by Kal Spriggs
She just hoped that Earl Joris and his allies would hold the line.
“That's all,” Katarina said. “Everyone get what rest you can. Tomorrow we finish this.”
***
Sergeant Ivarsky
North Hills Tower, Duchy of Masov
Twenty-Eighth, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Sergeant Ivarsky looked up as he heard a thump and a clatter from the roof of the tower. “Damn you, Olaf, I told you if you fell asleep on watch again, I'd have your ass!”
Ivarsky would much rather be back at Longhaven. He and his squad had the duty to watch the coastline here and to take reports of Armen sightings from the fishermen and traders who worked the coastline. Not that the Armen would come yet. They would still be digging themselves out of snow. Armen wouldn't be seen this far south for another month, maybe more.
“Olaf!” Sergeant Ivarsky shouted again. When his sentry didn't respond. Ivarsky growled to himself and stomped over to the stairs. “Every damned time they send this idiot with me. Useless moron. I swear his father must be his mother's brother, the stupid, inbred...”
He trailed off as he drew near the trap door and saw blood dripping down through the edge. “Olaf?”
There was no way that Olaf was still alive, not with that much blood. Ivarsky drew his blade, just as he heard shouts break out downstairs. He looked over the railing and saw a swarm of Armen rush through the door at the base of the tower. Ivarsky's eyes widened as the rest of his squad struggled to draw weapons, but the northmen were among them too quickly. The other five men from Ivarsky's squad were dead before they could put up any kind of fight.
I'm dead too, Ivarsky thought. The thought chilled him to the bone. It was only a matter of time before the Armen down below came up the stairs. Then they'd kill him, too.
Ivarsky's gaze went upwards to the trap door. There was a signal fire there that he could light. If he did, with the height of North Hills Tower, they'd be able to see the warning at Northwatch. Ivarsky was dead, but he had time to save the lives of those the Armen would otherwise kill.
He didn't hesitate, he rushed up the last steps and threw the trapdoor open. Ivarsky grinned as he saw an Armen warrior look up in surprise. Ivarsky rushed him and then drove his shoulder into his enemy. The Armen didn't have time to even give a shout as Ivarsky hit him and sent him tumbling over the edge.
The eerie thing was, the Armen didn't scream the whole way down.
Ivarsky didn't pause to think about it. He grabbed Olaf's lit lantern and rushed towards the signal pyre. He drew it back to throw, certain that the lantern would shatter amongst the dry wood and ignite the pyre.
“Now, now,” a soft voice hissed, “that's hardly sporting.”
Ivarsky's entire body froze. He couldn't move, couldn't even breath.
A cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows. Ivarsky got a glimpse of a pale face under the hood, lit by the reflected light of Aoria. “I'll commend your dedication, but I can't have you passing along the warning. Still, such hard work should be rewarded.”
There was a popping noise and the lantern shattered in Ivarsky's hand. Burning oil ran down his arm and Ivarsky fought the force that held him to scream. As the fire gnawed at his skin and ignited his hair, his mind madly battered at the force that held him.
“See?” the cloaked man said with a smile, “you did light a fire. Not one they'll see... but it was a valiant effort. Here, let me help put you out.”
The cloaked man released him and Ivarsky drew breath to scream, but he only managed to suck fire into his lungs. The weasing, wet rasp that he forced out was horrible... and the agony of the fire was too much. Ivarsky felt his body shutting down, too overwhelmed by pain to understand.
Something lifted him into the air and then he had a brief sensation of flying... then falling. He forced a scream through his ruined throat as he fell, the rushing air only feeding the hungry flames. Ivarsky fell, burning and screaming to the ground far, far below.
Xavien smiled a bit as he heard the man hit the ground. He saw several of his improved Armen warriors swarm over the corpse, several of them cutting off choice pieces of meat to eat, picking the shattered bones clean in only a few minutes. Waste not, want not, he thought with a smile.
