A Cruel Tale

by Alex Sapegin

  The sound of horns announced that the waiting was over. The lords, under fire from the chuckers, launched an attack. The ten stirred with anticipation. While Andy pumped arrows with mana, the soldiers prayed to their gods: Olaf stroked his sword and remembered Odin. The mercenaries covered themselves with a sacred circle. Ulg asked Hel for a light afterlife. People were preparing to meet death, but their willingness did not mean that they would go to slaughter without a fight. They were going to win, and if they had to give up their lives for victory, so be it, but for their lives, they would try to take as many enemy lives as possible.

  Andy handed out the quivers, threw a curtain of invisibility over his warriors and assigned them to the various rooftops free from the lords’ archers. He’d just sent ten good people to their deaths; he had no great doubts that that was their fate. Without recharging, the curtains would last three or four minutes max. But this was the price he paid for trying on the role of the commander: being responsible for life and death. Not to say he didn’t love the role of commander—he did. He didn’t feel any prick of conscience or regrets at doing what was necessary to achieve victory. An icy calm came over him, and assurance that he was doing everything right. Even more people would die from what he was planning to do here—like the coastal lords’ militias, as well as peaceful residents living near the arsenal who hadn’t left their homes. Andy concentrated and went into a trance, a virtual valve opened wide, letting the astral energy flow freely….

  He waved his left hand to signal “open fire.” Closing his eyes, Andy counted the seconds between the sonorous clicks of the bowstrings against the leather gloves and the bone shields on the archers’ wrists and the explosions in the ranks of the besiegers. The sound of the cannonade merged into one continuous rumble. While the enemies were still in shock at the unexpected attack from their rear, his archers jumped from roof to roof and sent arrows flying one after another. Someone took an unfortunate jump and got caught right in a flash of fire shooting up from below like a fountain. Thousands of bricks flew from the buildings in all directions, maiming and killing the rebel soldiers. Tiles and lumber from between the buildings’ floors fell on their heads.

  The half-bloods’ commanders wouldn’t be commanders if they didn’t have the ability to make quick decisions. When they saw where the arrows were coming from, they gave the command to their archers to put down the attackers, but their soldiers had already taken the initiative and opened fire, to the destruction of their opponents. Andy came out of his trance and saw Ulg take two arrows: one to the stomach and one to the neck. As he fell, the southerner tore his quiver off himself and struck the roof tiles with it. A new sheaf of fire turned the small two-story building into smoking ruins. Over twenty people fell to the ground from the fragments that flew in all directions. One of the hired men climbed to a roof that was very close to the carts with the chargers for the chuckers, then took an arrow to the back. He dropped his bow and tumbled from the roof to the pavement. Andy went blind for a second. He went deaf for a lot longer. The soldiers who were standing next to the carts and the residents of the nearby houses died instantly, vaporized. The shockwave threw Andy to the ground, painfully flattening him against the pavement stones. He hadn’t expected such a result, even in his most optimistic speculations. Two powerful blasts of fire sent two more of his men to Hel’s judgment, swept from the roofs by the same shockwave. Fragments of bricks and shingles drummed over the building and along the pavement. The chargers had gone off with a bang. The enemy mages divided their strength and stopped attacking the fortress. Now it was more important to cover their men from the intensified shelling from the walls of the arsenal and dangers from the direction of the city. They regrouped and answered with a blow to the remaining archers using every magical weapon they had. Freaks! You should have divided your ranks—at least someone would have been left alive that way. It’s so awesome that there’s not a single warrior among you. They wouldn’t have let you crowd into one tight group. You’ll pay dearly for your habit of collective, mutual efforts. In the chaos that reigned, no one noticed a lone silhouette creeping amongst the street littered with corpses and wounded people.

