by Pedro Urvi
“The open area begins right ahead. The hermitage is in the center,” whispered the first scout.
“Shall we go?” Gerart asked uncertainly. The darkness prevented him seeing the hermitage, although he did see part of the flat land around it opening before them.
“We’ll have to check the perimeter first, your Highness. There may be an enemy watchman or a patrol near the area. Wait for our signal.”
Gerart nodded, and both scouts left at once. The first one went westwards, following the edge of the forest, and the second went eastwards. Both of them at a crouch, hiding under the trees. Neither set foot on the open area of land. Gerart and his Royal Swords waited, tense and alert. After a long moment a Royal Owl called three times from the opposite side of the forest.
“That’s the signal. We must move on.”
Gerart signaled to his men to enter the open area. As fast as they could, crouching and with the utmost caution, they crossed it and reached the old stone hermitage. They waited with their backs to the walls of the small building in silence, away from prying eyes. All of a sudden the two scouts appeared at his side. Gerart’s stomach gave a lurch.
“There’s no danger, Sire. Go inside,” whispered the one nearest him.
They followed him into the hermitage. It was a simple building, plain and with space for only twenty people, as was the tradition for these buildings of the Order of Light. The priests would come to these rustic chapels about once a month, attracting the nearby residents of the areas without a village. There were many scattered farms whose dwellers made a living from the mountains and woods, which because of the war were now deserted. The Nocean army commanded the southern region of Rogdon, and most of the people who lived there had gone north long ago.
Gerart walked into the hermitage through the main door. He followed the two scouts between the lines of benches till he reached the pulpit. An enormous but plain symbol of Light, carved out of wood, hung on the wall. Gerart looked at it for a moment: a star of thirty points in shining white set inside a circle of the same color against a black background. When he looked closer, he realized the black background was nothing more than a dark cloth fastened to the stone wall. An enormous stone chest, with prayers and blessings chiseled on it, rested below the symbol of Light. The two door panels were shut behind Gerart’s back, leaving the place in complete darkness. Four small windows, two on each side wall, would normally have let in some light, but that night was so black that none passed through them.
“Have the torches at the ready, but don’t light them until I give the order,” said the Prince of Rogdon. Blindly, Gerart followed the wall with his hands until he reached the black cloth hanging behind the great symbol.
“Quickly, lift me up,” he said. The two scouts by his side followed his order. Gerart ran his fingers over the cold, rough stone under the cloth until he came to the center of the great symbol. Come on, come on, it has to be here. Abbot Dian confirmed it. The Order of Light has kept the secret for centuries, and it’s never been revealed, but it’s here and I must find it.
He heard a loud crack under the pressure of his hand and his heart filled with joy. He jumped down to watch in astonishment as the slab which covered the massive stone chest sank, revealing a narrow passage under it. “Blessed be the Light and the blessed priests who protect it!” cried Gerart to himself.
“Scouts, watch the entrance. The enemy must not find this secret passage.”
“At your command, your Highness. We’ll protect it with our lives.”
Gerart nodded. Without wasting another moment, he went into the chest, then down the passage to a tunnel dug under the forest. The dozen Royal Swords followed suit.
“Torches!” he cried, and his men, at the ready, lit two torches.
The tunnel was wider than Gerart had imagined. That was good news, and some of the restlessness that gnawed at his guts disappeared. In the light of the torches the tunnel looked like that of a mine and had been built and reinforced in the same way. Dampness seeped through the earthen walls. Judging by the state it was in, it was clear that no human had set foot in that passage in many years.
“Let’s go,” he said to his men, and they all moved on quickly down the dark, abandoned tunnel. It took them several hours to get to the position Gerart wanted to reach.
“Move on silently now,” he whispered, putting his finger to his lips. “We’re right under the first wall, the outer one.”
