by Pedro Urvi
Rangulself guessed what he was thinking.
“I am aware that it is held as a merciful act, even courteous and civilized, to let the losers leave alive…” said General Rangulself with a noticeable hint of anger in his voice.
Olagson shook his big white-bear-of-the-snow-mountains body with visible unease. He watched the great city burn, the radiance which shone in the horizon tainting it orange with ever-more-bloody hues. Nothing would escape the devastating flames. Buildings crumbled before his eyes, thousands of people suffered a horrible death, either roasted by the fire or suffocated by the smoke. The Norghanian General thought that if he were able to choose, he would prefer suffocation.
“You know me well, my friend,” Rangulself went on, “You know I would never put the defeated to the sword. But these are direct orders from his Majesty, King Thoran. Our monarch wants them all dead, to the last Rogdonian who opposes the advance of our army.” He lowered his gaze to the tall grass of the hillside and kicked a small rock, which rolled downhill. “Orders are orders, my friend, you carry them out or you lose your head… particularly when they are royal orders.”
“Yes, I know… the madness of kings,” said Olagson, and spat on the ground.
Rangulself rubbed his hands restlessly, still thoughtful. He was somewhat smaller than the average Norghanian, so that even in his full-dress armor with its General insignia he looked like a child beside the gigantic Olagson. He was aware of it, but it did not bother him. He had learnt to accept his deficiencies as well as his virtues long ago. The former were physical and frowned upon by the Norghanians, and the latter which were intellectual, were even less highly-regarded among the rough men of the snow.
“Well I know our monarch’s temperamental character, as well as the risks of contradicting him,” he said with worry in his voice.
Olagson turned to him.
“It is rumored that you have fallen into disfavor with his Majesty. That is truly dangerous,” he said baldly.
Rangulself nodded.
“True, my life is in danger, comrade. I fear his Majesty might decide to do without my services in one of his rages… not only in this campaign but forever!”
Olagson snorted.
“It has to be on account of that business of the Assassin, am I right?”
“Yes, you are right. The responsibility of gathering information about who organized the murder of the Great Duke Orten, the King’s brother, was placed on my shoulders. And I failed. The King does not tolerate certain failures… as is well known at Court…”
“I rather believe you were betrayed by someone. That Assassin could not have killed all those men and escaped by himself.” Olagson said. He touched his hand to the long scar on his cheek as if it still hurt, although it had decorated his face for more than ten years.
“It’s an ugly and complicated matter which I must unravel. My life depends on it. Someone has conspired behind my back, acting in the sanctity of my own war camp, among my loyal soldiers. He has killed several of my men, and that is something I cannot and must not allow. I shall find the one who has dared affront me so, making me fall from the King’s grace and endangering my life. And when I unmask him… I shall have his eyes put out and then cut out his heart.”
“Well spoken! I assure you I had nothing to do with the matter. It is not my style. I prefer to be straightforward and put my sword through whoever it may be, or else simply trample him. It could have been that madman Odir, he is always brewing some mischief. Conspiracy is what that treacherous rat turns to most readily, and you know full well that you cannot trust him in any way. I can assure you, the conspirator will turn out to be that devious snake!”
Rangulself smiled at his friend’s vehemence.
“It is not appropriate to accuse a member of the renowned Norghanian army without any evidence, much less to accuse a General like Odir, no matter how little we like him or how vile his methods may be. Do not worry, my friend, I shall find whoever helped the Assassin escape. And when I do, blood will coat my sword.”
“If you were as good with your sword as you are with strategy and mind games, you would already be the first sword of the kingdom,” said Olagson.
Rangulself pointed at the finely-wrought sword hanging from Olagson’s waist, “We already have a General who is an expert swordsman. Better if I stick to the weapon the Gods of Ice saw fit to bless me with,” he finished, tapping his temple with his finger.
“Ah, you are so right!” said Olagson as he patted his friend’s back and began to laugh heartily.
