sylin took it for a good sign. True enough, he’d seen limited action on the battlefield, but he did have a degree of experience in the arts of war. So long as the wildlife surrounding them continued unchecked, there was no enemy moving. Just to prove the gods had a sense of humor, the noise quieted the moment he became comfortable.
Palms began to sweat, much to his disliking. Sylin felt his throat dry, constrict. Why now, of all times? He’d never felt such before. An ill feeling crawled over his flesh. The horses snickered in fear. Sylin turned in time to see the first grey body barrel into their camp. Steel clashed with sparks and deadly screeches. Dwarf and goblin, ancient enemies from the dawn of time, parried blows, surging back and forth in a fluid circle.
Sylin overcame his issues and joined the fray. If the goblin managed to kill the dwarf holding the horses, the entire party was threatened by continuing the journey on foot. But as he did so, the entire night erupted with the clamor of pitched battle. The entire strength of goblins struck the dwarf perimeter in force. A scream was chopped short as one
of the dwarves fell with the lower half of his right leg amputated. Another swipe cut his throat.
Goblins poured in through the breech, heading directly for Sylin and the horses. A hulking goblin struck the ground not far away. The haft of Gul Killingstone’s axe jutting out. The dwarf pounced on him, tearing the blade free with a sickening crunch. The battle was much fiercer than Sylin anticipated, though he failed to notice that none of the goblins made a move against him directly. He watched as Gul was tackled by a trio of goblins. Saw Camden reel back from a cut on his upper arm and replied in kind by smashing his sword in the goblin’s mouth. Teeth and blood dribbled out before Camden took his head.
Sylin watched the beleaguered dwarf guarding the horses sag to one knee while fending off the blows of two attackers. He wasn’t going to last much longer. Sylin moved. He caught the goblins unaware, severing the sword arm of the nearest. Thankful, the dwarf utilized that to his advantage and drove his axe deep into the second goblin’s chest. Sylin finished killing the first and helped the dwarf to his feet before rushing off to another part of the fight. All the old lessons instilled by the sword masters of Dal Toran returned to him now.
The dust kicked up by bodies locked in struggle started settling. As far as Sylin could tell, the battle was over. Three dwarves were dead, killed by an enemy force over three times their number. He didn’t bother counting how many goblins lay dead. The loss of a third of his already meager force was grievous. He watched with mute silence, and no small measure of respect, as the dwarves went about the gruesome task of taking care of their dead. Personal injuries waited. Sylin found it inspiring how the dwarves changed their attitudes so thoroughly in the span of moments.
Wiping the gore from his sword, Sylin went to help his new friends.
“That was but the first attack,” Gul announced, wiping his hands free of dirt and grime.
They’d finished burying the last of the dead in time with the rising sun and moved on. The disaster of the night before was already forgotten. Hard as it was to accept the deaths of their friends, the dwarves concentrated on their objective with uncanny focus. The foothills were upon them before long.
The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2 Page 8