“Drim is too small to hide for long. What is your secondary destination?” Dlorn asked.
“The mountain stronghold of Hyrast.”
“You go east rather than south?”
Aron said, “The Black will have all roads south watched, expecting us to head directly for Meisthelm. Why would he suspect we’d go elsewhere first?”
“What becomes of us?” Lestrin asked. Playing bait for the monster sat ill with him.
“Galdea needs to be cleansed and the ways to Suroc Tol closed again,” Andolus interrupted.
The Galdean war lords were pleased with the admission.
“When do we kill that traitorous bastard across the river?” Lestrin asked.
Gulnick Baach awoke refreshed and ready for the next phase of the war. Word had come down that the bulk of the army was due to arrive soon and at full strength, he could unleash nightmares unchecked upon the enemy across the river. Any elation was cut short by an inexplicable sense of defeat. He set out to find the commander of the night operations and discover the truth behind his malaise.
Darklings barely looked up as he passed. They’d gone into battle knowing that their mission was to decoy and harass, but the memories of the night burned harshly. Most glared through the morning mists at an enemy they couldn’t see. Gulnick ignored them. His march was one of imperviousness. Those in his line of march scurried away. He was, after all, a man and no man was to be trusted.
Duoth N’nclogbar and a young mercenary named Hurst sat beside the dying embers of a fire. Their glares were mutually hateful. Both blamed the other for the cruel results of the ill-fated assault. Questionable at best, Gulnick had quickly come to learn that they were both cut from the same cloth. Both would sell their souls for the right price and neither was trustworthy enough to place any value in. Gulnick figured out what had happened before either said a word.
Crouching down beside what remained of the fire, Gulnick asked, “What happened last night, Hurst?”
The one eyed mercenary continued staring at the embers. “Armored mounts. Don’t care how strong a unit is. Dismounts will break under a couple thousand heavy horse.”
“How many casualties?”
Hurst shook his head bitterly. “Almost all. No way of telling for sure. Had ‘em on the run for a good spell. When the horse come in, we got swept under worst defeat I’ve ever been part of. What’s next for the mighty general?”
Taking the sarcasm with a grain of salt, Gulnick took in the cinereous skies. Snow came down in trickles. A sudden urge to strike both Hurst and Duoth down overcame him, though better judgment stayed his hand.
“We do the same thing. Hammer into them again and again until they break. We still outnumber them substantially. When the main army arrives, we’ll only need attack once. Break them, Hurst. Keep them exhausted to the point where they can’t raise a sword.”
“And the casualties?” Hurst snapped. “We keep losing like we did and they’ll soon have the numbers. All-out blitz. That’s what we need ta do.”
“I have my orders. Now you do as well.”
Hurst wasn’t satisfied. “I bet you do.”
Gulnick stormed off, doing his best to ignore what would have been a crime punishable by death in the Hierarchy. The words, however, had already done their damage. He was tired of being a puppet. Tired of doing what everyone else wanted. And most of all, he was tired of this pointless war. None of it was going to bring his son back.
TWELVE
Best Laid Plans
Day turned to night and there was no sign of another darkling attack. The defenders of the Twins, now referred to as the Crimson Fields by those fortunate enough to survive, wondered if they were stronger, better equipped than the darkling army. Any wonderment was hampered by the sense of exhaustion spread through the ranks. Motivation and momentum hung precariously. Too many of the reserves had been used already, leaving Dlorn in a poor position. Worse, men began to doubt the strength in their hearts.
Long Shadow stalked through the steadily demoralizing ranks of Galdeans. His presence raised hopes and returned small measures of pride. He watched groups of men shift nervously as he walked by. Some retained their inner fire, he could see it lingering in their eyes, just waiting for the opportunity to burst free. These men he collected and beckoned them follow.
Andolus and Daril Perryman were about the same business in different parts of the camp. Once each appropriated the proper amount, they returned to the command area. Long Shadow was already there, waiting with his twenty volunteers. The soldiers greeted each other while settling in to wait. None knew why they were called, especially out of thirty thousand, but the hundred men knew they’d been called for a higher task.
