When The Gods War: Book 2 - Chronicles of Meldinar

by Samuel Stokes

  Chapter 30

  The Vernaldhum

  Yaneera stood quietly on the rocky promontory pondering the sight before her. If it weren’t for the circumstances she would have been delighted by the serene and beautiful valley. The Vernaldhum was the easiest and most well-traveled route through the Teeth of the Desert.

  Here in the shadow of the Everpeak, the main north-south concourse of the Vernaldhum branched to the east where its gently sloping path ran to the Everpeak. At its widest point the Vernaldhum was almost ten miles across. Mountains stretched skyward on the valley’s sides.

  Andara and her newfound allies had been waiting encamped in the northern pass for two days, seeking to recover from the fatigue of their march. Yaneera surveyed her armies—possibly the largest force Sevalorn had ever seen. Forty thousand Andaran soldiers stood ready to bear out the will of Mythos.

  Encamped behind them in a sprawling mob were the zealots who had been stirred up by Jonas’s preaching. Intent on winning favor in the eyes of their new God, these fanatics had followed the army as it marched south. They were disorganized and unruly, in stark contrast to the well ordered ranks of the Imperial Army. What they lacked in discipline they made up for with devotion—their willingness to hurl themselves at the enemy with disregard for their own lives unsettled Yaneera. Only rigorous and repeated admonitions from Jonas had kept them in check while Andara waited for Khashish to arrive.

  On the left of the Imperial Army the Kairon stood ready. Ten thousand strong, the Herd stirred restlessly. They were discontent at having been so quickly drawn from the spoils of Cidea and were eager to fight and feast—now that their appetites had been whetted they were growing harder to restrain with each passing day.

  On the right flank were the less-willing forces of Vitaem, press-ganged into service by the power the Disciples wielded. Motivated by self-preservation, they had heeded the call, and twenty thousand well-armed soldiers stood ready under Renard’s command, their single stipulation that they not be encamped next to Kairon. In spite of Vitaem arriving without Beltain’s head as instructed, Yaneera had shown mercy and consented to their wishes. Pitching her camp between the humans and the Kairon they so despised. The Shah’s forces had arrived that morning to fill the southern pass of the Vernaldhum. From this distance it was difficult to discern their number, but Yaneera supposed there were at least thirty thousand soldiers serving under Songrilah’s command, perhaps more. All counted, perhaps a hundred thousand foot soldiers and ten thousand heavy cavalry stood arrayed, ready to move against the Everpeak.

  Jonas and Karesa approached, evidently deep in conversation. “Disciples, what news from Khashish? Has Talan sent word?” Yaneera asked.

  “No, Empress, we have not heard from him since our messenger returned weeks ago. We knew that Songrilah would come and aid us, but we have been unable to reach him since. Our other messengers have not returned. At least now we know why.”

  “Pray tell, Jonas—what has happened?”

  “When Songrilah arrived this morning we sought to establish communications with him to coordinate our assault on the Everpeak. Twice we sent messengers towards their lines. In both instances the riders barely made it halfway before they were cut down by crossbow fire from unseen assailants. Evidently the Dwarves are lurking in the valley. They seek to prevent us from coordinating our forces.

  We considered sending the Kairon to flush them out but decided it would be unwise. The Dwarves have never faced the Kairon in battle, and we wish to retain the element of surprise.”

  “Could you not go yourselves?” Yaneera asked. “Surely these Dwarves are no match for your abilities, Jonas.” The Empress searched his countenance for any sign of hesitation.

  “Indeed I could, but somehow these Dwarves managed to kill Rauger—we do not yet know how. With three of our fellow Disciples now dead or traveling north, there are only two of us remaining to aid you in this battle. We thought it best to exercise caution lest we also fall and you lose the advantage we are able to provide you.”

  “An excellent thought, Jonas. They are here, and that is all that matters. We will signal them as best we can and rely on Songrilah’s wisdom to join us when we advance. What do we know of the Dwarves’ position?”