  The “rain of fire” was a pretty name for a multi-component spell based on a mix of the elements of Fire, Earth, and Air. It was a complex interweave, which Andy had studied for five days and spent an hour tracing outlines on the ground, recalling the order and arrangement of the runes. He decided not to retrieve the book from his “pocket.” In order to destroy the mages, he considered a variety of options. But after asking the Viking sorcerer who had sat on the roof during the first storm about the tactics used by the self-indulgent guild members, he decided on that one. If everything went according to plan, as it was so far, he was guaranteed to make those mages meet their maker. That way he wouldn’t have to chase them around the whole city. He spit, crossed his fingers and knocked himself on the forehead in superstition. Let’s hope this works!

  Standing up to his full height, he pumped the runes of the magical interweave he’d created on the roof with energy, and pronounced the activation key in his head. The walls of the nearest buildings instantly became steaming hot and broke into tiny pieces, which then melted into fiery puddles. A hurricane gust of burning wind caught the molten rock with red-hot stones and threw it at Lord Worx’s militia. Three dozen mages put up a dome-shield by their collective effort which deflected the splinters, hurling at them at the speed of bullets. But the red-hot lava that covered the dome slowly but surely broke down their defense. The mages could not deactivate the dome; otherwise, the lava would fall on them. Their own dome prevented them from cooling the lava. They had only one choice left—keep the defensive dome up until the rock cooled. The fire shells continued to thresh the warriors who were screaming in pain and remained without magical protection. The trap had worked. Andy smiled, not noticing that his mouth filled with sharp teeth, and slapped his palms on the ground. The pavement was ripped open with “earth knives” springing up from underneath it. The dome collapsed, burying the remaining magicians. Everything took about a minute and a half. A fireball flew up into the sky and exploded in a greenish color. The gates of the arsenal opened, releasing the bloodthirsty Norsemen….

  Kion, the capital of the kingdom of Tantre. Citadel…

  His Highness Gil II, Gil the Soft Spoken, set down his mug of a strong, invigorating beverage called invigohol, looked at the panoramic map hanging on the wall, and counted the cities highlighted in red. The lords, elvish half-bloods, and other traitors had swung widely. The head of the Secret Chancellery, Drang, the Duke of Ruma, followed the king’s gaze and went to retrieve His Highness’ mug. He’d finished his own beverage a while ago already and was incredibly thirsty. Gil joked:

  “Drang, I’m looking at you and I’m thinking, am I as much of a red-eyed pig as you, or worse?”

  “Worse, Your Highness. The bags under your red eyes speak of incessant drunkenness and a failing liver,” Drang joked back and suddenly started coughing and choking on a leaf from the drink.

  General Olmar approached the head of the secret service and patted him on the back.

  “I never thought I would save the life of a nark greedy enough to drink from the king’s cup,” the military man mumbled. He shared the eye color and bags of His Highness and the head of the Secret Chancellery on his tired, unshaven face. “Don’t you think it’s time?”

  “Not yet, Olmar. Let them have their fun a bit. I want all the worms to come out of the woodwork. Drang’s gone to such lengths to make sure the revolt broke out now, when it’s quite convenient for us, and not when our most reviled ‘woody’ friends were planning on inciting it. My double in Mesaniya’s living the high life, sipping wine, congratulating the newlyweds, and I’m stuck here in the citadel basement chugging hot grog. When will they tell him… er, me about the revolt?”

  “Already have,” Drang answered. “The mages are building a portal to quickly get Your Highness back to Tantre.”

&nb
sp; “I hope this dolt doesn’t blurt out anything superfluous. I want to give those Woodies a really special going away present.”

  “Don’t fret, Your Highness. Garad is with him, our brilliant chancellor. He’ll make sure you can nail the wood elves once and for all.”

  His Highness’ first advisor, the Archmage of Tantre, Sator teg grall Vidur, walked into the room. He looked just like the three sitting there already. Could have been their brother. Sator threw a leather folder on the table and dropped into a padded armchair in exhaustion.

  “The latest reports. In all cities where revolt broke out, just riots and plundering. Drang, are you sure your people aren’t going a little overboard in acting out the elves’ atrocities?”

  “It’s fine,” the main knight of the cloak and dagger waved his hand dismissively. “They were very diligent in spreading the rumors about the nasty Rauu, and spoke very poorly,” here he glanced at the king, “of His Majesty the king. Hmm, yes… now people will speak quite flatteringly of the long-ears.”

