Until All Bonds Are Broken

by Tim Frankovich

  “You can’t use this,” he said. He turned to the next man in the line. “But Gnaeus here can.”

  Gnaeus, a wiry man with wrinkled skin and a handful of short scars on his face and arms, started. “Me, sir? I only have one good hand!” He held up his right hand, twisted and withered as if it were fifty years older.

  Victor nodded. “Exactly. You only have one good hand. I want you to work with Albus here. You carry the shield and guard the both of you. In fact…” He glanced at the other soldiers. “I’ll see if I can find a bigger shield you can carry. Maybe together, the two of you can equal one good soldier. He’s the sword. You’re the shield. And eyes.”

  Gnaeus hefted the shield and looked at Albus. “We can give it a try, I guess,” he said.

  Victor looked to Marshal, waiting for him to speak. He nodded to encourage him.

  “Right. So we have… four… swordsmen, three spearmen, and…”

  “And me,” Topleb said. “I’m the one who starts it all.”

  “You… throw those spears?” Marshal asked.

  “Throw.” Topleb snorted. “Crazy Variochs. You throw a spear to hit something close. I don’t want to be close. That’s why I have this.” He held up the piece of wood he had been toying with. Victor examined it. About two feet long, the smoothly-carved device had a pair of holes a few inches from one end. The other end, intricately carved, formed a kind of hook.

  “You’ve been carrying that thing since you got here,” one of the twins said. “Are you ever going to show us what it’s for?”

  “This, my ignorant young friend, is how we kill the enemy before he gets close.”

  “Like a bow and arrows?” the other twin asked.

  “Bows! Bah! Bows are good for hunting squirrel or bird. You want to take down something larger—like a man—then you need something better,” Topleb said. “Something stronger. The atlatl. Only in Ch’olan did we develop such a thing. Like most good things.”

  He held up one of his spears. It looked smaller than the ones the conscripts carried, but still larger than regular arrows. Topleb fitted the spear’s base tip onto the hook on the end of his atlatl, lying it parallel against the device. He took hold of the other end, fitting his first two fingers through the holes.

  Topleb pointed at a tree some forty feet away. He lifted the atlatl, took a step and propelled it rapidly over his head. The spear launched through the air at an unbelievable speed. Before the viewers could quite grasp it, the point of the spear embedded itself into the tree.

  “If the tree is an enemy, then he dead,” Topleb said.

  “That’s fantastic!” Gnaeus exclaimed.

  “Impressive,” Victor admitted. If Topleb could do that in battle, and quickly, and if they could get the others fighting even half as good as Merish, maybe… just maybe they wouldn’t all die when the real war began.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE CONSCRIPTED CENTURY marched south toward the Rasnian border every day. With Victor’s assistance, Marshal tried to fit in some training time each day after the march ended. Some days, everyone claimed exhaustion. Other days, he could only persuade some of the squad to participate.

  Albus was especially resistant. Gnaeus acted more willing, but without Albus, he couldn’t do much. By contrast, Merish did whatever Marshal asked… but he didn’t always understand. Topleb practiced his atlatl on his own each day, often watched by some of the others. Gallus, Callus and Wolf listened to Victor, though he wasn’t very knowledgeable when it came to their spears.

  Victor fought the air of depression that seemed to permeate the squad. The only ones who behaved at all pleasant were Merish, who never spoke, and Topleb, who complained about everything, but in such a jovial manner he didn’t seem to mean it.

  Marshal himself troubled Victor the most. As each day passed, he seemed to sink into melancholy more and more.

  “I’m not a leader,” he told Victor again one evening. They sat by the fire, alone save for Wolf who sat opposite them, staring into the blaze. He muttered to himself now and then, but never addressed anyone directly.

  “You will be,” Victor said. He snapped a stick in two and tossed it on the fire.

  “Why? What makes you think that?”

  “You have to be! I mean, you have this power. You’re the son of a Lord, for Theon’s sake!”

  “Theon’s sake,” Wolf echoed. He chuckled.

  “Did he just laugh?” Marshal asked.

  “I’m not sure. Wolf, was that funny?”

  “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Right.” Victor sighed.

  They sat in silence for several minutes.

  “Why would my father’s identity make me a leader?” Marshal asked.

  “Because… that’s what happens with every Lord? I guess. I mean, the magic passes down and they become the new Lord. It’s the way things have always happened, isn’t it?”

  “Were they all good leaders, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not that it matters,” Marshal said. “Volraag rules now. Even if I wanted to be a Lord, I can’t.”

  “Aelia believed in you!” Victor insisted. “She wanted your curse lifted, not just because she loved you, but because of who she knew you could be!”

  Marshal stared at him. “And she told you this?”

  Victor hesitated. Once again, he considered telling Marshal what Aelia had told him on her last day. Yet her stern warnings held him back. Not yet.

  “We all knew,” he muttered. “You’re supposed to lead.”

  “You should lead,” Marshal said again. “You’re the one who always wanted to be a soldier.”

  “I follow you.” Victor had said it many times now, but he wasn’t sure he believed it any more.

  Marshal got to his feet. He gestured toward Wolf. “Then that makes you crazier than our friend here.” He walked back to their tent and crawled inside.