His strength was such that Rangulself nearly fell on his face, but when he recovered his balance he too began to laugh with that great bear of the snows.
“And, tell me, my friend, how do you plan to find the traitor?” asked the Norghanian General.
Rangulself folded his hands behind his back.
“I have procured myself a worthy collaborator, with a special Gift for finding people…”
Olagson looked at him for a moment, intrigued, and at last exclaimed:” The tracker!”
“Indeed, my good friend.”
Lasgol remained hidden in the forest while the city of Drasden burnt to the skies behind him. Screams and shouts from the battle still sounded in the distance, but they were more muffled now. The Norghanian war horns filled the valley with their powerful sound and reached as far as the forest, so that flocks of birds took flight to the tops of the trees that surrounded him. The battle was won, the city had finally perished under a relentless siege by his fellow countrymen. The horns called to formation.
From his position he could see the hill where the two Generals gave their orders to their armies. He could not make them out properly, but he knew they were there. Unfortunately, they would allow the city to burn to ashes, and that saddened him. From what he knew, Drasden had been a beautiful and prosperous city, the pride of the Rogdonian counties of the East, where thousands of people enjoyed a peaceful existence which neither they nor their children or grandchildren would ever know again. That miserable war had done nothing but begin to sow pain and destruction, which would later on be reaped. Lasgol feared that the devastating consequences of this war would affect not only one but several generations of men and women.
Evil war and her atrocious aftermath… he thought with growing disgust.
But Lasgol was not there for the sake of the war, or because of it. He would not serve evil purposes, not if it was in his hand to prevent it. His mission was very different: he had to find the one he had already captured and delivered to his own people.
He had to recapture the Assassin, Yakumo.
Lasgol was there by the wish of General Rangulself himself, a very special and secret requirement. He had been called when he was already back in Norghanian territory, just about to resume his duties and obligations in the service of the King. It would have been difficult to refuse a General, but Rangulself had left him without even the choice. He had with him a royal decree which gave him the authority to use all the Forest Rangers in the service of the King. Lasgol had bitterly cursed his bad luck. There was nothing he wished for less than to hunt the Assassin again, apart from taking part in that meaningless war he had sought and failed to prevent.
Hidden among the trees, he watched his fellow countrymen retire in order from the battlefield. The whole plain beside the forest was a red-and-white sea crowned by thousands of winged helmets. The soldiers of the Thunder Army, under the red-and-white banners, formed the first lines. After them the flags of the Snow Army gave way to lines of infantry in heavy scaled armor with white breastplates. It was a glorious sight for the Norghanians: the best infantry of the continent was victorious once more. Yet Lasgol felt only sadness, a heavy sadness which gnawed at his throat and would not let him swallow.
“Something to be proud of, isn’t it?” said an unpleasant voice behind him in a barely audible murmur.
Lasgol turned slowly, aware that he would encounter Morksen’s ugly face. The veteran Ranger winked at hi
m with his good eye and grinned, showing teeth as black as his soul. The sinister one-eyed character was a living legend among the King’s Rangers. Word was that no one had ever managed to dodge him and that his hunting expeditions always ended with the prey at his feet. It was also known that on practically all occasions that prey never returned alive. Lasgol knew that as a man-hunter, the expert tracker was as unscrupulous as he was skilled.
“Yes… a great victory,” Lasgol admitted in a whisper.
Morksen came to his side and Lasgol looked at him with concern, he was middle-aged, nimble and very strong, ugly as a bulldog and one-eyed. But what really worried Lasgol was the intelligence behind that one black eye, and especially his lack of scruples. It was well-known in the whole realm that “One-Eye” Morksen would sell his own mother for a handful of coins, and some even claimed he would for less. But he was legendary as a capturer of men, and King Thoran personally entrusted him with certain delicate jobs. That was telling enough in itself, and worried Lasgol no end.
“Shall we go on, my lord tracker?” Morksen said in a voice filled with sarcasm, inviting Lasgol to appreciate him in all his crooked malice.