Before Gerart rose the granite foundations of the first wall which had fallen into enemy hands weeks ago. Gerart went on to a metallic door with black bars set into the rock wall. He stared at the intricately wrought-iron lock and shook his head. They could not break through that iron door. Luckily, he had counted on that. He took two huge keys from a pouch at his belt. The biggest keys he had ever seen. Abbot Dian had given them to him, together with the map of the secret passage. “King’s Escape” he had called it. The priests of the Order of Light kept very valuable secrets, on his return he would have a chat or two with the good Abbot of Ocorum.
They went on underground. Above them rose the foundations of the great city: neighborhoods, streets and plazas. They crossed it quickly to reach the second and inner wall, where his brave countrymen were still resisting the siege. Gerart opened the second wrought-iron door and went on to the Duke’s castle. They reached the rock wall where the tunnel ended. Gerart stared at the wall by the light of the torches, in puzzlement. He had not expected this. Abbot Dian had not warned him of this particular obstacle. He grabbed a torch and ran it along the wall, but there was nothing to be seen. Upset and angry, he pulled his hood back, and in so doing his eyes went unconsciously to the ceiling. There was a trap door there, covered with dirt and mold.
“The entrance to the castle!”
Together with two of his Royal Swords, Gerart pulled the ring on the trapdoor, and it gave with a fearful squeal. They went up some stone steps to a heavy marble slab. It took several of his men to lift it.
They found themselves inside the castle chapel.
They got to their feet, coming out of one of the Duke’s family tombs.
Gerart looked around. With great surprise he found himself confronted with twenty Rogdonian soldiers, who were staring at him with disbelief.
A dear friend led them.
“Welcome to Silanda, your Highness,” said Mirkos the Scholar, stretching his arms with a wide smile.
From the top of the inner wall, Gerart looked at the lights above the besieged city. Even on that night, with neither the moon nor stars as witnesses, he could make out the devastation and ruin which the Noceans had wreaked upon the once-prosperous and beautiful city, the jewel of the south, the southern capital of the Kingdom of Rogdon. Thousands of fires, torches and oil lamps illuminated the destruction.
And during those terrible moments in which his soul bled for his people, he found his thoughts turning to what his heart yearned for: his beloved Aliana. He had lost her somewhere in Usik territory, but with his whole being he refused to accept that she was no longer alive, in the same way that he refused to accept that this war was lost for Rogdon.
No! We’ll come out of this trap, we’ll come out victorious. Against wind and sea we shall win. They day of Victory shall arrive with Aliana at my side, sharing that glorious moment with me.
Dawn arrived while Gerart still struggled with feelings that threatened to flood him like torrential rain. With the first rays of the sun the view of horror became clearer, and his heart shrank with pain. Hundreds of buildings had been destroyed, whole portions of the city razed to the ground. Several of the most emblematic neighborhoods had been completely demolished, those of the arts, the merchants’ quarter, the district of craftsmen. The Nocean army had taken up its position in the rubble of the once flourishing city, far enough to remain out of reach of Rogdonian arrows, yet close enough for the last defenders to feel the constant threat and pressure of the enemy. The invaders had made a giant pile out of the bodies of the fallen from
both sides and had placed it well in sight of the defenders. The putrid stench of the bodies reached the wall on the southern breeze.
“It’s heart-breaking, isn’t it?” commented Mirkos sadly from beside Gerart.
“All this death and destruction… it is horrible…” said the Prince.
“It’s the price innocents pay for the excessive greed of Kings, my young Prince. Never forget these images, keep them in your memory. One day you will be King, and the decision to avoid atrocities like this will be in your hands.”
“You needn’t worry, dear friend. However long my life might be, I shall never forget what our kingdom, our people, are suffering in this vile war. I know my father has done all he could to prevent it, and I would have done no less.”
Mirkos smiled and stroke his long white beard. But the smile lasted only an instant. His face shadowed.