  “What subjects I have!” the king waved his hands. “They create rebellions behind my back, and I support them in this with all my strength, while my principal conspirator is swiping my precious invigohol. The only thing that makes me happy is that the Woodies and the Pat Imperialists weren’t expecting such antics on the part of their proteges. How are things shaping up at the borders?” he asked General Olmar.

  “We’re screening off the entire length of the border from the portal building. The Woodies and the Patskoi Imperialists[5] won’t have time to send their forces through. Our game threw them off capitally. The army has been put on high alert. They’re ready to move at any moment.”

  “What’s the latest news from the cities?” Gil stared at the mage.

  “All is finished in Orten. The Vikings, under the leadership of Rector Etran, are finishing off the last conspirators and Free Mages’ Guild bosses who joined them. In the School of Magic, the senior students defeated the treacherous punishing mages. The rector commanded her people from within her prison cell. Can you imagine—the safest place to be. I hope Etran won’t hold it against us that she was sent behind bars.”

  “Just so you know, she’s the one who suggested this approach,” the king said. “Moving on.”

  “In Ortag the combat is over. A third of the city has been burned.” General Olmar whistled.

  “When did they manage that, and more importantly, how? The fun began just eight hours ago. The army was brought into the summer camp, the arsenal was plundered, and the magical toys, except for one warehouse, were replaced with dummies. There aren’t enough mages in the whole city to accomplish that.”

  “My agent did not report the details, but nothing is left of Lord Worx’s militia. The half-bloods and mages have also been completely wiped out.”

  The king stood up behind the table and poked the mage and head of the Secret Chancellery with his accusative finger.

  “Call your agents in Ortag this instant and order them into action. I want a fully detailed report on this table in an hour. Next.”

  “My mages have pinpointed several attempts to build portals in the outlying territories. The builders were not able to puncture through the screen. The Woodies are getting worried.”

  “Let them worry. It’s a little late to get alarmed now. During the uproar, my people captured all the Forest’s agents. Those they could not take alive, they killed.” Drang stood up. “We’re having a discussion with the surviving ones. We need misinformation agents.”

  “Exactly. If the Rauu hadn’t presented us with information on the negotiations taking place between the Lordships and the Emperor, we would have kept swallowing the misinformation they were feeding us on ‘tense relations between the Patskoi Empire and the Forest’ for a long time. The Forest and the Empire have come to an agreement on joint military action against Tantre, and you, Drang, were not even aware of the negotiations! How is it possible? Pray to the Twins that the lords and the guild renegades have fallen for our ruse, and the long-ears have goofed up concerning the source of the rumors. I understand you beat them on their own territory, but I will not forgive any more failures such as with the negotiations! We should all thank the One God and the Twins that the Emperor hasn’t marched his legions to our borders, and our screens have blocked the zone of near access to the mountains, while the Woodies are fending off the raid of the ‘greenies’ in the northern groves and failed to quickly deal with the situation. I know that this raid has cost us a pretty penny. I signed the papers myself. But that won’t console me. We’ve come to the point where we’re artificially concocting a situation where the discontent elements are revolting. If all were well, our enemies would have done the same thing there, in their lands! We know nothing of the Arians’ goals, what’s motivating them, and when they’ll strike. What is there to talk about if we didn’t even know that Miduel, the High Prince of the Rauu, was hauled up in the School archives, and a were-dragon were conducting his studies at the School. How many are there? Whose side will they be on in the coming conflict, and how powerful are they? We’re blind in our decisions and conclusions.” The king walked along in front of the huge map with wide steps. His eyes shone with anger. “We almost blundered the conspiracy in the Free Mages’ Guild, and only Rector Etran’s announcement opened some eyes. Targ, this state is preparing for the worst war in history, and it might be destroyed by a handful of dissatisfied and power-hungry mongrels. The Icicles will aid us in keeping the scum in check. What do you say, gentlemen? How are you? Having a great time?” Gil sighed and stopped. The red light blinking on the map at Orten turned into a constant green light, meaning the city was now under the complete control of the royal forces. “General Olmar.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty!” the general jumped up and stood at attention.

