by John Marco
‘What was that?’ he asked. He turned to Kahldris. ‘Where are we?’
‘This place – it’s like a place I remember,’ said Kahldris. He continued walking, ignoring the Akari rider. ‘I have been watching Liiria, noticing it, how you adore it. And then tonight when you spoke to Jazana I remembered.’
‘No riddles,’ Thorin demanded. ‘Tell me what you remember.’
‘This,’ said Kahldris.
With a wave of his arm he thickened the clouds. The sun sank backward and the sky darkened. The wind retreated but the rain grew, as did the trees which pulled themselves up from the muddy earth. The world stretched in all directions, and soon the corrals and buildings were gone, replaced by foreign hills. Thorin wheeled, stunned by the enchanted world, and knew he was no longer in Koth.
‘This is one of your magics,’ he declared. ‘Take me back, Kahldris. I don’t wish to see this.’
‘I was a young man here,’ said Kahldris casually, completely ignoring Thorin’s plea. His gait was unhurried as he walked the strange world. Another of the Akari riders appeared ahead of them, but Kahldris paid the man no mind. ‘I was like the rest of them, so sure of myself. We were strong in those days. We thought we could beat anyone.’
The wind picked up again. Thorin clamped his cloak around him, unsure what he was seeing. He was used to Kahldris’s lessons, but this one’s vividness alarmed him. Ahead, he watched as a troop of riders joined the one horseman. Together they reined back their horses, pointing and shouting among themselves. Thorin looked about, wondering what they were seeing, or if they could even see him.
‘Three-hundred of us went to Maluja that day,’ Kahldris went on. ‘Three-hundred! More than enough, we thought.’ He continued walking with Thorin in tow, still oblivious to the gathering soldiers. ‘I was a minor commander in those days. Maybe I had fifty men under my command, I don’t remember.’
‘Kahldris, tell me what this is!’
‘Just walk with me, Baron Glass. Listen to my story. We had got a message from a Jadori named Dahlgen. He had built an outpost near our city Kaliatha. It was a forward position, the furthest the Jadori had pushed into our territory. But Maluja was close to our land, so we agreed to meet him there.’
Now there were dozens of Akari soldiers, not only gathered up ahead but galloping past them toward some unseen goal. Noise began to fill the field. Thorin heard shouts and the distant din of battle. He craned to see past the rain and darkness, and saw for the first time the outlines of Jadori. All around them, the glowing eyes of kreels blinked in the murk. Like a noose, the outlines took shape and converged.
‘By the Fate, speak to me, Kahldris! Tell me what this is!’
‘This is what comes of talk, Baron Glass!’ Kahldris spun to face him. ‘Look! Watch!’
The earth began to shake. The Akari riders stormed around them. The kreels came down from the hills, crashing likes waves over the unsuspecting men. With their spears and slashing sword, the Akari defended themselves from the flashing claws of kreels. Thorin stood frozen as the battle raged around them, never touching them. Kahldris grinned.
‘Closely now,’ he advised. ‘Watch.’
With nowhere to run, Thorin girded himself against the onslaught, barely able to stand. Around him the Akari warriors were falling like grass, easily cut down by the kreels and their screaming riders. The black-skinned Jadori worked their beasts effortlessly, darting under the Akari defenses and bringing up their snapping jaws. The hills around them filled with Jadori, pouring down mercilessly on the Akari. Thorin saw the faces of the men, their desperate eyes and open mouths screaming.
How long it took for the massacre to end, Thorin was unsure. The minutes stretched magically, making time intangible. One by one the Akari fell, or fled back into the hills. The bodies of them piled atop each other, until Thorin and Kahldris were knee-deep in corpses. Around them, the Jadori had stopped their attack. Amazingly, their enemies were gone, and the dark-skinned victors let their mounts pick at the bodies, stripping the meat from the bones with their reptilian tongues. It was daybreak suddenly, and the rain had stopped. The hills fell quiet as the Jadori rummaged through the dead.
‘I escaped,’ said Kahldris. ‘I don’t know how. I can’t remember.’
Thorin’s eyes darted wildly about the carnage. The conversations of the Jadori went on around him, yet they remained oblivious to the strangers in their midst. Looking down, Thorin saw a man clawing at the ground, dragging himself with his one good arm away from the battlefield. Like an insect he crawled over Thorin’s foot.