“We’ve been under siege for months. Day after day they punish us, either with catapults and ballistae from a distance or by attacking the walls with the help of their Sorcerers. The Curses Magic is wreaking havoc among our people, even though I do my best to stop it from reaching the walls and the Duke’s castle. Day after day, good old Dolbar defends the wall masterfully. It’s to him we owe the fact that Silanda still holds fast. Without his unequaled expertise at the head of the defense, the city would have fallen a long time ago,” Mirkos indicated Duke Galen’s younger brother, who was watching the enemy.
Dolbar bowed his head at the great Mage’s words and sighed heavily.
“Every day we have more losses here on the walls, while the Noceans destroy and plunder some new part of the city. Soon we shan’t have enough men to defend the whole wall… and on that day it will fall, and soon after it the Duke’s castle, our last redoubt. Not even Mirkos’s powerful magic will be able to stop them for much longer.”
“How many men do we have?” asked Gerart.
“Something over four thousand… that can still fight,” replied Dolbar. “Another thousand wounded and sick, two hundred more beyond hope waiting in pain for the hour of their death.”
“We’ll hold fast. This old sack of bones guarantees that we’ll hold. Magic is strong in me. We’ll go on fighting for Rogdon.”
“Your magic is very powerful, Mirkos, but finite,” said Dolbar. His voice was grave.
“True, my intelligent, skillful friend, unfortunately very true…”
“I’ve seen all I needed,” said Gerart. “Now it’s time to pay my respects to your brother, Duke Galen. I guess he’ll be at the Castle. Could you take me to him?”
A silence, cold as a February morning, fell over the three men.
“My brother… is badly wounded. He was hit a few days ago defending the center of the wall. I asked him a thousand times not to take part in the battle, since his life is vital for the safety of the city. But you know him. He was born to lead his men, and there was no way I could dissuade him.”
“I am deeply sorry,” said Gerart. He put his hand on Dolbar’s shoulder. “Take me to him, quickly.”
When he walked into the rich chamber Gerart stopped and bowed his head. Duke Galen was lying on his bed, dying. It was so evident that Gerart did not even ask. The chest wound had been dressed, but it was bloodied. It had been impossible to suture the great gash completely.
The Master Surgeon gave a slight bow when he saw them come in. The doctor himself looked like a corpse, a creature overcome with exhaustion.
“I have given him juice of poppy and flower-of-dreams. You have a few moments before he falls asleep.”
“How long?” his brother asked in a whisper.
The surgeon bowed his head.
“He won’t see another dawn. I’m terribly sorry, there’s nothing more I can do. He’s a great man, my sorrow is deep, I mourn with the family.”
“Thanks, Master Surgeon. I am well aware of your regard and I appreciate everything you have done for him in the last moments of his suffering.”
With a small bow to Prince Gerart and Dolbar, the surgeon left the chamber.
“Brother, wake up, Prince Gerart has graced us with his presence,” whispered Dolbar in his brother’s ear, trying to bring him out of his comatose state.
“His Highness… the Prince?” he said. “Here? Help me dress… I must receive him appropriately.” Feverishly, he tried to rise.
“There’s no need, brother, lie in peace.” Dolbar said. “I took charge of his welcome myself. Relax and rest.”
“Good… good… that’s good, brother…”
Gerart came to the bed. He remembered the Duke well: a charismatic man with a strength of character as great as his loyalty to the Crown. The man he now looked upon was but the shadow of what he had once been and it saddened Gerart’s soul.
“My father, King Solin, conveys his regards to you and wishes me to inform you that for your masterly defense of the city during these months you are to be granted the highest honors of the Kingdom. You have contained the invasion of the Nocean army, allowing the King to regroup his forces so as to face both attacks. With your leadership, courage and tenacity, you have gained us crucial time for the King, and because of that the Crown is grateful for your loyalty and commitment.”
“I… only… followed his… orders…”
“You have done more than that, and you know it well, my friend,” said Mirkos.
“My father wishes you to be decorated for your undeniable courage and loyalty.”
“It is… an honor.”
“A well-deserved one,” said Mirkos.