  “Little, Your Majesty. We have sought to observe them while we have been waiting for Khashish. It is clear that they have prepared for our coming. Earth works and fortifications fill the valley leading to the gates of the Everpeak. We observed a great deal of activity even now as they seek to prepare. How many Dwarves Tharadin has mustered I cannot tell. Much of his army remains concealed, but with us to lead you, and an army at your back, it should matter little. We will crush these Dwarves and grind them to dust. Rest assured—they will pay for what they did to our brother.”

  “Then it is best we rest for tomorrow,” Yaneera declared.

  Jonas nodded as he turned to Karesa. “Send word to Renard and Arsenath—the time has come. Tomorrow we will avenge Rauger, we will erase these Dwarves from existence and establish Mythos as God of Sevalorn, now and forever.”

  Karesa smiled cruelly as she contemplated the battle that was to come. “It will be done,” she replied as she turned towards the Kairon’s encampment. Most Disciples preferred that a nation lay down their arms and embrace Mythos peacefully. Some nations did so. Others required greater persuasion. For Karesa persuading was her favorite part of discipleship, and she always set about doing so with great vigor.

  *****

  Tharadin looked out across the Vernaldhum, waiting patiently as the sun slowly sank over the mountains in the west. Throughout the valley, warriors and engineers labored side by side, hastily erecting defenses. For the last month they had labored tirelessly to fortify the valley leading into the Everpeak. Tharadin’s hope was to prevent Andara gaining access to the Peak itself, by containing the fight in the valley before their mountainous home.

  Before him lay line upon line of earthworks, and thirty thousand Dwarves stood ready to withstand the assault. Throughout the defenses all the artifice and cunning of the Dwarves had been employed.

  Staggered throughout were emplacements housing dwarven war machines. The pinnacle of dwarven engineering and cunning, they stood ready to reap a bloody harvest. Dozens of Blackpowder cannons faced the valley below, capable of hurling iron balls the size of a fist almost a mile—the cannonballs would shatter armor, bone or flesh with equal ease.

  Interspersed throughout these emplacements the siege engineers had installed several new war machines. Although he had never tested them in battle, Tharadin had high expectations. As he understood it, several crew members would work a large bellows, building pressure in the device. Then once the chamber was primed the crew would pull a lever to fire the weapon its payload a viscous black liquid that would burst through a brazier positioned before the mouth of the cannon, to send a torrent of the flaming compound over would-be attackers. The weapon’s range was relatively short, but if the affectionately-named flame-cannon functioned as it had in the workshops, it would yield devastating results on the field of battle.

  As the weeks had passed with many preparations, Tharadin had become confident of success. No one knew these mountains better than the Dwarves, and they had spent the time bringing every conceivable advantage to bear. Dwarven pathfinders had cut off all communication through the pass. Tharadin’s hope had been to isolate Andara from Khashish and limit the threats that the Dwarves would need to face on the field.

  The arrival of Songrilah and his forces had been a demoralizing blow. According to the best reports the pathfinders could gather, Tharadin supposed he was now outnumbered perhaps four or five to one. As the sun disappeared over the mountains and fires began to be lit in enemy camps, Tharadin had a visual reminder of the vastness of the armies arrayed against him.

  In the lonely confines of his thoughts Tharadin despaired. Will the legacy of my people end here, like this? Was it a mistake to slay the emissary of Andara? Tharadin tried to shake off his d
oubts—there was no way he could have known that Sevalorn would unite behind Andara. It was unprecedented. Even the beasts in the north had been swayed to the cause. In five generations we have never forsaken our oath, Tharadin thought. I will not shame my ancestors by being the first.

  Tharadin was pulled from his thoughts as a party of warriors approached from the trenches below. In their midst was a young man, easily discernible as he stood head and shoulders above the shorter Dwarves. How he had passed the pathfinders was a mystery—Tharadin had given orders that no one was to traverse the valley. If he could not prevent the battle that was to come, he would at least exploit any confusion that resulted from their inability to communicate effectively with each other.

  As the youth approached Tharadin could feel the subtle twinge in the air. Sorcery. Tharadin grimly gripped the haft of his axe. As the young man was escorted before the High King he executed a shallow bow. “Tharadin Ironheart, I bring greetings from his eminence Shah Songrilah of Khashish.”