  Victor sat by the fire, watching it burn down. After a few moments, he heard footsteps. He looked up and blinked as his eyes tried to adjust to the darkness. The figure stepped closer to the fire and Victor recognized the decanus of the neighboring squad. He nodded in greeting.

  “Where’s your decanus?” the soldier asked.

  Victor pointed. “He’s gone to bed already.”

  “Don’t blame him.” The decanus eyed Wolf with a grimace. “We should all rest. Tomorrow, everything changes.”

  “Why?”

  “Tomorrow, we join the main army. We’ll be at the border. And the Rasnian army waits for us. Good night.”

  The decanus had been right. After a brief march the next morning, the conscripted century arrived at the border of the disputed territory.

  Victor couldn’t make out anything definite about the locale. They never gained a high enough vantage point to look out over everything. As such, he saw confusion and chaos everywhere, perhaps controlled, perhaps not.

  They crossed over a ditch around three feet deep. Victor took a quick look in either direction. The ditch appeared to encircle the entire camp, the entire army.

  And beyond his current view, Lord Tyrr of Rasna waited with an army of his own. The Lords were at war over this spot. Volraag wanted it. Lord Tyrr wanted it. Victor had heard multiple theories from other soldiers during the days of their marching. The most popular theory held that a massive gold mine had been discovered on the border and both Lords wanted it. Of course, in true patriotic fashion, the Varioch soldiers insisted the mine was actually on their side of the border and the despicable Rasnians wanted to take it.

  Somewhere out there, he knew, waited some kind of magic opening, or gateway to the Otherworld, or something. Nian hadn’t been very clear on the exact nature of this spot. What had he said? The barrier between the worlds grew thin?

  The supply wagons stopped just beyond the ditch. Victor barely caught a glimpse of that area of the camp. He noted a lot of activity: soldiers procuring weapons, armor, even more tents.

  As they marched past
the regular soldiers toward the front of the camp, the area closest to the enemy, Victor tried to get a better understanding of the layout. He saw towers evenly spaced around the camp’s perimeter. The flag of Varioch with its soaring eagle hung limply near a large tent in the center of the camp, no doubt belonging to Lord Volraag. Workers even now scrambled to build an elevated platform outside it—not quite as high as the towers, but high enough to see over the entire area.

  Victor caught his breath as three of the Remavian Guard, the elite of the elite, walked by, laughing with each other. Their gold-trimmed red cloaks fluttered in the breeze. Victor slowed to keep them in sight.

  Gallus gave him a push. “Keep moving,” he griped. “You can admire their clothes later.”

  Victor stumbled and resumed his pace with the rest of the curse squad. None of them, Marshal included, appeared at all interested in their surroundings. They followed as they were told, looking downcast or resigned.

  They didn’t understand. How could they? Everything Victor ever wanted was right here. From the moment he found that flail so many years ago, he had dreamed of becoming one thing: a soldier. And now here he was.

  The circumstances weren’t quite as he had imagined them, of course. Not as a conscript, let alone part of a squad of cursed men. He was officially the lowest of the low in this army.

  But he was a soldier.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  VOLRAAG LOOKED OVER the command tent and nodded his approval. He turned to General Cassian and gestured to the nearby table. “Show me,” he ordered.

  Cassian stepped up to the table and spread out a map. “Our main army is here, of course, just south of the Amnis River.” He pointed. “We have four legions of conscripts spread along the border to the west, ready to move on our command, to act primarily as distractions. Two more legions of conscripts will be joining us here shortly.”

  Volraag examined the map. Otioch and Rathri stood behind him. “And what about Rasna?”

  Cassian shifted. “Our scouts report the primary Rasnian army is stationary just south of us, as they have been for weeks. The only difference is that they’ve been receiving reinforcements of their own. I believe we outnumber them, but only because of our conscripts.”

  “Any sign of Lord Tyrr himself?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “I need to be informed the minute he shows himself. If he chooses to engage our soldiers, his power alone could devastate an entire legion.”

  Otioch eyed the map carefully. “And will you be doing the same to his troops?”

  “Not unless it becomes necessary,” Volraag said.

  “But shouldn’t we use every asset at hand to end this swiftly?” Cassian asked. “Your power could—”

  “I will not. Our soldiers must have the opportunity to fight for their land. That which is born of blood is more highly valued.” Volraag gestured and a light vibration shook the map. “Were I to hand them the victory, they would honor me, of course, but… they would not honor Varioch. And that is what matters here.”

  Cassian frowned. “Are you saying the end goal does not matter? Is the disputed land then so worthless?”

  “Not at all. I am especially interested in seeing what is hidden here. But that is my personal goal. I am not altogether selfish. I have personal goals, and goals for our land. If I am a good Lord to our people, those goals will end up being the same thing.”

  Volraag glanced at Rathri. He had stepped forward a little too eagerly when Volraag vibrated the map. That man had an obsession with his power.

  “Know this, all of you. Should the need occur, I will use my power to join our soldiers in battle. But that need will probably only occur if Lord Tyrr enters the fray himself. His power equals mine. We are playing a dangerous game here, both of us watching the other, waiting to see who uses their power first. Is it better to get in a first strike? Or to let the other weaken himself before striking back in full force?”