Field Marshal Dlorn emerged, dressed in a stained tunic and trousers. To the soldiers, he appeared less of the heroic figure he posed in armor. That didn’t make him less intimidating. They jumped to their feet. He bade them relax, knowing this was no time for formality. He took time to look into each man’s eyes, judging them for his own reasons.
At last he spoke. “Men, I know you’re wondering why you stand before me this night. You have all been chosen for various reasons by these three men for what is most likely a fatal mission.”
Aron stepped before them. Like Dlorn, he too was dressed in simple clothes.
“Tonight we are going into the enemy camp to kill the rogue general, Gulnick Baach. The darkling army is highly dangerous with a man guiding them. Cut off the head and they’ll splinter. None of you have to go. The mission proceeds with or without you. We are beyond the point of worrying over life or death. Should we fail tonight, the army will be down on its last legs and in no condition to fight the Black Imelin when he arrives. Those of you who wish to, leave in an hour.”
Aron, arms folded across his chest, looked at them and said, “Those who are coming, follow me. My Golden Warriors will ensure you are properly equipped.”
Dlorn returned to his tent to recheck the maps and schemes. Confidence and doubt collided just outside. To his surprise, Aron reported that all but sixteen of those chosen agreed to go. A makeshift rope bridge was being constructed as the Golden Warriors outfitted the Galdeans. There would be no armor. No excessive weight to slow them. If captured, they were assured a painful, hideous death.
“Is there hope?” Dlorn asked once Aron entered the tent. He ran a tired hand through his thinning hair.
“So long as there is life, hope remains,” Aron replied. Satisfied nothing else needed doing, he bade farewell and retired to his tent.
Karin was waiting for him with tear streaked face. “I don’t want you to go.”
He stroked her hair. “I must. We won’t be safe until the Staff is destroyed. What I do tonight is for the future. I want to grow old with you, Karin. Have children and live in a quiet part of the world. Being around you has changed me more than I ever dreamed. I… I love you.”
She kissed him deeply, relishing the feel of his tender embrace and the warmth of his passion. Putting a finger to her lips, the Golden Warrior slipped into the night. There was much to be done and limited time. The heavy folds of the tent flap rushed together, allowing only the slightest hints of winter to brush against her cool flesh.
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
Cold wind fluttered across the knoll in the middle of the Galdean camp. Eighty-four men were clustered together. Faces and hands were painted with charcoal. Each tensed with anticipation. Short swords and daggers were strapped around waist and thigh. They stood silent, listening to Dlorn send them off.
“I thank you all for what you are about to do. It is not for me, or Commander Kryte. This is for your families, your homes, and the lives you hope to live. Fight for the future. I shall see you upon your return.” Dlorn saluted and watched as they filed away.
Daril Perryman had insisted on accompanying Aron. Together, they led the file through the unnaturally silent camp. Men rose and saluted the valiant few. Some raised swords. Others smashed their
fists to their chests. It was still hours before the mid of night, giving the raiders enough time to sneak across the river.
They sped through the camp and struck north to where they intended to cross. Long Shadow met them on the bank. Wrapping the end of the rope bridge around his waist, he waded into the water and crossed. Aron clenched his fists in worry. The entire plan hinged on moving with speed and secrecy. A plan that threatened to unravel if Long Shadow didn’t make it to the opposite shore. Time dragged impossibly slowly until the rope went taut.
“Let’s go,” Aron hissed and eased into the frigid waters.
The monotonous moan of rushing waters concealed their movements while simultaneously keeping their enemies concealed. Aron, Andolus, and Perryman were the first to cross. They’d come expecting a fight, but Long Shadow had already swept the perimeter clear. A small pile of bodies, still steaming as they cooled, lay heaped beneath the boughs of a pine. The numbers of men across swelled, though painfully slowly, since only one man at a time could cross the bridge.