Duke Galen raised himself in his bed. Staring in front of him, eyes wide, he cried: “The Prince, here! He’ll certainly have brought reinforcements with him. We’re saved!”
Gerart gazed at him, moved.
“Reinforcements will arrive soon, Duke Galen,” said the Prince, softening his voice.
“Reinforcements… Solin sends reinforcements… the city will be saved…” muttered the Duke. He slumped back onto the bed and Dolbar tucked him in lovingly. The Duke fell into a dreamlike state, eyes open, mumbling incoherent words. Soon afterwards he fell asleep.
The three men left the chamber and went to the great hall.
Mirkos smoothed out the folds of his silver robe with its black trimming and passed his hands over the jet-black tower embroidered on his chest. He looked up at the lofty domed ceiling.
“A great man…” he said. His voice was unsteady.
“What now, my Prince?” asked Dolbar. His face showed signs of his deep sorrow.
“Now we carry out our plan.”
The evening sun gilded the wide area in front of the city of Silanda’s outer wall. Sumal looked up at the powerful granite structure. Flags and banners rippled in the south wind above the door and each of the towers. The flag of the Nocean Empire, a shining golden sun on a black background, marked the conquered domain.
Sumal could not help feeling pride at the sight of his banner rippling over the outer wall of the enemy city. All we have to do now is conquer the second wall and the city will be ours. A matter of pride for the Empire, a show of Nocean power. And afterwards the whole of southern Rogdon will fall. We’ll strengthen our position and then head north until we reach the capital, Rilentor, conquering every inch of the territory to the greater glory of our Emperor Malotas. This humble spy will make sure of the plans to guarantee this, and then will see the black and gold banners wave all over Rilentor. The experienced Nocean spy smiled in anticipation.
A group of soldiers on patrol passed by him and headed towards the east. There was a constant watch, which extended along several leagues in all directions. The city was completely surrounded, like an island of rock in the middle of a Nocean sea. It was only to the north, in the first woods beyond the city, that they had encountered some Rogdonian incursions.
Sumal looked around him. He was surrounded by the Nocean army which was stationed there. Thousands of blue and black tents extended from the conquered walls to the south. The banners and pavilions that
announced the Nocean legions filled Sumal’s heart with satisfaction. The power of the men from the desert was incontestable. There was frantic activity in the camp as they prepared for a new assault. The soldiers readied their weapons and equipment while they began to put their armor on. The whips lashed ceaselessly, compelling the hundreds of slaves who accompanied the army to carry out a variety of tasks for their masters.
He identified the luxurious Command tent that belonged to Mulko, Regent of the North of the Nocean Empire, and headed towards it. The leader of that glorious army had requested his presence.
“My lord…” said Sumal, bowing low before Mulko.
His lord was presiding, seated on massive gold and silver cushions, surrounded by silks and a cloud of exotic perfumes. The tent was huge and magnificent. On his head the Regent wore a red turban with pearls. His magnificent red silk tunic was richly embroidered in gold on chest and sleeves, and his gold slippers were as luxurious as the rest of his attire. Sumal thought the whole array must have cost as much as the yearly pay of an entire infantry battalion. The Regent was being entertained by six exotic dancers so beautiful that they took the spy’s breath away.
Sumal stared at them while he waited for his lord to call him. With their scant clothing of transparent silks, which sought to cover their charms but still left little to the imagination, they were a sight to captivate any man. The sensuality of their movements as they danced, and their sinuous bodies, awoke something in the spy which he quickly suffocated as best he could.
“Sumal, my deft spy. Come in, there’s a great deal for us to talk about,” the Regent of the North invited him with a gesture. “You, out, fast!” he said to the dancers in a tone which suggested that he was bored by them.
“Thank you my lord, you honor me…”
“Come, we were waiting for you.”
“Great Master…” he said, repeating his bow before Zecly, who was sitting at the Regent’s right. He had not seen him before because of the dancers. The spymaster, counselor and very powerful Sorcerer smiled at him and touched his chest with his hands in greeting.