  “Listen to my command. March the regiments out of the summer camp and crush the mongrels. I order you to decimate all the lords of the coastal region right down to their roots, by any means. Level their castles to the ground; they don’t serve any defensive purpose anyway. I don’t want my descendants to have to quell their uprisings, as my grandfather did, my great-grandfather too, and now I, in turn, have to deal with them. Drang….”

  “Yes, Your Highness!”

  “As much as you can, work with the Philistines. You can stop mitigating the filth you spread regarding the Forest. In the newspapers, reveal the negotiations with the Patskoi Empire. Tomorrow, or rather, later today, I will declare Penkur.”

  Part two, Northern Winds.

  The Northern Sea. Red Island. Lurdberg…

  A Northern wind chased heavy, low-lying clouds across the sky. Ragged clouds poured out a horrid drizzle, their pregnant, moisture-filled bodies clinging to the hilltops. A fog rose up over the sea and covered the entrance to the White Fjord.

  Tyrnuv hiked up to the height of the mountains and looked down. Dozens of vessels were anchored near the steep vertical walls of the Fjord. The white blanket of fog periodically revealed the masts of another ten ships headed to Lurdberg harbor.

  Strong gusts of Severan, the cold Northern wind, beat a gap in the continuous cloudy veil, and the bright rays of the sun lit up the coast, forced the mist to turn pink, and uncovered the unsightly picture of the neighboring island. Tyrnuv turned away. Billows of smoke were rising over Oskolock, as if the god of the soil had awoken and made the mountains spit fire and ash. A thick black cloud was rising over Berngrold, the city of the “gray” coastal-dwelling orcs, located on the neighboring island. If he squinted, he could make out the handmade volcanoes on the other side of the island. The orcs had burned their cities. Special teams poisoned the rivers and wells.

  “Tyrnuv, what’s up? You look like you are frozen to the spot.” A broad-shouldered Norseman joined the orc on the mountaintop.

  “I’m saying my goodbyes, Harald. I never thought I would burn my house down with my own hands.”

  “A Viking’s home is his drekkar,” the Norseman disagreed.r />
  “A drekkar should have a harbor waiting for it,” Tyrnuv responded and sat down on a big flat boulder. Harald sat down next to him, his ax resting on his knees.

  “Maybe you’re right, but don’t forget that a wife should be waiting in a Viking’s harbor. How is Brunhilde?”

  “Still can’t get over the fact that your sister married me?” the orc elbowed the Norseman.

  “Come on, you’re better than many men as far as I’m concerned,” Harald looked at the orc from under his bushy eyebrows and stroked his beard. “Brunhilde didn’t want to come back. What did she have going on here to keep her? And you already had your drekkar then. You didn’t chain her up. You sent the ransom and compensation according to all the rules. You’re only an orc by name. Your granddaddy was a Norseman, and granny a half-blood Dawn-bringer and orc, your mom too has roots in the Lynx clan. Those fangs aren’t so orcish now, are they?” The Norseman laughed. Tyrnuv tilted his head to the side in agreement. Orcs had boarded his grandfather’s snekkja, knocked him senseless, tied him up, and tossed him underfoot. A strong storm broke out on the way back, and they set the Norseman at an oar. When they arrived in the orc city, they freed him, and the granddad didn’t want to go back. He collected a team of dare-devils, took the drekkar from the captain who’d captured him (they agreed to split the spoils fifty-fifty), and headed out to sea. A year later, the granddad owned five ships and commanded three hundred gray (and not so gray) Vikings. “But how then did you get here?”

  “Underwater. With straws. We froze our buttocks off, but we cut the snekkja’s anchor lines and led those merchant ships off during the night. We hurled black lily bulbs at the guards to make sure they didn’t wake up. Who would have known your sister would be on board, or that I’d end up with her, and sorry, but I ain’t givin’ her back. It’d be a shame to miss out on a wife like that. Good times! We used to get after each other somethin’ else…!”