Lasgol looked at him, trying to hide the frustration and rage he felt in his stomach. Morksen was there to help him in the pursuit and capture of the Assassin, General Rangulself had told him so. But that was only a part of that unpleasant human worm’s mission. He was on to something else, and Lasgol could feel it. It gave him chills every time he chanced to look at that ugly face. He did not know what the man was hiding, but he was convinced that his own life was in danger. Morksen’s mere presence made the hair rise on the back of his neck.
“To the West,” Lasgol said, ignoring the other’s comment.
“As the expert Ranger commands,” he replied in his insidious tone as he grinned maliciously. “After all you’re the boss…”
That much was true. Rangulself had established it clearly, which had surprised Lasgol. But if he had been surprised, Morksen had been furious. After all, he was his senior and had more decorations than Lasgol. Therefore “One-Eye” took every opportunity to remind him of the slight he felt he had suffered.
Lasgol motioned him to follow, and they began to crawl through the underbrush, trying to minimize the noise as they made their way through ferns, roots and brambles. They had already crossed half the forest when Lasgol stopped. Both Rangers crouched simultaneously, like a man and his shadow, blending with the thick foliage. Lasgol looked through the brush, searching for what had alarmed him.
And he found it.
Armed men, Rogdonians, making their way through the forest.
He looked more closely from his hiding place and saw at least two hundred soldiers in blue and silver, with behind them more than a thousand of what he guessed were refugees from Drasden. They were the survivors of the siege, carrying with them their scant belongings as they fled. Lasgol thought they would be hungry and exhausted, and must have gone through true hell. There were wounded people dragging themselves along or walking, supported by friends or family. They were trying to escape from the enemy army by sheltering in the forest.
New sounds, this time metallic ones, reached Lasgol’s ears from the East, and he turned his head slowly. A line of men stretched across the whole width of the forest. Winged helmets, round wooden shields and scaled armor filled the horizon under the trees.
Our soldiers beating the forest in search of survivors… he thought, shaking his head.
The Rogdonians also realized the situation and urged their own people forward to try and get out into the open before they were caught by the endless line of soldiers. It did not bode well for the fugitives, for if they did not manage to hurry, no Rogdonian would survive. The two Rangers remained in hiding under the thick vegetation of the underbrush. The situation unfolding before their eyes did not concern them.
The fugitives, with difficulty, managed to reach the edge of the forest. The Rogdonian soldiers formed at their rear so that the enemy soldiers at the front could not reach them. The wounded were carried or dragged. The Norghanians advanced faster, crushing everything under their boots. They already had the fugitives in sight, which made them keep on with the prospect of catching their prey.
A voice rose from the forest.
“Charge, men of the Snow, let none escape!”
Lasgol recognized the voice of the Norghanian officer: it was Captain Jonansen. At his command the line broke and the thousand men began to chase the fugitives like a pack of white wolves after wounded deer. The end was close. The soldiers ran like fiends, yelling and howling in anticipation of the bloody outcome.
The refugees came out onto the plain that opened to the West, running as fast as they were able. Tall grass covered the plain like a sea of jade that swayed in the afternoon breeze. Soon blood would turn it red. A dozen men ran past Lasgol, never noticing him or Morksen. The fugitives finally stopped, exhausted, on a small rise in the plain. There they would make their last stand and die. The two hundred armed men formed a circle around the wounded and waited for the attack.
A thousand Norghanians ran out of the forest yelling like madmen, driving fear into the fugitives’ hearts. Lasgol got to his feet slowly. He did not wish to witness the carnage, but as if he were hypnotized, he was unable to take his eyes off the scene that was about to unfold.
Suddenly, a loud tremor ran through the plain. Lasgol felt it under his feet even inside the forest, and it made him start. He turned to Morksen, who by the look on his face had also felt it. The tremor grew steadily, strong and sustained. And Lasgol finally understood.