  Cassian opened his mouth to answer, but Volraag waved his hand in dismissal. “I am not interested in a full strategic discussion of that question at this time, though I’m sure it will occupy your thoughts greatly, my general. You’re dismissed for now.”

  “As you command, sir.” The general left the tent, just as Consul Regulus entered. Volraag resisted a groan; he knew what to expect.

  “Lord Volraag, I need to remind you about the finances of this campaign.” The Consul, a thin man with a severe face, rested his hand on the map. Volraag assumed the sharp curve in his nose created the nasal quality to his speech.

  “You have done so multiple times already, Consul.” Volraag pulled up his camp chair and sat. He did not offer a chair to the Consul.

  “And I will continue to do so.” Regulus gestured broadly. “It is not inexpensive to maintain this many soldiers. The food cost alone is immense.”

  “I am aware.”

  “Are you? The nobility is paying for this, and they are only just now beginning to realize what that means. Varioch has not fielded an army this size since the last barbarian assault over a hundred years ago. We do not know what we are getting into here.”

  “I know.” Volraag stood again. “I have studied this for some time. Do you think this is a large army?” He also pointed outside the tent. “I tell you that this is nothing. The Rasnian army. Our army. They are insignificant. In ancient times, our lands would gather armies that consisted of virtually every man of fighting age. That would include these nobles. It would even include you, dear Consul.”

  Regulus flinched, but only slightly. The man was difficult to shake. “Whatever happened in the past, this is happening now. And I need you to know that it can only last so long before your nobles refuse to pay its cost.”

  “You need not worry. I anticipate a swift victory.”

  “And what is ‘swift’?”

  “You will see. Be patient, Consul.”

  “Words will not keep the gold flowing, Lord. At least not for long.” Regulus bowed and exited the tent.

  Volraag waved to the two guards. “I need to be alone, if you don’t mind. Just give me some time to myself.”

  Otioch and Rathri saluted and also left.

  Volraag collapsed in his camp chair. This entire process was turning out to be much more complicated than he had originally bargained. Consul Regulus, unfortunately, wasn’t wrong on many points. He buried his face in his hands. So many factors to consider. So many plans.

  “You are wise to conserve your power.”

  “Rathri, I asked for some time alone.”

  “And Rathri honors your wishes, young Lord. I apologize for violating them myself, but I have little time to waste.”

  Volraag looked up. A stranger stood in the shadows near the tent wall. He found it hard to get a good perception of him. His height was evident, yet seemed taller somehow, too tall to fit inside the tent.

  “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

  “My methods of traveling are quite… extreme, young sir. As for who I am…”

  The figure stepped out of the shadows into the lantern light. Volraag jumped to his feet, flipping the camp chair onto the floor. The strangeness of the figure’s height became more confusing. He stood, smiling at Volraag, looking somewhere over six feet tall… and yet he wasn’t. Volraag’s stomach churned. The figure’s tan facial features, framed by long white hair, were angular to the point of sharpness. His left eye shone with a crystalline green color. His right eye contained no white at all; only a pure orb of darkness with a sprinkling of tiny pinpricks of light, like a miniature star field.

  “Eldanim,” Volraag whispered.

  “Yes. My name is Curasir.” He strode next to the table and looked down at the map. “Your father cared little for my people, and we in turn avoided him. Perhaps you will be more amenable, more… friendly.”

  “What do you want of me?” Volraag reached instinctively for his power, but did not use it. For the first time in a very long time, he found himself completely surprised a
nd unsure of his next move.

  “I believe that we share similar interests, similar goals, perhaps,” Curasir said. His voice, even casual, seemed filled with command. Volraag wanted to believe him, to listen to him, but his suspicious nature still came to the fore.

  “What do you know of my goals?”

  Curasir toyed with the edge of the map, almost like a cat batting at the curled edge of the paper. “I know many things. I know you killed your own father in an effort to gain his power.”

  “I did not kill my father.”

  “No, no, of course.” Curasir gestured toward the command tent’s doorway. “You had Rathri do it. What a fascinating creature he is. And to think there were two like him in this realm.”

  Two? “You know Kishin?”

  “I know of him. But he’s not at issue here. You are. When your father’s power instead went to your brother, you found another way. That was quite creative, by the way. You learn quickly and adapt your plans to new input. I admire that.”

  Volraag clenched his fist to contain the vibrations that threatened to erupt outward. He moved to his left, putting the table between himself and the Eldani. As if he didn’t notice, Curasir continued his movement around the table in the other direction.

  “So the big question is: why? Were you so desperate for power? I think not, at least not in a way that most people would assume. You have larger plans, larger goals.” He turned to face Volraag directly. “Tell me of them.”

  “Why should I?” Volraag lifted his fist. “Why should I even speak with you? You entered my private tent. I should defend myself.”

  “Were you able to actually strike me, you might succeed. I cannot stand against the power of a Lord.” Curasir spread his arms. “But why would you? Have I threatened you? In point of fact, I believe we can help each other.”

  “So you have said. How?”