Aron watched as a young soldier, a boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, slipped and fell into the waters. Perryman lunged for the bridge but Long Shadow stopped him. Together they watched, helpless, as the first casualty was carried to the river bottom. Perryman continued to struggle until the boy disappeared from sight. Brooding, he turned away and tried to focus on the task at hand. The price of victory rose yet higher. One less, the commando force moved out.
They moved in a tight wedge, with Aron and Long Shadow at the point, stalking across the frozen landscape with murderous intent. No one smiled or joked the way soldiers tended to do when matters grew extreme. The only emotion was revenge. There was a level of foolishness associated with what they were about. After all, how could a unit of less than a hundred storm through enemy picket lines, an entire sleeping army, and kill the commanding officer? Bards and drunken tavern patrons the world over would praise their deeds for decades to come, should they prove successful.
The outer picket line was caught unaware and dealt with brutal efficiency. It was only the rush of footsteps that alerted the second darkling line a fraction of a moment before they were overwhelmed. Aron exhaled through his nose. The eerie orange glow of enemy fires lit the sky like a witch’s Sabbath. The darkling bivouac lay before them. Old Grim himself took a seat atop the nearest mountaintop and watched the scene develop, his icy gaze penetrating the commandos.
Aron stepped into the glow, at once holding his breath and resisting the urge to tremble. All it would take was one inadvertent darkling to stumble upon them. Not even Long Shadow was enough to beat back tens of thousands of darklings. Knowing hesitation was akin to instant death, he hurried through the camp and resisted the urge to strike down those sleeping monsters in passing.
Finding Gulnick Baach’s tent wasn’t difficult at all. The massive structure jutted up from the middle of camp in stark contrast to the awkwardly sleeping darklings. Aron headed directly for it. Fetid odors assaulted his senses. Slowly decaying bodies lent an obnoxious taint to the night. Cannibalistic by nature, the darklings took to eating their dead. It was a carnival-like travesty of life without bounds.
A darkling stirred, rising in front of Aron, even as the slender blade speared down to sever the spinal cord. Andolus sidestepped the corpse and ducked behind a tree to see if any others were rising. Intermittent trees and shrubs provided natural camouflage. Soon enough, he and the others were within striking distance of the command tent. The elf almost found the ease of passage disappointing. The ring of armed guards, men this time, changed that opinion.
A stationary guard was posted at each tent corner. Others roved in opposite directions. This was to be expected due to Baach’s importance. Soft light pulsed through the tiny holes and tears in the fabric. Aron crouched down behind a urine soaked bush and waited. Soldiers formed up behind and around him. Perryman was in favor of a quick, immediate strike. Doing so would accomplish nothing given the amount of open ground they needed to cover just to get to the tent.
Andolus, sticking to the plan, unslung his bow and took aim. From where he stood, he had three of the four guards in sight. Using uncanny speed and efficiency, he killed all three before the first fell dead. Aron, Long Shadow, and Perryman rushed forward to slay those sleeping around the nearest fire. The fourth guard popped out from the last corner and opened his mouth to cry out. An arrow pierced his throat. He toppled face first into the flames, ropes of blood splashing across the snows.
Long Shadow struck down the roving guards, opening the way for Aron to slip inside. Instead of catching Gulnick by surprise, they found the rogue general seated behind a brace of candles, facing them. A queer look marked his face.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he told them. “Please, come in and close the door. It’s frightfully cold outside tonight.”
Aron paused, sword leveled at his opponent’s face. He would never know what made him comply. Taking the proffered seat, Aron eyed Gulnick as one does when playing kings, always careful to make a move for fear of what the other would do. The old general drank from a mug of steaming mulled wine. The aroma was enticing, reminding them all of better times.
“This is quite good. Would you care for some?” he asked.
“How did you know we were coming?” Aron demanded. His nerves danced with the thought of having walked, blindly, into a trap.
Gulnick sighed. “Some things in life are inevitable, young Kryte. Did you know that I knew your father? It was a very long time ago, when I was much like you are now. Wide-eyed and ready to tackle the world.”