Xavien's gaze went south and east. Hector's and Katarina's armies had gathered there, just past the hills. He had driven Warlord Tarjak Rusk and his army hard to get here so quickly. He wished he'd had more time, but the resolution that both had shown to finish the war had bumped up his timetable. Xavien hadn't had time to improve the Armen warriors as much as he had wanted. They would be stronger and tougher than normal men and loyal without question, but they wouldn't be the unstoppable juggernauts that he wanted to unleash.
It doesn't matter, he thought, they'll be strong enough.
He drew Grel's portable mirror from within his robes and activated the runes on the surface. A moment later, Covle stared out of it at him. “I've convinced Hector to give me the right flank, my Lord.” Covle smirked, “He thinks it’s the place of least concern since he plans to have that wench Flamehair advance from the left center.”
“Excellent work, Darkbit,” Xavien said with a grin. “My army will be there soon. Remember your task. Be successful and I will reward you with all that you have asked for and more.”
“Thank you, my Lord, I await your arrival,” Covle said as Xavien cut the connection.
Xavien looked up as over fifty sloops came ashore along the coast. Five thousand Armen warriors swarmed out of those ships, all but a thousand of them improved so that they didn't feel pain and felt no fear. They would crush the Duchy of Masov, the first drops of an unstoppable storm that would sweep through the Five Duchies.
His only regret was that his father wouldn't see it. His spies had long since confirmed that Grand Duke Christoffer Tarken had sailed to defeat Lord Admiral Hennings at Freeport. His father's death would be assured there by other means... the allies of Xavien's master would take care of that.
A pity, Xavien thought, I would love to see the expression on his face.
***
Chapter XIX
Lord Admiral Hennings
Blue Springs, Great Southern Desert
Twenty-ninth of Inkar, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Lord Admiral Staven Hennings smiled with pleasure as his sharp-eyed watchmen signaled that “Grand Duke” Christoffer Tarken’s fleet had been sighted. He had always secretly detested his brother-in-law, so it would be the greatest pleasure to destroy him and his entire force in the trap that he had so carefully planned.
Military genius, Lord Admiral Hennings thought, as if that mattered. He hated the loyalty that Christoffer Tarken earned from his men. They fawned on him and his accomplishments. They spoke of his reserved demeanor and his selflessness.
It only figured that the cowards on the Duke’s Council would select someone with such a stick up his ass. The arrogance of the man, to not proudly display his accomplishments, to force others to acknowledge them for him.
Hennings didn’t need to rely on that. He rewarded his men with wealth, power, and women and they fawned upon him, too. Admittedly, they weren’t the most capable men. Many were criminals or pirates, granted pardons in return for their loyalty… but they served him nonetheless.
And with my wife’s… modifications, he thought with a smirk, even those who wouldn’t otherwise be loyal are left with no choice. He had felt a little squeamish at first, seeing the depth of his wife’s interests in sorcery, yet when he saw the results, he had to admit that her abilities were useful.
Just as her allies had proven useful.
Lord Admiral Hennings’ gaze went to the two dozen Vendakar galleys that awaited in the shelter of the cove nearby. Individually, the galleys mounted few weapons of consequence, but their decks swarmed with armed men, just waiting the chance to board and capture enemy ships. Their service bought with a paltry cost of a few hundred of the townsfolk from Blue Springs who would have proven unruly
subjects anyway.
He swept his gaze down to his own fleet, at anchor under the headland near Blue Springs. They looked to be an ideal target, yet below decks his men swarmed to ready themselves. Hennings grinned as he patted the railing of the balcony. The Mayor of Blue Springs had quite the luxury. This looked to be the most comfort he ever enjoyed while commanding a battle.
And the Mayor’s daughters were particularly attractive, he thought with a smirk. His wife wouldn’t mind if he availed himself of that distraction, especially not as a celebration after defeating Grand Duke Tarken. For that matter, if he delivered her Tarken’s head, she might well make them his malleable slaves, eager to please in every way. Sorcery really is a useful tool, he thought.