‘Fate save me,’ Thorin gasped, shaking the apparition of his boot. ‘Kahldris, I want to go. I want to go.’
A Jadori saw the crawling man. Curious, he got down from his kreel and went to him. He spoke some words Thorin could not understand, then raised his spear and put it through the man’s back, pinning him to the mud. Seeing this, Thorin cried out.
‘Get me out of here!’
Kahldris shook his head. ‘I’m not done with my story.’
‘What story? What is your point, monster?’
‘Can’t you tell?’ Kahldris seem perturbed. ‘This is Maluja, Baron Glass. The meeting place. This is what happened when we answered Dahlgen’s request to talk.’
‘All right,’ Thorin growled. ‘I understand.’
‘Do you? I wonder. You frighten me, Baron Glass. You’ve called an army to you, yet now you promise your woman to talk. But talk is not for men like us. Talk is for the weak, Baron. The losers.’
‘End this,’ Thorin commanded. ‘I have seen all I need to.’
Kahldris folded his arms across his chest, staring at Thorin. Then, with a sign he said, ‘It is over.’
And it was. A strong wind blew and wiped the world clean. They were back in Koth again, in the shadow of Lionkeep with the sun rising on the field. The corpses vanished, the hills flattened, and the Jadori ghosts returned to their realm. Thorin remained very still, listening to the rain. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone, but the clouds were parting overhead and the rain was more a drizzle now.
Kahldris was gone.
Thorin looked down at the ground where the Akari man had been. He could still feel the warmth of blood on his boot.
29
King Raxor of Reec watched in silence from the bridge as the messenger from Koth trotted out from the army. Riding a white horse and flanked by a dozen soldiers, the messenger sat tall as he approached, looking unafraid as he neared the Reecian king. Behind him, the gathering army of Baron Glass readied for the coming clash, positioned a good distance from the river yet close enough to smell their fires. It had taken nearly a week for Glass’ army to arrive, and Raxor had watched it with dread, sure that his request to talk had fallen deafly on the Baron. While his own army rested and prepared, the forces of Liiria slowly took form on the west side of the river, rumbling into place beneath the banner of Liiria.
Raxor waited and did not say a word. With him were his son and a handful of bodyguards, all of them mounted on armoured horses. Ten days had passed since Raxor had made his offer to talk, and ten days were all he had given for his offer to be considered. After so long a time, he had not expected any reply. Like the others, he had been shocked to see the riders coming toward them in the morning light. Behind them, their encampment buzzed with excitement. Old King Raxor licked his lips. He was not a man who panicked, but the sight of the arrogant rider made his courage wane.
‘Look,’ said Roland. ‘He comes with Norvans.’
Roland spoke with disgust in his voice, a sentiment shared by most of the Reecians, for although the messenger rode under the banner of Liiria, the men who accompanied him were clearly mercenaries, brought and paid for by the Norvan queen. In fact, there seemed to be very few Liirians in Glass’ army, a hodge-podge of different uniforms and colours. Though they had come at Glass’ order, Raxor could tell that the rag-tag army consisted mostly of Norvans from various regions of that fractured land, with only a sprinkli
ng of Liirian regulars among them.
‘You see, Father?’ Roland commented. ‘Baron Glass has not the love of his people. Not even the messenger rides with Liirians!’
‘He goes with those he trusts,’ said Craiglen, Raxor’s old friend. ‘You underestimate them, I think, Prince Roland.’
Roland snorted, ‘Look at them, Craiglen. They are a bunch of hoodlums, not an army.’
‘And they broke the will of Breck’s Chargers at the library,’ said Raxor angrily.
‘They’re a horde,’ said Roland.
‘They’re a plague,’ said Craiglen. ‘And only a stupid man is unafraid of plague.’
Roland smouldered at the insult. ‘But they come to talk, you see? Baron Glass plays games with us. It is brinksmanship, but I for one would rather fight.’