“Retreat, Jonansen! Call the retreat!” he shouted in warning as he ran towards the last trees before the plain.
From the south, behind a steep hill on the plain, appeared half a thousand mounted lancers.
“Retreat, Jonansen! Enemy cavalry!” Lasgol shouted again at the top of his voice. But it was too late.
Almost at the same time that the Norghanians attacked the fugitives, the Rogdonian cavalry came to the rescue.
Jonansen saw the Lancers at the last moment and shouted: “Shield wall! Make a shield wall!”
The Norghanian soldiers planted their feet firmly on the ground, flexed their knees, and joined elbow with elbow and shoulder with shoulder behind their shields, making a solid wall which protected each man and the one to his right. This shield wall was the elite defensive formation of the infantry. The soldiers waited and prayed to their Ice Gods for a safe delivery.
“Hold it! Do not break the formation!” Jonansen shouted a second before the brutal crash.
Lasgol was speechless, his eyes wide. In full gallop and with the entire weight of the charge behind it, the Rogdonian cavalry hit the enemy infantry. The Lancers penetrated the barrier, spearing their enemies seeking protection behind their shield-wall. In the clash between men and warhorses, the men were thrown in the air like broken puppets. The Lancers, with absolute mastery, breached the shield wall at a number of points carrying death at the tip of their spears from atop their great war-mounts. The survivors of the initial impact tried to fight back the Lancers by surrounding each rider with several men to prevent a new charge. But the Lancers were perfectly trained. At an order from their commander, they spurred their horses and left the field at once.
“Reform the shield wall!” shouted Jonansen again.
The Norghanian infantry might have lost a third of its men, but they hastened to stand elbow to elbow and shield to shield once more.
Once the Lancers had ridden far enough, they re-grouped, turned their horses and prepared to charge for the second time. They galloped towards their enemies in a wedge-formation which left no opening.
“Hold!” Jonansen shouted.
Silence reigned over the plain for the briefest and most intense of moments.
The rumble of horses’ hooves filled it next.
The new attack was even more overwhelming than the first. The Lancers crushed the defensive wall, throwing the men i
n the air, stepping on the fallen as the deadly spears went through enemy bodies.
The fugitives, seeing their opportunity, ran downhill to join in the scuffle.
Jonansen fought fiercely but fell under the Rogdonian swords with the last of his men.
“For Norghana!” he cried before dying.
Lasgol hid behind a fir tree as he watched the scene unfolding on the plain. They had all perished. Not one Norghanian was left standing. Their bodies lay scattered around, staining the green plain with their blood: good soldiers from his homeland, every one of them dead, all in what seemed to Lasgol to have been a mere few moments.
Once again… the horror of war… he thought bitterly, shaking his head.
A discordant whisper at his ear made him start.
“I found the tracks of the Assassin, he’s heading south-west. Let’s get on with our mission, this doesn’t concern us.”
Lasgol turned to face Morksen and said:
“You’re right, it doesn’t concern us, although it should… But you’re right, let’s go after the Assassin.”
The two Rangers disappeared among the vegetation as if they had been spirits of the forest, while the Rogdonians fled to safety carrying their wounded.
They went west, towards Rilentor.
Two walk one Destiny
Komir was drying himself in the sun, watching the lovely Healer out of the corner of his eye as she came into sight beyond the tall bushes. The water had been cool and his muscles and skin were taut. The warmth of the sun filtering through the thick surrounding woods relaxed him and brought on another pleasant feeling. Or perhaps it was Aliana’s presence…
“Forgive me, Komir, I didn’t intend to spy on you…” she began, apologetic and a little embarrassed. “I was searching for some medicinal herbs for Kendas… I hadn’t realized you were in the pond…”
“Forget it, Aliana. I know you weren’t spying on me. It was just a joke,” Komir said with a wide smile.
She blushed and her pale skin glowed. Komir understood the reason. “I didn’t know it was you… I didn’t recognize you…” she said.