He leaned forward on the railing and his eyes searched the horizon. Soon, he knew, Christoffer Tarken would come, thinking he had the element of surprise. Hennings’ spies had told him all about it. Soon he would crush his enemy and then he would take what was rightfully his.
Grand Duke Staven Hennings, he thought, his eyes narrow, that will do for now…
***
Lieutenant Gregory Steffan
As his boat ground ashore, Lieutenant Steffan nodded to the squad of Marines who went over the sides soundlessly. The ten, handpicked men moved out, swords and boarding pikes ready. Their target, the watchtower held by their enemy, lay barely visible around a jutting bit of headland. Every bit of their approach had been designed to give as little warning as possible, from the long, slow movement along the coast to their landing point.
Doing this in daylight made him nervous, yet that was how the timing had worked out. If they didn't carry out this attack perfectly, then the troops already underway to land would be seen and exposed to enemy attacks.
Steffan followed his men. They couldn't see the enemy's fleet around the headland, but he knew they were there, waiting and dangerous.
The path up to the watchtower should have been guarded, but their enemy could be excused for being complacent. The secrecy with which Grand Duke Tarken had brought their fleet here should have left their enemy with no idea of what was about to befall him.
This was in many ways, a blow of revenge, and Lieutenant Steffan couldn't help but feel a small sense of satisfaction as he thought about how painful this would be to the man who had hurt his homeland so much. If this went well, then they might well cut the head from that particular traitor... and Steffan just hoped that he got to be the one to do it.
His squad had formed up at the top of the headland, just over the edge from the tower. Above them, he could make out the pace of the sentry atop the tower. Steffan nodded at his designated marksmen, both of whom carried long casters, each crafted meticulusly by the Iron Wizards for accuracy at range.
Both men lay flat, casters tucked into their shoulders. "Three," Steffan said, "two, one..."
They fired their casters at the same instant. The hiss of the two casters releasing energy was also the signal for the rest of the squad, who swarmed over the edge and raced for the tower door.
They kicked open that door and swarmed through. Steffan raced behind. Shouts and screams sounded within the tower, but Steffan and Sergeant Zimmerman paid them no mind and raced past the fight and up the stairs. At the top, Steffan threw back the trap door as Sergeant Zimmerman swarmed up the last steps.
The sentry lay dead, his head and chest shattered by the force casters, blood spattered across the rampart. He had not had the chance to give warning. A single glance downward showed the enemy fleet lay undisturbed, unaware of the threat coming down upon them.
Steffan's gaze went to the horizon, where the troop ships and escorts had appeared. In a few minutes, they would be visible to those below... but by then it would be too late.
Steffan grinned over at Sergeant Zimmerman. "Those bastards won't know what hit them."
***
Lord Admiral Hennings
Blue Springs, Great Southern Desert
Twenty-ninth of Inkar, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
The fleet drew nearer and Staven Hennings sneered.
The white sails were stark against the cerulean blue sea the bright, tropical sun. It was only an hour past dawn, but his brow already beaded with sweat as the sun baked the white walled coastal town. The only reprieve was the slight breeze off the Basin.
The weather reminded him why most men of the Five Duchies ignored the Great Southern Desert and lands further south. It was only spring and already it was intolerably hot. Only exiles, outcasts, and mongrel half-bloods lived here, and even then, most of them eeked out a survival along its edges, all but the Enclave in their desert fortress. And I’ll conquer them too when I get around to it, he thought idly.
That thought brought him back to his current task. “Signal the attack,” he said.
Men with flags rushed to the roof of the house and waved to signal the enemy fleet direction and to move to attack. The Vendakar ships, hidden in their cove and ready for the moment surged outwards first, their oars stroking and their light hulls surging forward.
That was fine with him, the mercenaries could take the brunt of the losses. It would be best if he preserved his ships and men, in case Tarken had left men in place to protect his lands.
Below him, his own ships started into motion as the ship’s golems stirred to life.