‘Quiet,’ Raxor rumbled, never taking his eyes off the approaching messenger. He could see the man more clearly now, a seasoned looking soldier in the distinct garb of Carlion, the Norvan capital. A scarlet cape blew from his shoulders. His silver breastplate gleamed. A dozen mercenaries rode behind him, some with bows on their backs, others with daggers lined in bandoliers across their chests. A dark-skinned man rode closest to the Norvan. Like a Ganjeese man or some other desert ilk, he wore no armour at all over his person, just a loose-fitting tunic. A jumble of black hair sprouted from his head. Raxor regarded him curiously. He knew from Aric Glass that men of every colour served Jazana Carr, made loyal by her endless wealth. He wished suddenly that Aric was with him now, but he had kept the boy far from the river so that he wouldn’t be seen, leaving him anxiously waiting in camp.
On the bridge, the Reecians waited, counting the lines of their enemy. There were three such bridges within sight of the armies, but neither side had yet to claim them, keeping safely distant so as not to provoke the battle. It surprised Raxor how cautious Baron Glass was being, and he took it as a hopeful sign. At least a thousand men had made camp in the past week, but they had not moved within half a mile of the Kryss. Nor had they brought heavy weapons with them the way Raxor had, with his siege wagons and catapults. The old man held tight to this glimmer of hope.
And yet the messenger was fast approaching, and might quickly dash the old king’s fragile hope. Raxor barely moved upon his horse, refusing to look afraid or betray the turmoil roiling inside him. When the messenger and his gang were only twenty yards away, he turned to the trusted Craiglen.
‘Roan-Si. Do you remember, Craiglen?’
As if Craiglen shared his thoughts, the soldier nodded. ‘When we fought with Akeela. I remember, my lord.’
It had been so long ago, yet Raxor remembered the day with perfect clarity. They had been allies with the Liirians then. They had met on the
bridge at Roan-Si.
‘It was before you were born,’ said Raxor to his son. ‘In better days.’
Now at last the messenger was upon them. The man in his shining breastplate raised his hand and brought his group to a halt. Raxor, who had not so many men with him, returned his steely gaze. An air of arrogance hung around the mercenaries, making Roland bristle. Raxor cleared his throat, a warning to his son.
‘My name is Thayus,’ said the messenger. ‘I serve Baron Glass, ruler of Liiria. He has received your message, King Raxor.’
‘Thayus? You are from Carlion.’
The messenger frowned. ‘Yes.’
‘Why doesn’t the Ruler of Liiria send a Liirian to deliver his message?’ Raxor asked. ‘Please help me with this mystery. I am an old man and easily confused.’
Roland laughed, but the man named Thayus had a grin more of contempt than humour.
‘Norvor and Liiria are allies now, my lord,’ said Thayus. ‘They are like a giant with two big fists.’
‘Giants are clumsy,’ said Raxor. ‘And a two-headed giant is clumsiest of all. Tell your master to be careful, good Thayus, or he may trip and hurt himself.’
‘My lord surprises me!’ Thayus chirped. ‘But you need not pretend bravery, I have good news for you. Baron Glass will speak with you.’
There was silence among the Reecians.
‘Good,’ said Raxor quickly, pretending he wasn’t stunned. ‘He made the right choice.’
‘You or your representative may come across, King Raxor, at a time of your choosing no later than sundown,’ said Thayus. ‘I am prepared to escort you now if you wish.’
‘Not now,’ said Craiglen, ‘and not the king. If we decide to talk, I will speak for Raxor.’
‘Or I will,’ said Roland quickly. ‘You may tell your master that the King of Reec will not step lightly into a snare. You will have your answer by sunfall.’
Thayus, clearly a man of breeding, inclined his head politely. ‘I will tell Baron Glass your wishes,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else you require?’
‘We will bring men with us for safety,’ said Roland. ‘If they are turned away there will be no talk.’
‘Of course,’ said Thayus with a nod.
‘Return to your master, Norvan,’ said Raxor. ‘By sundown you will know our minds in full.’
Thayus thanked Raxor, and for a moment the contempt fled from his eyes. He was playing a part, Raxor knew, but this man who carried Glass’ messages was more than he seemed. Unafraid, surely, but not because of arrogance. It was clear that Thayus had been a soldier for a very long time.
Raxor waited on the bridge until the man from Carlion had turned his men around and began trotting back toward their camp. Roland began to speak, but the king snapped at him to hold his tongue.