  “How did you come to be here, boy?” the King replied gruffly. “My men have orders to shoot anyone that crosses the valley—how have you come to be here in my camp?”

  “I watched as your scouts cut down both riders that attempted the crossing since we arrived this morning,” the visitor answered. “I determined that I would be better served by waiting till the sun went down.”

  “You would have me believe you managed to sneak through our lines undetected because it was dark?” Tharadin’s tone was ripe with skepticism. “My Dwarves spend most of their lives beneath a mountain—they would find you even on the blackest night.”

  “I expect so, Your Highness. That’s why I didn’t walk across the valley. I flew over it.”

  “Sorcery,” Tharadin replied grimly. “Perhaps the Shah has not received word of what became of the last sorcerer to appear before me.” Tharadin bristled at the memory, gripping his axe tightly as he spoke.

  “Indeed he has, Your Highness. If I am not mistaken, it was that very act which brought your people here to the brink of destruction. I am here to offer you another path.”

  “If you have come to have us renounce our oath to the Allfather, boy, know that I’d sooner die. And I’ll be damned sure to take you with me if so much as a single spell leaves those lips o’ yours.”

  “Forsake your oath?” the young man responded. “You have me confused with someone else. I am here to ensure you honor it.”

  “What do you mean?” the King asked, evidently growing weary of the exchange.

  “We have not been properly introduced. I am Syrion Listar, son of Eleen, Mistress of Wind, she who stood as the Guardian of this world for generations. Would you raise your hand against an Astarii? We serve the same being, Tharadin, simply in different ways. Be at ease, for I mean you no harm.”

  “Why should I trust you?” Tharadin asked. A tinge of hope ignited within him as the boy spoke of the Astarii.

  “Because I have earned the trust of your kin and I now ask the same of you.”

  “Any Dwarf would call me kin, child. Doesn’t mean their trust will carry weight here.”

  “Perhaps this will convince you where I cannot,” Syrion said, producing the signet from his pocket and passing it to the dwarven warrior at his side.

  The Dwarf soldier’s eyes went wide with shock. “Your Highness, it’s the royal crest of the Ironhearts!”

  This time it was Tharadin’s turn to be astounded. “Where did you steal that? Be honest, boy, for your next lie will be your last.”

  Syrion sighed with frustration—the old ruler was as stubborn as Ferebour had predicted. “Tharadin Ironheart, I am here in good faith. If you continue to threaten me, know that I have felt the cold touch of black iron before. But there is some magic your precious metal cannot protect you from.” Taking a breath to calm himself, Syrion continued: “In answer to your question, it was given to me by your son, Ferebour.”

  At the mention of his son’s name, pain shot through the old King’s frame. Not a physical pain but a sorrow that clawed at his heart. Tharadin addressed the guards: “Leave us. I would speak to him alone.” The guards looked hesitantly at one another, but, raising his voice, the King shouted, “That’s an order!” The guards hurriedly dispersed, leaving the King alone with the young Astarii.

  When they were alone the King continued: “When did you see him? . . . Is he well?” His anxious tone spoke loudly of the love he bore for his son.

  Syrion smiled. “He is indeed well and in good spirits. He is an advisor and friend to my brother Tristan, King of Valaar. He sends his love and his hope that you are well—it was he who implored me to come here and ensure the continued survival of his people—your people, Tharadin.”

  Tharadin sat heavily on a nearby stone, turning the ring in his fingers. “I wish it were that easy, Syrion. Can you not see the forces arrayed against us?”

  “Your Highness, perhaps in your fatigue you did not realize—I traveled here with the Shah. Like you, he rejects the advances of these so-called Disciples and he has come here to show solidarity with you, his old allies, in the hope that together you might weather the storm.”

  “How is that possible?” Tharadin asked. “My agents tell me that Khashish and Andara were in league with one another.”