His men swarmed up out of the lower decks and across their weapons, preparing their heavy casters. The timing wasn’t quite perfect, Hennings saw. His ships would just be drawing into long range as the Vendakar ships closed to board, which meant they wouldn’t be able to fire their casters to support that.
Doesn’t matter, Hennings thought, they’re done for anyway.
He could see that surprise had hit Christoffer Tarken’s fleet hard. The ships at the lead turned hard, trying to escape the Vendakar galleys. That blocked the ships at the rear from being able to fire their casters at all. Hennings grinned as he saw the panicked maneuvers… ineffectual and pathetic. I knew that arrogant ass was no match for me, he thought.
The Vendakar galleys had begun to pull alongside their targets when the spirit magic unraveled.
Most of the ships in that fleet vanished, made up of nothing more than mental projections. Hennings’ eyes went wide as all that remained were a few dingies and a single, battered merchant ship. Above them, already pulling away and dropping the tow ropes was a windship. On one of it’s platforms, Staven Hennings saw the familiar figure of Wizard-Captain Gunthor and beside him, a withered, crone of a woman.
Both of them waved cheerfully at Hennings as they passed overhead.
“Back!” Hennings spun to his signal men, “Order them back, right now!”
It was too late, he knew, but he had to try. He spun back at a bright flash of light. The concussion hit a moment later, blasting him from his feet and shattering every window in the town.
***
Grand Duke Christoffer Tarken
North Hills Tower, Duchy of Masov
Twenty-ninth of Inkar, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Christoffer stepped ashore, sparing a glance for the slate-gray sea. The northern regions of the Duchy of Masov were still damp and cold. Even though the day looked to warm up, right now it was a far cry from welcoming. Then again, he thought, I didn’t come here to be welcomed, I came to finish a task.
His gaze went to the
“A lovely place,” Siara said as one of his armsmen helped her ashore. At nine months pregnant, he knew she had no place being anywhere near a battle… which was exactly what she’d said about him as the Grand Duke. He’d realized that she used her safety as a way to keep him away from the fighting, but he didn’t blame her for it.
I just hope that Xavien doesn’t escape, not after all this effort, he thought.
A Marine messenger hurried up, “Your Grace, Lieutenant Steffan secured North Hill Tower and Colonel Rinker reports that he has secured the Armen encampment. There were only a hundred warriors on guard and they were dealt with quickly enough, we
took only a handful of casualties.”
Christoffer didn’t miss how the young Marine dismissed a “handful” which was easy enough to do… if you weren’t one of that handful. Letters I’ll need to write when all this is done, he thought.
A second boat came ashore and Christoffer’s armsmen stepped aside as Admiral Elias Wachter stepped ashore. “Your Grace,” Elias said, walking up the gravel beach to give Christoffer a sharp salute.
Christoffer returned the salute, “I take it you have news from Wizard-Captain Gunther?”
“I do, my lord. He reported by Signifier that the trap worked splendidly. Lady Miel’s witchcraft came through. Lord Admiral Hennings attacked the decoy force with a large number of Vendakar mercenaries as well as the majority of the Southern Fleet. The modified Wizard’s Shot destroyed the entirety of the Vendakar mercenary force as well as four of Hennings’ vessels and heavily damaged five more.”
Christoffer nodded in reply, “Excellent, Admiral. Please send him my compliments on a job well done… and thank Lady Miel for me as well.”
“I will, your Grace,” Admiral Elias said. “I’ll have the message sent, but I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind. Just in case you need someone to lead from the front.” He shot a glance at Siara, “I don’t think a prospective father should be far from his wife in her current state.”
Christoffer gave his friend a level look, but he didn’t argue. In truth, he hated the timing of this fight. Yet Xavien was his son, his responsibility. He had to be here, at least to oversee the fight, if nothing else.
The sound of rapid hoofbeats caused Christoffer to spin around, hand dropping to the Ducal Blade, yet he recognized one of the Knights of the Order of King Gordon a moment later. It seemed they had got their horses ashore, then. “Your Grace,” Sir Harald said, “our contingent is ashore and we are ready to sweep south.”