‘Not now,’ he said. ‘I won’t sit here talking in the wind.’
When he was satisfied that Thayus and his men were far enough away, King Raxor turned his own horse about and headed back toward camp.
Aric Glass had been waiting impatiently near Raxor’s pavilion for the king to return. At Raxor’s orders he had remained behind, far out of sight of any Liirians or Norvans who might come to the bridge. He had been given a cot in a tent not far from Raxor’s, bedding down with soldiers who were among Raxor’s personal bodyguards. Just as they were charged with protecting the king himself, the soldiers had been given orders to see that no harm befell Aric, and that he did not wander away. He was, in a sense, still a prisoner of the Reecians, though he was treated more like a guest by the kindly old king. In the days since he had arrived in the Reecian camp, neither Raxor nor his underlings spent any time interrogating him, and the threat to send him to their infamous interrogator had ebbed. A tenuous trust had taken hold between Aric and the king, and Aric appreciated it. More, he worried now for the good man’s safety.
As Raxor spoke to Roland and the others, Aric watched and listened carefully. The invitation to the meeting had surprised him, though he was glad for it and planned to offer any guidance he could. Besides Raxor’s son, the stone-faced Craiglen was there as well, sitting to the king’s left. Other men of rank – about half a dozen of them – had come too, listening as Raxor explained what had happened at the bridge. It was barely past daybreak and many of the Reecians still had sleep in their eyes. Most, like Aric, sat cross-legged on the ground, arranged in a semi-circle around the king, who, like Roland, had a proper chair for himself. A slobbering mastiff sat between Raxor and Roland, snuffling with disinterest as Raxor told his story. It was not much of a tale, and was over quickly. When he was done with its telling, Raxor sat back and scratched the head of his pet, waiting for advice.
‘You have to go,’ said one of the men, a young looking lieutenant whom Aric had seen in camp many times.
‘He can’t go, Jakane,’ said Roland flatly. ‘He’s the king.’
‘But he has to talk, see what the baron is offering,’ said Craiglen. ‘Though I agree, my lord, that it can’t be you. Send me. I will speak for you.’
‘No, Craiglen, I’m going,’ Roland insisted. ‘And don’t argue, Father. I’ve made up my mind.’
Surprisingly, Raxor did not argue with his son. He barely even acknowledged him.
/> ‘This is no more than we asked for,’ said the king. ‘And more than I expected, frankly. If Baron Glass is willing to talk, then we must talk. But I won’t go myself because that is what he wants, to preen and puff around me like a rooster.’
‘He’s not expecting you, my lord,’ said Jakane. ‘He can’t be. He would never expect you to accept his terms. The meeting is on his side of the Kryss.’
‘It has to be somewhere,’ said Roland. ‘I’m not afraid to go.’
Raxor grimaced at his son’s bravado. He turned to Aric. ‘What say you, boy? Is it a trick? Or is your father sincere?’
‘I don’t know, my lord,’ answered Aric honestly. ‘But he’s not afraid of you, that I can promise. I don’t know why he’s agreed to talk, but it’s not because of fear.’
‘Something else?’ Raxor probed.
Aric nodded. ‘It must be.’
‘A trap?’ Craiglen suggested.
‘He has no reason to trap us,’ said Raxor. ‘Aric Glass?’
‘No, I agree,’ said Aric. ‘If my father is willing to talk, there’s a reason.’ He shrugged. ‘But why I can’t say.’
‘He didn’t bring his army here to talk,’ said Roland. The prince looked at each of the men seriously. ‘He could have talked from Koth, sent his messenger to us days ago. No, he wants this battle. He wants the Kryss.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Jakane, and was quickly echoed by some others.
‘We’re talking in circles,’ said Raxor with a sigh. He looked exhausted suddenly. ‘If he’s spoiling for a fight, we’re ready. We won’t give back the Kryss, and he needs to know that. That’s what we’re going to tell him.’
‘Who, then?’ Roland asked. ‘Let it be me, Father.’
Raxor hesitated. ‘Roland, we need tact now.’
Roland looked offended. ‘Tact? We need to face the storm, Father. We need to show the Black Baron our resolve.’
‘You need to make him listen,’ said Aric. All eyes turned to him. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. There’s only one person in this camp that my father will really listen to, my lord.’