Perryman snarled. “Kill him and be done with it. This is too great a risk.”
“Indeed it is. Especially when I can do more good for you alive than dead,” Gulnick seconded.
Aron unexpectedly lowered his sword. He wanted to hear what Gulnick had to say.
“I thought as much,” Gulnick chided. “I left the Hierarchy with the intentions of tearing them down as they did me. I was tossed aside like a broken toy. I wanted to crush them for their pompous ignorance. Imelin offered hope, promise, at least in the beginning. But I have seen things over the past few months that no living man ever should. I can’t sleep, and these darklings should be cleansed from the world, rather than be embraced by it.
“Imelin is much stronger than you can possibly imagine. He will not stop until the Staff and the world are his. Even now, he sends half the army south into Valadon. Meisthelm will soon be under siege. They cannot hope to last long. Conn is off somewhere in Guerselleorn with the bulk of the army. You waste your time staying here to die.”
He took another drink. Crimson stained his thin lips.
“He’s playing you against each other. The old nightmares of Sadith Oom have been recreated. There he builds his keep, the heart of his fledgling empire. He will arrive soon, you know? What hope will you have then? I know now that I’ve been wrong, so very wrong about it all. I will do what I can to aid your efforts by righting some of the wrongs I committed.”
“Why should we trust a traitor?” Perryman pressed. “My men are dead because of you. My king is dead. Why should I let you live an instant longer?”
“If you kill me now, you lose all contact with the enemy. I can hold Imelin back, turn things around and foul this army up enough that they become ineffective. It is much too late for me to return with you. When I die, it will be as a traitor. I am prepared for that. I give you my word, as a soldier, that I will do everything within my power to aid you, but know that when Imelin arrives, there will be all out war. You cannot hope to stand against that tide. Use what I have given you. Save Meisthelm from the doom he’s chosen. I think you should leave now.”
Aron motioned the others out. He was conflicted. A part, a very small part, wanted to believe Gulnick, while the rest wanted nothing more than to strike his head from his shoulders. Reason won out. He was fighting a war, not a battle.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, halfway through the door
.
“For the same reasons you are. One more thing, you do understand that I must summon the guards?” Gulnick said.
“Of course,” Aron said. “I expect as much, perhaps even a knife in the back on my way out the door.”
He left before Gulnick could reply and praying he was wrong about the knife. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was doing the right thing. His mind was clouded. Too many possibilities suddenly opened, leaving him mired in confusion. Collecting a heavy cloak, he hurried back to the others. They were almost clear when the alarm was raised. The darkling army groggily awoke to raw chaos.
Aron ran as fast as the terrain allowed. Hundreds of darklings milled about. He’d already killed two. His companions were responsible for many more. His heart thumped hard. His vision blurred as sweat dripped into his eyes. The snarl-hiss of approaching darklings propelled him faster. They were almost at the edge of camp when a large body of darklings spotted them and gave chase. Aron was the last to break into the open fields. He ran for dear life, knowing the bridge crossing was going to prove their undoing unless he found a way to delay the enemy. Long Shadow spun and laid into the darklings as if in answer to Aron’s concerns.
Andolus and a dozen others were already across by the time Aron arrived. The rest were impatiently waiting their turn. Knowing time was now his foe, he directed a score to turn and stand against the darklings. They quickly formed the line and waited. The darklings swarmed at them. On cue, three hundred elven archers popped up from concealment on the far river bank and opened fire. Arrows riddled the enemy, sometimes striking two or three to a darkling. They gave the commandos the necessary time to escape.
Aron did a head count and was dismayed to find nineteen had fallen during the retreat to the river, making twenty out of the initial eighty-four. A hard toll to pay, and they weren’t clear yet. Long Shadow clamped down on his shoulder, the signal the big man was crossing. Aron was alone against an army of hatred. The elves had exhausted their supply of arrows, leaving a small wall of darkling bodies blocking the river. His thrown dagger plunged into a darkling’s chest and Aron clambered onto the rope bridge.
The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2 Page 12