  “Songrilah was merely maintaining an illusion while he waited for his servant to fetch me from Valaar. When I arrived a month ago I fought and killed the Disciple of Mythos who was seeking to compel Songrilah against you. Now we have traveled here together to aid you. Please understand, Tharadin—Andara does not know of our duplicity. Tomorrow we will array our forces as if to lay siege to the Everpeak. But when Andara moves against you, we will strike them in the flank with everything we have.”

  “A bold move, Syrion,” the King nodded appreciatively.

  “Indeed, it is Songrilah’s gambit,” Syrion replied. “I will even dress as the Disciples do so that they do not realize the deception until it is too late. If we time our attack well, it should give us the upper hand.”

  “Very well, Syrion. We will use our artillery to sell the gambit but will cease firing when you enter range. Take word to the Shah—we will do as you’ve suggested. Tell him that his aid here in our time of need will never be forgotten. His deeds will be carved upon the mountain . . . and our hearts.”

  “I will do so, King Tharadin,” Syrion said, turning away from where the King sat. Over his shoulder he waved and called, “I look forward to meeting you again under better circumstances! Until then, take care.”

  “Wait!” Tharadin called.

  Syrion turned back to face the Dwarven King, who spoke quickly but quietly. “Tell my son he is missed dearly. I long to see him—if he would return to the Everpeak he would be welcome.”

  “I will tell him all you have said, Tharadin. Rest well. Your men will need you tomorrow.”

  With that the young Astarii raised both hands and launched into the night sky, leaving Tharadin Ironheart alone on a rock, gazing out into the Vernaldhum as he slowly rolled his son’s signet ring in his hand.

  Chapter 31

  It was mid-morning as the sun rose over the Everpeak. The valley air was still as the Shah’s armies mustered in the Vernaldhum. Thirty thousand men—ten thousand elite Kashel, armed with spear and bow, accompanied by twenty thousand regular soldiers, each armed with scimitar and shield. Equipped for desert combat, each Khashishian warrior wore light robes in the brightly-colored hues of his regiment—emerald green, royal blue or ruby red.

  Rather than being weighed down by traditional plate armor, soldiers of Khashish wore steel bracers and greaves but a much lighter chainmail underneath their robes, allowing them to move swiftly and survive the sweltering heat of the desert. Each swordsman bore a wicked scimitar, making him effective on foot or in the saddle. Songrilah had eschewed cavalry, judging wisely that the narrow confines of the Vernaldhum would restrict the skirmishing tactics he would have preferred to employ.

  The Shah stood easi
ly visible in the midst of his Kashel, an elite regiment proficient with both the spear and bow. The polished steel with its elegant gold trim was a clear statement of wealth and power, and in one hand he held his own spear, in the other a double leash. Two Sajal hunting cats strained at their collars—it was as if the large beasts could smell the conflict looming before them.

  Syrion stood at the Shah’s side looking uncomfortable. The Shah’s artisans had done a fine replication of the Disciple’s garb, and at a distance the deceit would be difficult to detect. In his hands Syrion bore Talan’s staff of office, its invigorating effect still causing him to feel uneasy but its presence a necessary element of the disguise.

  In the distance Songrilah could make out Andara and her allies moving steadily down the Vernaldhum. Seeing their movement, Songrilah raised a hand high above his head, palm outwards, and swept it down, signaling his forces to advance. As his armies poured out of the valley his Kashel anchored the center of his line while a regiment of scimitar-armed soldiers anchored each flank.

  *****

  Tharadin had wasted no time in strengthening his position, knowing that he faced no threat from Khashish. Instead he had tasked his engineers with repositioning the siege weapons to his western flank, bringing an overwhelming weight of firepower against the Imperial Army now streaming into the valley before him. Tharadin also diverted several companies to his western flank, leaving only a token force manning the fortifications in front of Khashish. Just enough of the Dwarves were present between the fortifications to provide the illusion that the battle line was equally weighted.

  Tharadin himself stood at the fore of his Ironguard, ready to meet Andara. Each Dwarf was clad head to toe in dwarven splint mail, only their eyes and beards visible beneath their heavy steel helmets. Each Ironguard bore a large two-handed axe and a disgruntled temperament, eager to bear out the grudge sworn by their King. The Ironguard would rather perish than yield the Everpeak to their foes.